The quartet advanced on Remo.
Remo didn't really want to cause a scene. At least not before he found Assola al Khobar.
As the men closed in, Remo singled out the biggest of them. He was a towering, six-foot-seven-inch brute with a dark, leathery face that looked as if it had seen a thousand desert sandstorms. This man had no knife. His large hands-each as big as a catcher's mitt were held out as if to strangle Remo.
The pecking order was clear enough. The lumbering giant was the leader. As Remo expected, the others fell back as the big man lunged forward.
Remo leaned away from the grabbing arms of the man. As the grasping hands found only empty air where a neck had been an instant before, Remo was already moving in past the extended right arm.
Behind the big man now, his hands flashed up, whipping the headdress down from atop the man's head. It slipped perfectly down around his throat. Tug, twist.
The Arab was trying to get his bearings. Remo was no longer in front of him. And there was a sudden, terrible pressure at his throat. The man's eyes bugged open as he realized what had happened. As he struggled to remove the strangling cloth from around his neck, the other men dived forward to assist.
Remo dodged the other three, spinning the big man in place, to use the bulk of the large body as a barrier between himself and the three other Arabs. He bounced them away with his living shield.
"Remo no play now," Remo called apologetically from behind the meaty mountain of Arab. "He very busy."
The giant gulped at empty air. Quivering fingers tore at the cloth, to no avail. Failing to loose the cloth, he reached back over his shoulders for Remo, grabbing at anything. Everywhere his hands snatched, Remo was not.
The Arab's leathery face went white, then blue. When the last of the oxygen in the huge man's lungs finally gave out, he slumped forward. Remo dropped the body to the floor.
"That's what you get when you mess with studio security."
With a sudden clear shot at Remo, the others hesitated.
They looked at the unconscious body of their comrade.
They looked back up at the thin white American smiling placidly at them.
And they reached the same conclusion at the same time.
The three men ran from the reception area as if it were on fire. Their frantically flapping robes looked like the bedroom laundry left out in a monsoon. The doors swung shut on the white California sunlight.
Remo stepped over the sleeping giant and up to the reception desk.
The receptionist had pushed her chair back to her accustomed spot behind the desk. The young woman took a deep breath, patting down her perfect blond hair as she did so.
"You okay?" Remo asked, concerned.
She shook her head, startled by the question. "What, that?" she asked. "Oh, I'm fine. I'm used to aggressive men." She finished fussing with her hair. "After all I've worked here for two years. These friends of the new owner are just a touch more aggressive than, say, your average action-film star."
"Aggressive?" Remo asked, astonished. "Where I come from that'd be considered attempted rape."
The woman winced. "That's a strong word. Don't you remember the claims of anti-Arabism when True Lies came out? I don't want to be accused of negative stereotyping."
"What, assault isn't assault unless it comes from a white European male?" Remo said in disbelief.
"That's right," she replied simply. There wasn't a hint of irony in her voice.
She had finally gathered her wits about her. After another deep, cleansing breath she turned her attention to the man who had saved her from certain physical violence.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Remo said uncertainly.
"Perfectly," she insisted with an efficient smile.
"All right," Remo surrendered. He would never figure out Hollywood. "I want to see whoever runs this asylum."
Her eyes narrowed in instant suspicion.
"Do you have an appointment?" the woman asked.
"WHAT ABOUT ARNOLD?" Hank Bindle asked his partner.
"Already locked up for the next year," Bruce Marmelstein said. "Besides, the bloom is off the rose on his box-office appeal." He shook his head, annoyed.
"Keaton?"
"Has-been."
"Willis?"
"Never was."
"Hoffman?"
"Puh-lease," Marmelstein scoffed. "We want this movie to make money."
Hank Bindle leaned back in his chair. He slapped the cold surface of his desk in frustration.
"Just our luck," he complained. "We've got a budget that can afford Hanks, Cruise and Carrey and we can't get one of them."
"It's this insane production schedule," Marmelstein griped. "We start in less than two days. Most of the real stars are locked up with next summer's projects already."
"Oh, gawd," Hank Bindle cried, placing his face in his penitent hands. Matching pinkie rings touched either side of his expertly sculpted tan nose. "Three hundred mil and we're going to wind up with PeeWee Herman and Soupy Sales."
It was during this-the closest thing to a prayer Hank Bindle had offered up in his entire adult life-that Ian suddenly buzzed in.
"There's someone here to see you."
Their secretary's voice sounded odd. Almost dreamy.
Hank Bindle raised his face from his perfumed hands. His partner was looking at him, confused. Since the budget story had been leaked to Variety there had been a vast number of people trying to get in to see the studio executives. However they weren't scheduled to meet with anyone until later that afternoon.
Neither man had a chance to ask who their visitor was. All at once Ian hustled into the room, his normally pale face flushed red. He carried the same chrome chair he had brought with him before. But instead of Mr. Koala, he was followed this time by a thin young man who would have had to dress up to gain admittance to the Viper Room. The stranger wore a white T-shirt and tan chinos and walked with a quiet, confident glide that caused sparks not on the carpeting, but in Ian's longing eyes.
Ian slid the chair efficiently into its usual spot.