The young Taurus executive knew he was in trouble the minute his Tony Lamas began rising slowly and inexplicably from the oil-stained dock. As he began to sense the odd phenomenon of his body levitating, he also became aware of a horrible wrenching sensation at the back of his head. The pain worsened as his floating body turned slowly in place. He found himself-hovering in air-face-to-face with the same Nobody he had just brushed off. The Nobody's hand disappeared beside his head.
The Teamsters seemed to enjoy the arrogant young man's predicament. They pretended not to notice Ponytail Man dangling in midair even while slanting satisfied glances at the confrontation. For their part the Arabs stayed away, too, their suspicion deepening at the sight of Remo.
"I am really a very nice man," Remo explained calmly to the executive.
"I'm sure you are," gasped Ponytail Man. He stretched his toes to the ground. They missed by inches.
Remo frowned. "But you've been behaving in a not nice way to me. Now, I asked a polite question. Where I come from, polite questions are responded to with polite answers."
"A film!" Ponytail Man cried. The pain in the back of his head was white-hot. Explosive. "You must've read about it! The biggest ever!"
"All this junk is for one movie?" Remo asked, surprised.
"Mr. Koala demands realism," Ponytail Man said. "With our budget we can afford to have realism shipped in."
"Koala?" Remo said. "Isn't this stuff up to Bindle and Marmelstein?"
"Yes, yes!" Ponytail begged. His eyes were tearing. As was his scalp. "But Mr. Koala is their superior."
"Polypeptide strings are superior to those two," Remo commented aridly. "So Koala's in on this movie?"
"Yes!" the man pleaded. He was weeping openly now. "It's his baby."
Remo was rapidly losing interest in the whole movie angle of this assignment. He tipped his head as he examined the artificially constructed face of the young executive.
"Did anyone ever tell you your nose looks like a wall socket?" Remo asked.
He dropped the man to his feet.
Back on solid ground, the ponytailed executive instantly began inspecting the back of his head with sensitive fingertips. He was surprised when they came back blood free.
"So where in Hollywood did Koala go?"
One of the other executives quickly told Remo the location of Taurus's Hollywood lot.
"Great," Remo complained. "More bumper-to-bumper driving. I hope I have an easier time getting out of here than I had getting in."
Turning, he walked away from the small crowd. "You should have taken the Harbor Freeway," the younger, more courteous Taurus executive offered to his departing back.
When he was certain Remo wasn't looking, Ponytail Man smacked his young colleague in the head, even as he continued to probe gingerly at the aching portion of his own scalp.
The punk was too polite. He'd never in a million years make it in the movie business.
Kids these days just didn't have a clue.
Chapter 10
This was Waterworid, Heaven's Gate and Bonfire of the Vanities all rolled into one. An epic disaster on a scale grander than anything in the history of motion pictures. With no script, no A-list stars and an AWOL director, the latest, greatest Taurus Studios film was in danger of becoming a career-crushing cataclysm. And no one was feeling the pressure more strongly than the cochairman of Taurus, Hank Bindle.
In the back of his chauffeur-driven jeep, Bindle was touring the Hollywood lot of the old Summit Studios complex. Summit had been around since the earliest days of Tinseltown, but like most of the big old companies it had fallen on hard times of late. It was forced to lease out much of the lot space it had employed during its moviemaking heyday. With the funds generated by the rent, the former feature-film company was able to concentrate on its more lucrative television enterprises. Right now Summit had turned over every lot and soundstage to the new Taurus war epic.
Bindle looked at the rows of tanks and jeeps. They were much more organized here. Lined up in perfect order as if ready for an actual invasion.
Throwing themselves into their roles, the Arab extras Mr. Koala had brought with him from Ebla were seeing to it that the war vehicles were in perfect operating condition.
Hank Bindle had to admit it. At least on some level the dedication of these extras was to be lauded. But not being creative, they couldn't possibly know what they were really in store for.
Bindle was being driven past what seemed like the two hundredth desert-camouflaged tank and was rounding a cluster of curving palm trees when he spotted his partner walking toward him from the abandoned Summit office complex.
Ordering his driver to stop, Bindle got out of the cherry-red, open-topped studio jeep. He walked over to meet Bruce Marmelstein.
"Cutthroat Island, anyone?" Hank Bindle wailed to a passing Arab, loud enough for Marmelstein to hear. The man was oblivious. "Geena Davis in a pirate movie! And Matthew Modine. Who in the hell is Matthew Modine? Gawd, this is a disaster waiting to happen. For three hundred million we might as well dig up Irwin Allen."
He and Marmelstein met in front of a brown-and-tan-painted tank. The Arab tank crew labored diligently around what looked like an actual working machine gun.
"Um, it's not quite three hundred million anymore," Bruce Marmelstein said to his partner. The financial expert at Taurus appeared sheepish. "What are you talking about?" Bindle asked. "Well, you knew those new desks weren't free. And you know we couldn't bring in new furniture without remodeling the whole office."
"Tell me something I don't know," Bindle snarled.
"For one thing we've gone through almost fifty million so far," Marmelstein said.
Bindle scrunched up his face. "How long ago did Koala unfreeze the sultan's account for us?" Marmelstein looked at his brand-new, solid-gold, diamond-encrusted wristwatch. His own smiling face replaced that of Mickey Mouse. He had dispatched one of his assistants to Switzerland to have the watch created to his specifications the previous day.
"Twenty-two hours if I read my hands correctly," he said.
Bindle frowned. "Obviously this project is going to be more expensive than originally budgeted," he said somberly. He waved a hand at the nearby tank crew. A new gold charm bracelet clattered against his bronzed wrist. "I can't possibly create with these insane limitations. We're going to have to tell Koala to loosen the sultan's purse strings."
Marmelsteut glanced at the nearby Arabs. They weren't so close that they could hear the two studio executives. Still the financial expert pitched his voice low.
"Actually Koala seems to have made a slight error with the business accounts. Either that or it's a mistake on the Ebla end."
"What sort of mistake?" Bindle asked. A horrible thought suddenly struck him. "Don't tell me I have to bring this in under three hundred million!" he demanded angrily. "I couldn't possibly. I will not compromise the artistic integrity of this film studio because some old skinflint can't be understood through a mouthful of dentures and couscous-"
"Hank," Bruce Marmelstein interrupted.
"It's an outrage!" Bindle raved.
"Hank."
"I won't let them do it!"
"Hank, the mistake is in our favor," Marmelstein whispered. He shot a nervous glance at the Arabs. They weren't paying any attention to the pair of studio executives.
Bindle's eyes became instantly cunning. His voice dropped to a breathy whisper. "We can get more?" he asked.
"A lot more," Marmelstein said quietly. "They don't have much finance sense over in Ebla. The sultan's people tied his personal accounts in with his business and state accounts. I guess when you're a sultan they're one and the same. Anyway, by buying the studio and giving us power over discretionary spending, he's set it up in such a way that we can tap into everything."