"Oh," Mayor Cloves said. "A joke. Well, it's good to see that you have a sense of humor."
"It's an implant," Bronzini said.
"You wirr see to permissions?" Jiro Isuzu put in quickly.
"Yes, yes, of course. And let me be the first to welcome your production to our fair city."
Bronzini shook the mayor's hand in relief. That was it? A photo op? Maybe this wouldn't be so terrible. "Oh, before you go," the mayor said quickly, "could I have your autograph?"
"Sure," Bronzini said, accepting a pen and a photograph of himself torn from a fan magazine.
"Who do I make it out to?" he asked.
"Make it out to me. But it's for my daughter."
"Yeah," Bronzini sighed as he autographed the photo. He signed it, "To the mayor of Yuma, from his good friend Arnold Schwarzenegger."
The mayor read it without batting an eye. Just as Bronzini had known he would.
Out on the street, Bronzini growled a question to Jiro Isuzu. "Is that it? Am I outta here now?"
"No, we have many more visits to make. First we go to hotel."
"Why? Is the cleaning staff demanding a lock of my hair?" Bronzini said, hopping onto his bike. Bartholomew Bronzini followed the van to the Shilo Inn, an elegant adobe hotel on Route 8. The lobby entrance was blocked by marching picketers. They carried placards and signs reading "Bronzini Unfair."
"Bronzini Is Un-American."
"Bronzini the Traitor." One man carried a Grundy III poster showing Bronzini, his long hair held in place by a headband. The tagline read "Bronzini Is Grundy." The last word was crossed out and replaced with the word "Grungy."
"What the hell is this?" Bronzini shouted.
"Union," Isuzu told me. "They protest."
"Damn it. This is supposed to be a union film."
"It is. Japanese union."
"Listen, Jiro. I can't do a nonunion film. My name will be mud. I'm a hero to the working guy."
"That was before Ringo V, when Ringo kirred in boxing match. But you are stirr big hero in Nippon. Your future is there. Not here. Americans tire of you."
Bronzini put his hands on his hips. "Stop beating around the bush, Isuzu. Why don't you come out and speak your mind?"
"So sorry. Not understand. Have spoken mind."
"You don't understand. I'm not turning my back on everything I represent. I'm Bartholomew Bronzini, the rags-to-riches personification of the American dream."
"Those are Americans," Isuzu said, indicating the marchers. "They do not carr you hero."
"That's because they think I've double-crossed them. And I won't. I'm done here." He started for his bike.
"Schwarzenegger wirr do movie for ress," Isuzu called after him. "Perhaps better."
"Then get that Black Forest bozo," Bronzini barked. "We wirr. And we will pay his sarary out of rawsuit damages from suing you for breach of contract." Bronzini froze with his hands touching the handlebars of his bike. One leg was poised to mount the saddle. He looked like he was doing an imitation of a dog about to relieve himself against a fireplug.
The thought of Sehwarzenegger being paid out of Bronzini's own pocket stopped him cold. Reluctantly he lowered his leg. He walked back to Jiro Isuzu. The Japanese's composed face looked faintly smug.
"You understand now?"
"Jiro, I'm starting not to like you."
"Production office in this hoter. We must go there. Many terephone carr to make. Much problem to work out if we are to start shooting on schedule." He pronounced it "sked-oo."
Bronzini looked at the circling pickets. "I've never crossed a picket line in my life."
"Then we go in side door. Come."
Jiro Isuzu started off, trailed by a cluster of functionaries. Bronzini looked at the picketers, who were so busy shouting slogans that they weren't aware that the , object of their displeasure was standing only yards away. Never one to back away from a challenge, Bronzini decided to reason with them. He started for the picket line, when a heavyset man noticed him.
"Hey, there he is!" the man shouted. "The Steroid Stallion himself. Bronzini!"
The catcalls followed. "Boo!" they hooted. "Bronzini! Go back to Japan."
"Hear me out," Bronzini shouted. His words were drowned out. The picketers-they belonged to IATSE, the International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees -interpreted Bronzini's angry face to suit themselves. "Did you hear what he called us?" one cried indignantly. That did it. They started for him en masse.
Bronzini stopped. He folded his arms. He was going to hold his ground. What was the worst they could do? The worst they could do, it turned out, was to surround him in a shouting, haranguing circle.
"Down with Bronzini! The Bronze Bambino has feet of clay!"
"Listen to me," Bronzini shouted. "I just want to talk to you about this. I think we can reason this through." He was wrong. They were not listening. Camera crews were moving up to get a picture of the worldrenowned Bartholomew Bronzini held hostage by two dozen protesters armed only with placards.
When the cameras started taping, one of the protesters called out, "Hey, watch this!"
He whacked Bronzini with his placard. The broomstick broke against Bronzini's muscular shoulder. He barely felt it, but that didn't matter. Bartholomew Bronzini had grown up in a rough Italian neighborhood where turning the other cheek was the kiss of death.
He decked his assailant with a roundhouse right. The protesters turned into a mob. They descended on Bronzini like a fury. Bronzini returned blow for blow. He started laying protesters out on the blacktop of the parking lot. A wild grin cracked his Sicilian face. This was something he understood. A bare-knuckled fight.
But as he mashed a man's nose flat, he wondered if he wasn't on the wrong side of this brawl.
The question was answered for him when the horde of Japanese men piled out of the lobby. Some of them, on orders from an excited Jiro Isuzu, pulled pistols from under their coats. Bodyguards.
"Stop them," Isuzu shrieked. "Protect Bronzini. Now!" The bodyguards waded in. The protesters turned on them too. Bronzini tried pushing his way clear of the mob, but there were too many of them. He took one of the protesters by the throat.
Then a shot rang out. The man in Bronzini's metallic grasp gasped once and went limp. He fell. His head made a cracking sound when it hit the ground.
"What the fuck!" Bronzini yelled. "Who fired that shot? Who?"