Bartholomew Bronzini was doing wrist curls in his private gym when the gym telephone whirred. Bronzini did another few reps with his left arm before he answered it. He took pride in his daily regimen of exercise. And he always gave his left side more exercise because he knew that right-handed persons developed larger muscles on the right side. Bronzini had worked out a compensating regimen so that he had nearly perfect muscular symmetry.
Bronzini scooped up the phone as he toweled off his pees. They gleamed as if greased.
"Yo!" he said briskly.
"Bart, baby, que pasa?" It was Shawn. His agent.
"What's the word?"
"Our Japanese compadres just Fedexed me the script. It looks great."
"Did they change much?"
"How do I know? I haven't read it."
"You just said it looked great."
"It does. You should see this binder. Looks like Spanish leather or something. And the pages are get this-hand-lettered. Looks like-what do they call it?-calligraphy. "
Bronzini sighed. He should have known better than to ask. Nobody in Hollywood read scripts if they could help it. They made deals and hoped for the best.
"Okay, messenger it to me. I'll look it over."
"No, Bart, sweetheart. There's a Nishitsu corporate jet waiting for you at Burbank Airport. That producer you met in Tokyo, what's his name? Sounds like a Greek sandwich shop."
"jJro something."
"That's him. He wants you in Yuma by noon."
"Yuma! Tell him no way. I spent three days in Japan with those Nishitsu guys. They gave me the creeps, always bowing and scraping and asking me where I bought my shoes and if they were for sale. They were so polite I wanted to punch them."
"Yuma isn't in Japan. It's in Arizona."
"Why do they want me there?"
"That's where you're filming. They've been scouting locations since you got back."
"This is a freaking Christmas movie. It's set in Chicago. "
"I guess this is one of the changes they made."
"They can't film Johnny's Christmas Spirit in Arizona."
"Why not?" Shawn said in a reasonable tone. "They filmed Star Wars in Southern California. Looked like outer space to me."
"It doesn't snow in Arizona," Bronzini said acidly. "They don't have evergreens. They have cacti. What are they gonna do? Decorate the cacti?"
"Don't cacti have needles too?"
"Don't you fucking start, Shawn!"
"Okay, okay. Look, talk to them. Straighten it out. But they need you to smooth things over. They're having trouble with the Yuma Chamber of Commerce or something. It's about film permits and work rules."
"What am I, head of the local? Have them take it up with the union."
"Uh, they don't want to do that, for some reason."
"What do they mean? I'm the star, not the shop steward. This is a union movie, isn't it?"
"Of course it is, Bart," Shawn said plaeatingly. "These are major, major people. They're looking for a piece of the U. S. film industry. No way they're not union."
"Good, because if this isn't a union production, I'd back out right now."
"Can't."
"Why not?"
"They got your name on the contract. Remember?"
"So let them sue."
"That's the problem. They will. And they'd win, because they'll try it in a Japanese court. They're big, a mega-corporation. They could clean you out. No more polo ponies, no more Renoirs. They'd probably bag you for your comic-book collection if they find out about it." Bartholomew Bronzini was silent for a long time. Before he could speak, his agent spoke up.
"You know what they'd do if you backed out. They'd turn around and give the part to Schwarzenegger."
"No chance!" Bronzini exploded. "That side of beef couldn't cut it in my Christmas movie. He's the only actor in the world who steps on his own lines."
"No argument there. But let's not let ft get to that. Okay? Burbank Airport. The jet's waiting." Bartholomew Bronzini hung up the phone with so much force that Donald Duck's beak fell off.
The Nishitsu jet was waiting for him when Bronzini pulled up on his Harley Davidson. A white-coated Japanese steward stood meekly by the door. He pulled it open from the top, exposing a flight of plush steps.
The steward bowed quickly when Bronzini dismounted.
"Konnichi wa, Bronzini san," he said with a tight smile.
The smile fell off when Bronzini began pushing his motorcycle up the plush steps. "No, Bronzini san. "Where I go, my bike goes," growled Bronzini. He pushed the bike up as easily as if it were a ten-speed and not a monster Harley.
The steward followed him up, and as Bronzini leaned the bike against a bulkhead, he pulled up the staircase door. The engines immediately began warming up.
When the Nishitsu jet landed at Yuma International Airport slightly more than sixty minutes later, the Japanese steward lowered the ramp stairs manually and jumped out of the way while the maniac American actor piloted his bouncing motorcycle down it at full speed.
Bartholomew Bronzini hit the tarmac with a bump, nearly wiping out. He recovered, dismounted, and walked the bike up to the Nishitsu corporate van, gunning the engine impatiently while the unhappy face which he recognized as Jiro Isuzu peered out of the side window with horrified eyes.
Finally Isuzu slid open the door and stepped out. "Bronzini san. Good of you to come."
"Save the soap," Bronzini said. "And it's plain Bronzini. So what's the problem?"