"This is Indian land?"
"Damn straight. Bronzini has been pulling strings everywhere to mount this production. Had everyone eating out of his hand. Until he slammed into the chief. The chief knew who he was, of course, but wouldn't let on. He said part of the price of letting the reservation be used was my participation. I'm a proud man, but I got this business in my blood, so I said what the hell. I took it. Maybe it'll lead to something."
"You don't look Indian."
"Not many Indians look Indian anymore, if you want to know the truth of it."
"What tribe?"
"You never studied them in school, I'll tell you that much. We're practically extinct. My Indian name is Sunny Joe. It's kind of a tribal nickname, I guess you'd have to say. My legal name's Bill Roam. But call me Sunny Joe. Everyone does. That's Sunny with a U, not an O. Okay, get on your mark."
Remo took his position. This time, when the pellet gun coughed, he closed his eyes. The bullet took him square in the chest. He twisted, fell, and rolled.
"Better," Sunny Joe called out to him. "Now, one of you others give it a try."
None of the Japanese on the sandhill moved.
Sunny Joe got up from his marksman's crouch and tried to make his desires known with sign language. Finally he took one of the Japanese by the scruff of the neck and marched him to the mark.
Remo thought the Japanese extra was going to punch Sunny Joe in the stomach. He didn't look happy to be manhandled. Remo decided that he was just touchy.
He settled back to watch, thinking that he had a lot to learn if he was going to pass as a stunt professional. Bartholomew Bronzini was surprised to see that the usual IATSE protesters were not picketing the entrance gate to the Indian-reservation location site. He wondered if it had anything to do with the upended tank and the crushed station wagon.
He horsed his Harley around the wreckage and raced up the winding road to the base camp. He didn't bother stopping in front of the production tent. He slammed the Harley through the flap and crashed into a table.
Bronzini leapt free of the bike before it slid into the tent wall. The candy-striped fabric tore with a shivery rip. But no one noticed that, least of all Jiro Isuzu.
Isuzu found himself staring into the wrathful Neapolitan visage of Bartholomew Bronzini, the Bronze Bambino. And there was nothing baby-faced about him today.
"What the hell is going on?" Bronzini thundered.
"Prease to speak in respectfur tone," Jiro said. "I am producer. "
"You're the fucking line producer," Bronzini snarled. "I want to speak to the executive producer."
"That Mr. Nishitsu. Not possible to speak to him. In Tokyo. "
"They don't have phones in Tokyo? Or doesn't he speak English either?"
"Mr. Nishitsu in secrusion. Not a young man. He visit set once camera rorr. You wirr meet him then."
"Yeah? Well, you deliver him a message for me."
"Gradry. What is message?"
"I don't like being conned."
"Not know that word."
"Lied to. You understand 'lie'?"
"Prease to exprain," Jiro Isuzu said stiffly. Bronzini noticed he was not backing down. Bronzini respected that. He lowered his voice, although still angry.
"I was just on the phone to Kurosawa."
"That is breach of protocor. You not directing this firm. "
"Here's a flash, Jiro, baby." Bronzini sneered. "Neither is Kurosawa. In fact, he never heard of Red Christmas. Not only that, but he sounded pretty fucking vague about the concept of Christmas all by itself."
"Ah, I understand now. There was a probrem. Kurosawa unabre to direct Red Christmas. Have been meaning to inform you of this unhappy act. So sorry."
"Don't 'so sorry' me. I'm sick of 'so sorry.' And I'm still waiting for that explanation."
"I was assured by Mr. Kurosawa's representative that he wourd be abre to direct firm. It appears we were misinformed. Serious breach of etiquette, for which satisfaction wirr be demanded and aporogies no doubt tendered by the responsibre persons."
"Satisfaction! My only satisfaction would have been working with Kurosawa. He's a master."
"This very regrettabre. Mr. Nishitsu himserf wirr no doubt convey his regrets to you when he arrive."
"I can hardly fucking wait," Bartholomew Bronzini said acidly. He threw up his hands. "So who is directing?" Isuzu bowed.
"I have that honor," he said.
Bronzini stopped dead. His droopy dachshund eyes narrowed, if that was possible. His wildly gesticulating hands paused in the air, as if captured in amber.
His "You?" was very tiny but very, very vehement. Jiro Isuzu took an involuntary step backward.
"Yes," he said softly.
Bartholomew Bronzini stepped up to him and leaned over. Even leaning, he towered over the Japanese. And Bronzini was not very tall.
"How many films have you directed, Jiro, baby?"
"None. "
"Then it's real sporting of you to offer to pick up the pieces." Bronzini said airily. "After all, this is only a fucking six-hundred-million-dollar epic. It's only my comeback film. It's not even important. Hell, why bother with a director at all? Why don't we all just jump in the sand and play until we get enough footage to edit down into a cartoon? Because that's what this is developing into--a fucking joke."
"I wirr do good job. I promise."
"No. No chance. I'm putting my foot down now. Production stops. We do a search. We find an experienced director. Then we start. Not before. You read me?"
"No time. Camera rorr tomorrow."
"Tomorrow is the day before Christmas Eve," Bronzini told him as if speaking to a very slow child.
"Mr. Nishitsu move up schedule."