"Have you found a script yet?" Marmelstein asked. He appeared nervous. Sweat beads dotted his tan forehead.
Hank Bindle was surprised. They were only two days into production. Too early for a finished script. And Bruce Marmelstein had never expressed an interest in the creative end of the business before. He was only concerned with money. For Marmelstein everything was ultimately affected by the bottom line.
Bindle took Marmelstein by the arm. He quickly guided him away from the crew's prying ears. "What's wrong?" Bindle whispered.
"I was just checking on our finances," Marmelstein said anxiously. "We're heading onto shaky ground vis-A-vis the Omay situation."
"For this production?"
"For the entire studio. The Movie is sinking us into a quagmire of red ink. It's gone way over budget."
"Hmm," Hank Bindle considered. "I forget, how much was the original budget?"
"Three hundred million."
"And how much have we spent?"
Marmelstein checked a wrinkled sheet of paper clutched in his hand. It was damp with sweat. "Two and a half billion," Marmelstein said sickly.
"Is that a lot?" asked Bindle, who, after all, was creative and not a money cruncher.
"A billion is a number followed by nine zeros."
"Wow." Hank Bindle almost sounded impressed at their ability to spend.
"We've gone from being in the black to being in the red in one day. They haven't picked up on it in Ebla yet, but it's only a matter of time. I think they're busy with something else right now. A war, maybe."
"That's politics," Bindle said dismissively. He pitched his voice low. "We've still got other ways to finance. What about our video-distribution company?" he asked.
"I think we might have hit a snag there," Marmelstein said. "Apparently Jimmy Fitzsimmons turned up dead at some kind of rally in Boston. When the cops investigated, they checked his warehouse. The videos were all seized."
Bindle's voice got even lower. "The drugs?"
Marmelstein shook his head. "That was funneled back here through his contacts in the Patriconne Family in Rhode Island. There's been nothing since the raid. I don't know if it's shut off completely or if the Patriconnes are just laying low."
"That shouldn't matter," Hank Bindle said. "No matter how much we spend, we'll make it back on The Movie. Look at Titanic's world gross in relation to cost. After all, we're going to be the only movie out next summer."
Bruce Marmelstein's sick look intensified. "About that," he said uncertainly. "There were a lot of other productions going on away from here when the invasion started. They're still going on. East Coast facilities are taking up the slack. All the other major studios have promised they won't let this alter their summer-release schedules one bit."
Hank Bindle began to get the same queasy feeling as his longtime partner.
"We're not going to be alone?" he gasped. His voice was small.
Marmelstein shook his head. "There are at least two probable blockbusters set to open before Memorial Day. We've got to make The Movie deliver the goods. Otherwise forget The Avengers or Batman and Robin, we are going to have the most expensive bomb in the history of movies to our names."
Hank Bindle's head was spinning. His stomach clenched madly. He grabbed the shoulder of his partner for support. When he looked at Marmelstein, his eyes were watering.
Bindle looked for a moment as if he wished to speak. But he suddenly twisted away, doubling up at the waist. With a loud heaving noise he vomited up the veal Parmesan lunch he'd had flown in special from his favorite Venice restaurant on one of the new Taurus jets.
"I don't know any other way to make a living!" Bindle said desperately through the retching. Wheeling, he grabbed for his partner, gripping Marmelstein's arms so tightly he could feel bone. "What will I do?"
"You?" Bruce Marmelstein whimpered. "I can't go back to styling hair. My scissors are hanging on the wall at Planet Hollywood."
"So what can we do?" Bindle asked.
"I don't know," Marmelstein said. He was nearly crying. "Maybe we should think like executives think. I mean, what would the President do in our shoes?"
A thought suddenly occurred to both of them. Their panicked eyes locked.
"Scapegoat," they said in unison.
"Ian?" Bindle asked.
"Not for two and a half billion."
Bindle snapped his fingers. "Koala was supposed to direct this white elephant. We can say it was all him." His eyes were filled with eager hope.
Thinking aloud, Marmelstein took up the thread. "He is the middleman between the studio and the sultan. If we can get him to sign the okays for the money I've gotten from Ebla, we could pin this whole disaster on him."
Hank Bindle knew the problem they were presented with. How could they possibly get Mr. Koala to sign away more than two billion dollars of Sultan Omay sin-Khalam's personal wealth? "Blackmail?" Bindle suggested.
"We don't have anything on him."
"Bribe?"
"With what?"
"Oh, yeah,"
"Besides, he's a millionaire or something already."
The solution came in a sudden instant. "Kidnap him and torture him until he signs?"
"Bingo." Bruce Marmelstein smiled, as if they'd just decided on the proper shade of mauve for their office.
"And afterward?" Bindle asked.
Their mutual conclusion was obvious. It was the only alternative, considering the corner they'd painted themselves and their studio into. But unbeknownst to Hank Bindle and Bruce Marmelstein, their obvious conclusion would spark a crisis in the Mideast and create a near disaster in their own backyard.
"Kill him," Bindle and Marmelstein concluded happily.
Behind them, their animatronic camel chugged to life. Smoke poured from its mechanical bottom.
Chapter 23
Tom Roberts was this close to bolting from this halfassed production. He didn't need these headaches. Tom was sitting alone in his trailer on the Taurus lot. Empty wine bottles and marijuana roaches littered the table in the small kitchen. His moon face was resting morosely in his hands as he considered what he'd gotten himself into.