Chapter 7
BING FOLLOWEDWalter off the set, heading toward the only trailer in the area. On the way, crew members stopped them, their motions twitchy and their eyes huge. They looked to Walter for direction, their expressions nervous. Walter answered with a sigh, but his voice was kind. “Just do your job.” The short statement seemed to reassure them, and one by one, they nodded and went back to work.
“They listen to you,” Bing said with a small amount of shock. The crew they’d had before had always looked to Bing for answers. Walter had been the quiet one making creative decisions in his office.
“I sign their checks. They’d better listen to me.”
Walter’s name had been on the checks before, and everyone had still turned to Bing. But he didn’t say that. Instead, he focused on another change in his friend. “And you took the only trailer. That’s good. Status is important.” It was an old argument between them. Walter couldn’t care less if he sat on a throne or on the floor, but Bing knew the appearance of importance was as valuable as the exertion of power. If one appeared to have value, the way was made easier.
“It’s not my trailer,” his friend grumbled. “It’s for our primary investor.” He pushed open the door but blocked the way inside. “Don’t worry about the decorations. You’re here to talk to me. Got it?”
Bing nodded, his curiosity piqued. Then he waited while Walter grimaced and stepped back so the late afternoon sunlight fell into a vomit of kitsch, all of it dedicated to the Monkey King.
Bing climbed slowly into the trailer, but once inside, he stopped to take it all in. He’d always thought that Americans liked gaudy stuff, but this was beyond anything he’d ever seen. Plastic cup holders, carved key chains, badly done incense holders—all of it dominated by a single huge egg set on a central triangular stand made of real fruit and plastic flowers. Oranges, apples, and bananas, all overripe.
“I said, don’t look at the decorations,” Walter snapped.
“How can I not?”
“By looking at me.”
Bing’s attention snapped back to his friend. That tone was new too, and Bing wasn’t sure he liked it. The Walter he remembered spoke gently, while his body coiled like a wary animal’s. This man was hard, and his words stabbed like tiny needles.
“Start talking. Where have you been?”
Bing didn’t answer. He had been prepared to tell his friend everything, but this man wasn’t the kind soul he remembered. This man was brusque, his arms folded across his chest and his eyes narrowed with anger.
“You look tired,” Bing said. “How are you doing this alone?”
The man shook his head. “Not how,” he said, his tone weary. “Why.Whyam I doing this alone?”
Obviously Walter would not be distracted, and that too was new. Bing had often led his friend away from touchy topics. Walter’s creative mind could always be tempted down another avenue of thought.
Not so now, and that disturbed Bing at a deep level. This was not the Walter he knew.
“You need to start talking,” Walter said. “Or I’m calling security and having your ass tossed off the set.” His voice took on a desperate note. “Don’t make me do that, Bing. Please talk to me.”
Bing read uncertainty in the man’s eyes in the glitter of unshed tears. Finally, something familiar. Walter let his emotions surface, and Bing counted that as a strength. He acknowledged his feelings and worked through them, whereas Bing hid from them. That made Walter a stronger person than Bing ever would be.
Witnessing Walter’s pain gave Bing the strength to face his own. “I was not able to contact you. I was not allowed.” He gestured back toward the set because he needed to redirect the conversation. He had to know what Walter had done to his Red Wolf character. “But you didn’t need me. How much of the movie has changed?” It was a common thing in Hollywood. A new investor required a new story line.
Walter shook his head. “Nothing has been changed. The script is the same, just the tone is….” He shrugged. “More comic.”
“Red Wolf is not a comic hero.”
“Not with you in the lead, he isn’t. But with me….” Walter lifted his chin. “Turns out I’m pretty good at being a laughingstock.”
“You made Red Wolf into a farce?” The idea made his stomach rebel with horror. The character he’d been playing for the past two years, the one that he’dbecomein a very literal sense, could not be changed into a prancing idiot.
“What choice did I have? Damn it, Bing, where the hell have you been?”
Now was the moment. Wulf, Inc. protocol required a lie. Every recruit spent time crafting the details of his new life, including a good excuse to give to family and friends—any that remained, that is. But the lie simply would not form on Bing’s lips. When he tried to sayI had a breakdown and went to a hospital, entirely different words came out.
“I was turned into a werewolf.”
Walter’s eyes widened. Then he leaned heavily against a table, knocking over a monkey with cymbals in his hands. “Remember how we once promised to never, ever lie to each other? Remember that, Bing? It was like a blood vow.”
He remembered. It was the day they’d decided to go into business together to bring this film to life. Walter had made him swear that they wouldn’t lie about anything. If one of them thought the screenplay sucked, he had to say it. Same with budget choices, cast, and crew—even the craft service menu. It was the only way the two of them would get the right product. They’d signed a contract to that effect and celebrated it over a dinner of fried rice and shrimp dumplings, an extravagant meal for them.
