86'd: A Novel - By Dan Fante Page 0,47

she closed the door behind her Ronny was leering. “I’m a lucky guy to have talent like that in the next room. Fabulous broad, right? Am I right or am I right?”

No one disagreed.

Ronny’s next leer was directed at Billy. “Hey, even the kid here can write a fucking screenplay. He’s written three already. Right, Billy? Or is it four?”

Billy faked a smile. “The point Ronny’s making is that with the right tools it’s not that difficult, especially since you’ve written the stories already.”

“So what about it!” Stedman leered. “Welcome to Hollywood. Join the team. It’s who ya know and who ya blow. We take your three stories then connect the themes and come up with one kick-ass, edgy, mothafucka of a movie?”

“Sure, I guess,” I said, trying to act like I was going along. “But at the moment I write in the morning. Two hours a day. I’d have to stop what I’m working on to concentrate on the screenplay.”

“You bet, my man! The faster I get your pages the sooner we go into production. Ninety days later I can guarantee you one ballbuster of a movie. We can start pre-casting next week.”

My look went from one guy to the other. “So I guess my question is, what do I get paid for my stories and the screenplay?”

Ronny paced across the floor, across the big, black, red-and-gold rug in the middle of the room; a bizarre woven, mock-Persian piece that depicted two swans dismembering a fish—possibly a koi. He flopped down next to Billy on the fabulous velour couch where the kid was seated. I asked myself: Was I that goddamn fish?

Stedman slurped has coffee then wrapped his arm around Billy, mussing his hair. “What a team! We’ve got everything we need right in this room. Okay, look, Billy and I talked this out before you came. Naturally production costs are the major factor, I won’t bullshit ya, Bruno. But the good thing with a cab driver story like yours is that it has real advantages cinematically—a lot of the film will be exteriors. Street stuff. L.A. grit. That really helps keep the friggin’ costs manageable.”

Now Billy chimed in: “We see L.A. itself as a major character here. That’s the vision so far.”

“Right,” I said. “So what do I get paid?”

Stedman’s expression became somber. He shot a look at Billy, then turned back to me. “Well, the way it’s structured is that there’s really no front end for any of us. I, as producer, am taking all the risk. I front all the production expenses myself. Right, Billy?”

“Right, Ronny.”

The head of Hollywood Star Productions continued weaving his flimflam. “Billy and I have a similar arrangement to the one I’ll make with you. A percentage of the net from the movie. Right, Billy?”

“Right, Ronny.”

Stedman began closing the deal. He was on his feet. “In other words we’re all eating out of the same pot here. True communism—ha! just kidding, Bruno. One guy wins—we all win. Fair is fair. Are you with us?” He extended his hand.

I looked from one guy to the other to try to read their expressions. This cocksucker was in the film business. Didn’t he know that this kind of scam was legendary in Hollywood? The net! There never was any NET in a movie! I grew up in Hollywood. Didn’t he know that? Hadn’t he done his homework? I’d spent summers sitting around writers and directors and actors guzzling gin and tonics on my old man’s back patio in Malibu listening to just this kind of step-’n’-fetch-it, the-check’ll-be-good-on-Wednesday yarn, summer after summer. Jonathan Dante had once even punched a producer in the nose after the fool offered Pop a net profit film contract. NET was a bad joke.

For once I kept my mouth shut. Ronny Stedman was a Dav-Ko account. A client. His business was important to David Koffman and I was skating on thin ice with my partner as it was. If I told these guys to go fuck themselves that would be the end of their business with my company. No more Hollywood Star Productions work.

I set my coffee cup down and got to my feet. Then I pointed behind Stedman’s desk. “By the way,” I said. “Nice plant. Is that an orchid?”

Ronny looked distracted. “Yeah,” he said, “it’s an orchid.”

I started for the back of his desk. “I like how plants smell. Do you mind?” I asked.

My question caused Stedman’s eyes to open wide. “Hey, do you mind, Bruno? We’re talking business here.”

But