“Thanks, Viktor. Let me introduce myself. I’m Sheldon Levy. Yeah, that Sheldon Levy. Producer with Magnum Opus Studios in Hollywood. Heard of us? Plan 9.5 from Outer Space? Attack of the Killer Tomatoes II? Whammo B.O. overseas, babe, every one of them. Look it up on IMDb, you don’t believe me.”
Viktor shook his head at this incomprehensible nonsense. The giant black man was fucking insane.
“No? Doesn’t matter. We’re in Moscow making a high-budget action tentpole picture starring Natalya here as the female lead. The new James Bond pic, all right, but keep that under your hat, okay? Problem is, we haven’t been able to cast the villain yet. Are you a villain, Viktor?”
“Nyet.”
“Speak English, we’re Americans, remember, not multilingual. Now, my colleague, the man who’s standing behind you with a SIG automatic aimed at the back of your head, is my casting director. He’s the one had this idea. Get a real guy off the street for the part, he said, not just some actor. Turn around and say hello to Darryl F. Zanuck Jr., Viktor.”
The fat man turned and grunted, “Darryl.”
Stoke said, “Unfortunately, Natalya’s got to run along now, don’t you, sweetheart? Darryl over there has a very thick envelope for you, even a little bonus. Great performance, very convincing. Love your work, babe; we’ll do lunch, okay? I’ll have my girl call your girl.”
She nodded, picked up her handbag from the bed, and pinched Viktor’s cheek on her way out.
“Good luck, Viktor,” Natalya said. “Maybe next time you get to fuck me on camera, huh, you get the part?”
Harry had locked the door behind her, and Stoke, waving the big, nickel-plated Smith amp; Wesson. 357 around, said, “Viktor, full disclosure, this might be a long, unpleasant audition. Darryl, get that desk chair for him, please. Right there is fine. Have a seat, Mr. Gurov, and put your hands behind you so Darryl can handcuff your hands and feet. Comfy? We use those nice plastic cuffs. I said, hands behind you, dickhead.”
“Da, da.”
“The man said put your hands behind you, asshole,” Harry said, bringing the butt of his pistol down hard on the top of Gurov’s head. He complied and Harry cuffed his hands and then secured his feet to the legs of the chair. Stoke stood up and started pacing back and forth in front of the window, glancing at the Russian from time to time.
“Okay. Now, listen up, Viktor. In this first scene, we’re going to run through some dialogue from the script, right? And if we don’t like the answers, we’re going to beat the living shit out of you, understand? Look at me, Viktor. Darryl, help him out, will you?”
“Sure thing, Sheldon,” Harry said, grabbing a fistful of the man’s hair and lifting his face into the light.
“Darryl?”
“Yeah, Sheldon?”
“You think this guy looks the part or not? Too ugly, maybe?”
“That mug of his would look good for a night nurse at a home for the blind. Other than that, I dunno. He works for me, I guess.”
“Are we ready to do this thing, Darryl?”
“Yeah. He ain’t going anywhere.”
“Ready, Viktor? Remember, no special effects here, this is total reality. Let’s do this, people. Ready on the set. Now, Viktor? I’ll give you the first line in your opening scene, here it comes: ‘Viktor, you fat, filthy scumbag, did you order the murder of a child named Alexei Hawke?’ ”
“ Nyet- no. Never heard of him. You think you frighten me, coal-burner? Big man, huh, Mr. Blackamoor?”
“Sizable, yes. But all diamonds look big in the rough, Viktor.”
“Did nobody tell you we don’t like black faces in this country? Especially ugly black ones.”
“Cut! Darryl? Did you like that take?”
“Sucked,” Harry said, stepping around to face the Russian and adding, “Let’s shoot it again. Viktor, let me hear that line again, once more with feeling. And this time, dickhead, put more truth in it. You gotta believe what you’re saying, see?”
“Fuck yourself.”
Harry used his gun hand, slamming it squarely into Gurov’s nose, hard enough to crush every bone, blood gushing from the fresh wound in the middle of his face. Stoke looked over.
“Damn, I wish we’d had the camera running, Darryl, this guy is good, that blood looks so real. Okay. Let’s do the scene where the homicide detective asks him about the two thugs on the Trans-Siberian train, the guy at the wedding in Florida, and the two horsemen in Hyde Park, okay? Give him the line.”
Harry asked him about the three attacks and got the same negative result.
“Viktor, Viktor, Viktor, what am I going to do with you? You’re just not coming off as very believable in this role,” Stoke said, thinking about it. “Although his look is perfect, a total asshole.”
Harry said, “Tell him his motivation, Sheldon. Maybe that’ll help.”
“Motivation? Good idea. Here’s your motivation, Viktor. You don’t want a guy as big as me forcing his hand down your throat and pulling your intestines out of your mouth one foot at a time. Okay, babe? You got that, find that motivating?”
“You got no idea who you fucking with,” Viktor muttered, in gruff, barely understandable English.
“What? What’d he say? Is that line in the script, Darryl? I don’t recall that line. Opportunity of a lifetime and he’s improvising instead of sticking to the script.”
“Unbelievable,” Harry said, “I’m just not buying this guy, Sheldon. Seriously.”
“Maybe it’s the teeth. What do you think, Darryl? Teeth look okay to you? Pull his upper lip up over his busted nose and let’s take a good look.”
Harry did, and said, “Too perfect. He’d look like a more authentic villain if he were missing a few up front.”
“I agree. Viktor, listen up, the truth is, Darryl and I already know how this movie ends, okay? We’ve read the whole script. Not a happy ending. It ends with you going out that window behind me and landing headfirst in the parking lot. Understand? If you’re not going to tell us the truth, Darryl is going to knock your pretty white teeth out. Then he’s going to start removing the flesh from your face so that you’ll be unrecognizable when the police find you. After that, he’s going to cut your hands off. No fingerprints, right? Show him the knife, Darryl.”
Harry pulled out the hunting knife. It was serrated, about eight inches long.
“What do you say, Viktor?”
“Fuck you, you big black nigger bastard.”
“Uh-oh. Racial epithet, N-word, politically incorrect. Bye-bye, pearly whites. Darryl? Will you do the honors?”
Harry smashed Viktor in the mouth with the SIG.
“What do you think, Sheldon?” Harry said, taking a step back and camera-framing Viktor with his two hands. “Better look? More convincing?”
“Much.”
Viktor was moaning now, rocking his head back and forth, trying to spit all the broken teeth out of his mouth before he swallowed them. He was trying to speak, but it sounded like every word had to swim up through his lungs to reach his mouth.
Stoke stood up and crossed the room, standing directly in front of the Russian, literally towering over him. He bent over until he was right up in the man’s bloodied face.
“Viktor, I’m tired of you. You know what? I’m staring hard at your ugly face, Viktor. I see all the scars, the bleary alcoholic eyes, the crevices and pits of your butt-ugly mug, and I know that somewhere under the sickening face of a shithead-is a real shithead. But I’m going to give you one last chance at stardom. I know who you are. I know you’re a card-carrying member of the Tsarist Society. Your nickname there is the ‘Executioner.’ You ordered two of your ex-KGB assassins to board a Russian train and kill Alexei Hawke. When that didn’t work out, you sent another slug to Florida to do the job. That was a flop, so you sent two more to London. Hyde Park. That’s how we got on to you. One horseman was killed, as you know. But the one that lived? We nabbed him and ran his balls through the wringer. And guess what? He gave you up, Viktor, ratted you out, pal. So here’s the deal. You swear to call off your fucking dogs, or you’re going out that big window behind me. What’s it going to be? I’ll count to five. One… two… three…”
