"Already done," the secretary sang.
Bindle was just smiling a triumphant set of perfect white caps at his partner when Ian cut in again. "And Mr. Koala is here."
Bindle's smile vanished. At the same time the office doors pushed open. A dark-skinned man in an ill-fitting business suit and a beard that looked as if it had lost a fight with a rabid raccoon stepped into the chilly room.
Bindle and Marmelstein both stood to greet Assola al Khobar.
The terrorist was followed into the room by Ian. The secretary minced efficiently in his wake, carrying with him a chrome office chair. He breezed over, placing it neatly in the hot spot between Bindle's and Marmelstein's desks. All the time he spoke on his wireless phone.
"What do you mean Israel?" Ian demanded, his sibilants spattering the slender headset with tiny bubbles of spit. He sighed in exasperation. "Well, get me Israel, then," he said, rolling his eyes. Spinning balletlike, he marched back out the gleaming glass doors.
Al Khobar raised an eyebrow at the mention of the Jewish state. He sat down in the chair before Bindle and Marmelstein.
"There is still a problem at the harbor," al Khobar said without preamble once they were alone. "Your customs will not give clearance to the two cargo ships we discussed this morning."
Bindle and Marmelstein straightened uncomfortably in their chairs. They looked like interpretive dancers executing a strange choreographed routine. "Yes, about that..." Marmelstein hedged.
"I don't know if you're tight with the sultan," Bindle interjected.
"And if you are, that's just fine," Marmelstein added.
"Fine. It's better. Perfect." Bindle nodded.
"But if you've-you know-got his ear or anything, you might want to tell him that this war-movie thing..." He tipped his head pensively, like a doctor trying to politely advise a patient to shed a few pounds. "Well, if he's basing success on that little World War II flick from last summer, he should know it might not be the best idea going."
"War movies are duds," Bindle agreed rapidly.
"Box-office poison," Marmelstein quickly agreed with the agreement.
"Zero appeal. We're talking first-weekend grosses under ten million."
"Probably under five."
"Worse. Under one."
Bindle and Marmelstein looked at each other. They shook visibly at the horrible prospect. It had happened in Hollywood many times before. A lot of times to Bindle and Marmelstein productions.
"It is to be a war," al Khobar said flatly. "The one who pays your salaries insists."
"On the other hand war movies are signaling a comeback," Bindle said, in a change of gears so sudden his cerebellum nearly smoked. "Look at The Thin Red Line."
"Light on box office, heavy on Oscars," Marmelstein echoed. "Take Patton."
"Good Morning, Vietnam, " Bindle bubbled.
"Platoon."
"For one," Bindle said happily.
The Arab's expression could have been chiseled from ice. Beneath his scruffy beard his lip curled to a sneer.
"There are two cargo ships filled with containers necessary for this production waiting at Los Angeles Harbor," he said slowly. His piercing coal eyes did not blink as he glared at both men in turn. "I expect everything aboard them to be off-loaded and on this lot by tomorrow morning. Otherwise there will be changes in the command structure at this studio. Do you understand?"
Neither Bindle nor Marmelstein caught the end of what Assola had said. They were both too busy lunging for their respective phones.
They couldn't quite remember how to work the device. It had been so long since they'd had to operate one alone. Both men stabbed madly at buttons for several frantic seconds. They were nearly in tears by the time the soothing voice of Ian broke in. The secretary calmly placed the call to the harbor. Afterward it was Marmelstein-the business end of their team-who talked to the harbormaster.
Hank Bindle, who was the creative arm of the Bindle-Marmelstein pairing, sat nervously before the Arab. Al Khobar regarded him with cold disdain.
Bindle cleared his throat. "Er, about the production schedule," he offered timidly. "I hate to say this-and, believe me, it usually isn't like me to stop a picture in preproduction or anything-but do we actually have a script? I mean, there wasn't one before and, well, you know..." He smiled weakly.
"I am writing the script," Assola al Khobar announced.
Bindle smiled, this time more sincerely than before.
"Really? I didn't know you were creative, Mr. Koala," he said, mispronouncing "Khobar" just as he and his partner had ever since their first meeting with the terrorist.
It was al Khobar's turn to smile. To the Hollywood mogul the row of half-rotted teeth the Arab displayed beneath his shaggy mustache was deeply disconcerting.
"When called upon, I can be quite creative," Assola al Khobar said. He seemed to enjoy some private joke.
Bindle chuckled supportively, even though he had no idea what it was he was chuckling at.
"Do you have any idea how much the movie industry grossed last year!" Bruce Marmelstein was screaming into his telephone headset at the adjacent desk. Veins bulged on his salon-tanned neck.
Bindle tried to tune him out.
"Now, how about a director?" Hank Bindle said. "I've been thinking maybe Cameron or Burton. Of course, Spielberg is always up there, but he's priggish to work with."
"I will direct, as well," the man Bindle knew as Mr. Koala said.
"Write and direct?" Bindle asked cautiously. The spark of hope he'd allowed to burn within him since preproduction fizzled instantly. "Are you sure you might not be stretching yourself too thin? After all, Streisand puts her fingers in everything, and her movies are pretty much all bombs."
He heard a snort from the neighboring desk. When he looked he saw that Bruce Marmelstein was glaring at him. Bindle sucked in a horrified gust of air. He had forgotten. He had spoken the name of the unmentionable one in the presence of Bruce Marmelstein. He shrugged apologetically to his partner. In another moment it no longer mattered. Marmelstein turned abruptly away from Bindle. "Do you like your job?" he screamed into the phone. "Do you want to keep working in this town?"
"We haven't discussed budget," Hank Bindle said to al Khobar, looking away from Marmelstein. "I only ask because you said we start shooting this week. Now that we've got the script and director ironed out, we should begin thinking about cost."
Before the terrorist could respond, there was a thin plastic click of a button being depressed. Bindle and al Khobar turned their attention to Bruce Marmelstein.
"I miss the days of those big, fat phones," Marmelstein complained to both men. "The ones you could really slam."
"Well?" Bindle pressed,
"All set," Marmelstein said. He grinned his best Betty Ford Clinic smile at Assola al Khobar. "They're unloading even as we speak. I don't know what the hell you want with all those tanks, though. Now, what were you two discussing? The budget?"
"Yes." Bindle nodded uncomfortably. "We should actually sort that out now."