86'd: A Novel - By Dan Fante Page 0,46

I’d screwed up but I couldn’t figure out what I’d done. I hated to lose Stedman as a client for Dav-Ko at twelve to fifteen hundred bucks a day. I hadn’t had so much as a beer in over a week and aside from a few vikes and Xanax here and there I was totally clean, so I searched my head for an insult or some off-color wisecrack I’d made but could only think of one incident where I’d told an actress after a bedroom scene that I liked how her thong fit. But that was lightweight snot. Nothing. They hear that stuff all the time. Then I realized Stedman might somehow have heard about the crazy incident with Don Simpson. They were both movie producers. Maybe my remarks by the pool with Zeke about his tweaked-out weirdness in calling the cops and the fire department over a fucking koi fish had been overheard by Snipson himself and had gotten back to Ronny Stedman. This meeting might be retribution for my big mouth.

Brandi appeared again and directed me to step into Stedman’s inner office.

Once inside I took off my chauffeur’s cap and Ronny got up from behind his desk. I prepared myself for a shitstorm.

But Stedman was smiling. Instead of a face-off confrontation I was introduced to the new director of It Creeps, a twenty-five-year-old film school grad named Billy Cohen—a kid with a short Afro sitting across the room on the plum-colored velour couch.

The knot in my stomach went away. Long-legged Brandi wanted to know if we’d all like some coffee.

Then Ronny picked up a stack of manuscripts from his desk and, in a gesture of mock exasperation, tossed three of them in the wastebasket. I saw the title page of the one he was still holding. It was Belly Up, my story collection.

“This fucker is gold,” he barked. “Remember, in the car, I told you that I’d read your stuff. And I did. I kept my word.”

I nodded.

Ronnie went on. “And ‘Santa Monica Pier’ is perfect for a film. Billy read it yesterday and thinks so too. Right, Billy?”

Young Billy nodded approvingly.

“Edgy shit, Bruno,” Stedman went on. “Raw and gut level and in-your-face writing. This is the kind of stuff—L.A. street stuff—that, as a film, just might get hot the way Pulp Fiction got hot. Both Billy and I think raw just might be the new wave in the film business. Know what I’m sayin’?”

“Yeah,” I said, attempting to get my head into the conversation, “I think I know what you’re saying.”

“Billy thinks we can combine three of the stories into a single plotline and pitch it to HBO as a movie or a series. With a little editing, ‘Santa Monica Pier’ and ‘Two Beers’ and ‘Granite Man’ are ONE idea. Ya follow?”

“Okay, I hear you,” I said, now sure that Dav-Ko and a bite out of my ass was not going to be the topic of conversation.

Ronny went on. “The cab driver theme is spot-on. The jaded eye of your main character Ricky is exactly right for someone like Colin Farrell or maybe an older guy like John Travolta.”

Then Billy spoke up. “Or Robert Downey, Jr.,” he chirped. “He’d be great for it too. I know Robert’s agent. We went to Pali High together.”

Stedman pointed at a matching plum chair. “Sit down, Bruno. Let’s talk this idea through.”

I sat down and lit a cigarette.

Then Brandi appeared again, dancing back in with a tray of coffee and pastries.

Stedman’s arms were across his chest. “Hey, do you mind, my man? My office is a smoke-free office.”

I put the smoke out on a brass dish that Brandi provided, then reminded myself that Ronny snorted more blow than almost any of my customers. Absolutely, I thought. Second-hand smoke is poison. The shit kills millions every day.

Now Stedman was grinning again. “So how would you like to be in the film business, my man?”

The question put a knot in my stomach. Brandi passed me my coffee mug and I dumped in two teaspoons of sugar and milk. “I’ve never written anything like a screenplay,” I said finally, tasting the concoction. “It’s not something I’ve even thought about.”

“Not a problem, Brun-issimo! The point is you pick up a copy of Final Draft software and the goddamn program writes the thing for you. It’s a no-brainer, I promise.”

Brandi, in the miniskirt, was leaving the room with her empty coffee tray in hand. Me and Stedman and Billy couldn’t help but watch her exit. After