"Sony Joe?"
"Close enough."
The man touched the walkie-talkie clipped to a nickelcadmium belt battery pack and began speaking in rapid guttural Japanese into the microphone suspended before his mouth. He listened to his earphones. The only thing Remo understood was the name "Sony Joe." Finally the man pointed north.
"Sony Joe that way. Okay?"
"Thanks. What does he look like?"
The Japanese shook his head curtly. "No Engrish speakuu. Okay?" Remo took that to mean he didn't speak English.
Remo trudged off in the direction indicated. He peeked into his folder and learned that an A. D. was an assistant director. He wondered how someone could be an assistant director on an English-language film and not speak English.
As he walked along, he kept his eyes open for Bartholomew Bronzini. There was no sign of the world-famous actor. Remo was also surprised to see no cacti. This was scrub desert. Just sand and the occasional dry bush. He looked back and noticed that he wasn't leaving footprints. He decided that someone might notice, so he began walking on the balls of his feet. That way, he left the same impression as a twelve-year-old boy.
Remo climbed a sandhill and was surprised to see a vast panorama of tanks and armored personnel carriers arrayed in a flat area entirely surrounded by fresh sandhills. Men in Chinese military uniforms were wiping down the machines, which had already picked up a dusting of beige sand.
Remo decided that the group of uniformed men who were practicing falls from a nearby hill were stunt men. One of them had to be the one he wanted.
As he approached, Remo saw, behind a flat rock, a man aiming a rifle. The man was white, with a weathered face and sun-squint eyes. He pulled the trigger.
Suddenly one of the Japanese extras clutched his chest. Red fluid gushed from between his fingers. Remo floated to the base of the sandhill and floated around it. He slipped up behind the man just as he squeezed off a second shot.
Remo took him by the back of the neck. He tried to bring him to his feet, but found his arms were only long enough to bring him up to eye level. The man topped him by three heads.
"Give me that," Remo growled, grabbing the weapon. It looked homemade, like an antique.
"What's your problem, friend?" the man demanded.
"I saw you shoot that man."
"Good for you. Now, if you'll give it back, I'll go shoot a few more."
"This isn't how we settle union disputes in America."
"Union! You don't think. . ." The man started laughing. "Oh, this is rich," he burst out.
"What's so funny?" Remo asked. He let the man drop and broke open the weapon. It had a stainless-steel drum magazine on top. Instead of bullets, it contained glass marblelike objects. They sloshed with reddish liquid.
"You are. You think I really shot that guy. That's an air gun."
"A BB rifle can kill if you hit a soft spot," Remo said, lifting out one of the marbles for a closer look.
"Be careful with that. The prop master will have my hide if you break it. That thing is handcrafted. Only sixteen like it in the world."
One of the Japanese extras came down the sandhill. "Sunny Joe. Why you stop?" he called. Remo saw the splash of red that marred his blouse front.
"Wait a minute," Remo blurted out. "You're Sunny Joe?"
"That's what they call me. So who are you?"
"Remo. "
The man called Sunny Joe seemed startled by the name.
"What's your last name?" he asked.
"Durock," Remo said after a pause.
Sunny Joe looked disappointed with Remo's answer. That expression gave way to an annoyed one.
"How the hell long you been in this business, son?" he barked. "Not to know an air gun when you see one?"
"Sorry," Remo said. "With all the union troubles, I guess I jumped to a conclusion."
"No harm done, I guess," Sunny Joe relented. He searched Remo's face as if looking for his soul. "And I can use a paleface. Half these damn Japs can't speak English. Come on. We're doing practice bullet hits. Let's see what kind of moves you got."
Remo followed the man up the sandhill.
"The thing you gotta remember, Remo," he was saying, "is that Bronzini likes to be as realistic as possible. You stand right here. I'll drop back and pop you one. When you take the hit, don't fall, corkscrew. Pretend you're being hit by a sledgehammer, not a bullet. We want real impact up on that screen."
Remo shrugged as Sunny Joe loped back to his shelter. He was a tall man, Remo saw. Nearly seven feet tall, and while he looked imposing, Remo noticed that he had lanky limbs. He was sixty if he was a day, but he moved like a man ten years younger.
Sunny Joe dropped into a crouch and took aim. The gun coughed. Remo's acute vision perceived the red sphere zip toward him. He set his feet.
But Remo had been trained for years to move out of the way of bullets. Even harmless ones. Reflexively he sidestepped the bullet. To cover himself, he twisted and hit the sand. He looked up.
Sunny Joe lumbered up to him, anger on his face. "What the hell happened?" he bellowed.
"I corkscrewed."
"You corkscrewed before the round struck. I didn't see the blood splatter. What's the matter with you? Bucking for an Oscar?"
"Sorry," Remo said, brushing sand off his clothes. "Try again?"
"Right. This time, wait for the round."
As they returned to their marks, a trio of helicopters clattered overhead. Their noise filled the valley floor like jangling scrap metal.
"Damn," Sunny Joe muttered. "They're gonna be doing that all through production. Choppers from the Marine Air Station, I'll bet. Joyboys with nothing better to do than overfly the shoot. They're probably asking themselves which tiny speck is Bronzini. Damn fools."
"They'll get tired of it sooner or later," Remo ventured.
"Sure, they will. But that's just the Mariues. There's an Army proving ground a few miles north, and ol' Luke Air Force Range is due east of here. We'll have F-16's up the wazoo from now till Valentine's Day."
"You don't sound like you enjoy your work much."