Sharper than any barber's straight-razor, the edge of the samurai blade nicked the skin, drew blood. The director hissed in surprise, frowning at his cut finger, then laughed at himself. "How'd you like to slice that across your belly, Mikey?"
As his assistant Michael Kendai watched, Redmond held the blade up to the bright California sunlight that streamed into the makeshift studio though open windows and a cobwebbed skylight. "The katana is real, sir, a century old. More than just a prop."
"Forged in 1811, eh?" He didn't sound impressed. "It's just a sword."
Outside, the muffled sounds of motorcar traffic echoed along the dirt streets. One of the rattling vehicles backfired, and someone shouted obscenities in coarse Italian. Horses clopped by, pulling a late-morning milk cart. In his tiny warehouse studio, Michael knew that Redmond never noticed any outside distractions. He was too caught up in finding interesting things to shoot with his motion-picture camera, and he would never believe the doom-sayers who claimed that nickelodeon audiences were tired of seeing marvels on celluloid film.
"Where did you get this samurai Taka-what's-his-name?" Redmond spoke as if the young Japanese man and his elderly parents weren't already right there beside him. The immigrants spoke no English, remained apart from the conversation; but they knew full well the business matters being discussed. "And how did you talk him into doing Harry Carry in front of the motion picture camera?"
Michael folded his hands together, frowned at Redmond's unkempt appearance, mussed red-brown hair, and pungent cologne. He gave the director a look that plainly said Not many people try my patience, but you are one of them. "Akira Takahashi came to me of his own free will and volunteered his performance of hara-kiri."
He looked around the small back-room studio, not eager to begin, but they would lose the best sunlight soon. The glass cyclopean eye of his hand-cranked movie camera stood watching the young samurai. A spare camera (which didn't work anyway) leaned against a corner.
Takahashi sat in bright robes, cross-legged on the white blanket he had spread out for him on top of the sour sawdust. His pate had been shaved in the traditional fashion, his straight black hair gathered in a ponytail at his neck. The old father, holding a worn, nicked sword of his own, squatted stony-faced beside his son, staring straight ahead. Only the wrinkled mother showed fear and anger, flashing tears at Redmond.
Michael explained, "Mr. Takahashi wishes to book steamer passage back to Japan for his parents, and he can think of no other way to raise the money. He considers it a fair exchange."
Redmond laughed nervously. His face had too many freckles, his skin was too pasty, his personality too slippery. "A lot of people are trying to get into this new movie business, but not usually by killing themselves on film." He sheathed the blade and handed the slim katana back.
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