Get Shorty: A Novel cp-1 Read online

  “You’d be out a hundred and seventy grand.”

  “When they bust him, haul his ass off to jail.”

  “You don’t care about the money?”

  “We got stuff for it, didn’t we? We’re not out nothing.”

  “He’ll tell the feds he was set up.”

  “I ’magine he will, but how’s he gonna put it on me? I don’t even know the man and there isn’t anybody seen us together.”

  “Harry has.”

  “I can talk to Harry,” Catlett said. “No, the trick will be getting Mr. Chili Palmer to go out to the airport and open that locker.”

  Find some way to work that or do it clean and quick, the way Farrah was zapping jets out of the sky.

  Catlett said, “Man, she’s gooood.”

  The Bear said, “That’s my little ace.”

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  Ray Bones came off the Delta flight to find a young guy with more hair and gold jewelry than he needed holding a square of laundry cardboard that said MR BARBONE in black Magic Marker. The young guy’s shirt was open halfway down, his sleeves turned up twice. He said, “Mr. Bar-bone? Welcome to L.A. I’m Bobby, your driver. Mr. DePhillips asked me to extend you his best and be of help any way I can. You have a good flight?”

  Bones said, “I hope you drive better than you fuckin spell. My name’s Barboni, not Bar-bone.”

  Northbound from the airport on 405, Bones rode in the backseat of the Cadillac enclosed in dark glass. He commented on the traffic. “Shit, this isn’t bad. Miami, we got bumper to bumper all day long.” He asked Bobby the driver, “What’s that over there?”

  “Oil wells,” Bobby said.

  “They’re ugly fuckin things. You got oil wells and freeways. You got smog . . .”

  “You ever wanta go to the beach,” Bobby said, “here’s the freeway you take, we’re coming to.”

  “I live in Miami Beach,” Bones said, “and you want to show me a fuckin beach? The sun ever come out here, or you have this smog all the time? Jesus. Where’s downtown at? I don’t see it.”

  Four-oh-five to Santa Monica Boulevard to the Beverly Hilton, Bobby telling Bones it was the home of Trader Vic’s, if he liked Chinese. Bones said he hated it. They pulled up to the hotel entrance and got out.

  “What do you have for me?”

  Bobby opened the trunk, brought out Bones’ luggage, one bag, went back in and came out with a black leather attaché case. “Compliments of Mr. DePhillips. The names and phone numbers are in here. The same ones that were given to your friend Mr. Palmer.”

  “What else?”

  “It’s in there too. Beretta three-eighty, a nice one.”

  “Gimme the car keys.”

  “I’m suppose to drive you.”

  “Frank DePhillips said extend me his best wishes and help me out any way I want, right?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “So gimme the fuckin keys.”

  Bones handed the kid five bucks and told him to get a haircut.

  20

  In the car on the way over, Harry told Chili and Karen what to expect. “We’ll sit down and start schmoozing about the business. Who got fired, divorced, had an abortion, entered a treatment center, moved back to New York, died of AIDS, came out of the closet . . . We’ll get offered something to drink like Evian water or decaffeinated coffee and Elaine will ask if Lovejoy was inspired by a true story reported in the media—since you don’t see that many original ideas that are original and weren’t stolen from a book or a picture made forty years ago—and that’s when I begin to ease into the pitch. I say, ‘You know why you ask that, Elaine? Because Lovejoy is about life, about universal feelings of sorrow and hope. It’s about redemption and retribution, the little guy’s triumph over the system . . .”

  Karen said, “Harry, you’re full of shit.”

  He said, “If I’m wrong then I haven’t made something like three hundred pitches in my career. You’re talking to a distributor or studio execs, it’s the same thing.”

  Karen said, “You haven’t met Elaine Levin.”

  Chili had his dark pinstripe suit on, striped shirt and conservative dark tie, walking into Elaine’s office in the Hyman Tower Building on the Tower Studios lot, Hollywood, California. It wasn’t like an office; it was like a big old-fashioned living room with a dining L, but unfinished, or as if all this furniture was in the wrong room. A dark-haired woman in her forties, wearing glasses down on her nose was sitting at a dining room table talking on the phone. She covered it with her hand as they came in and said, “Hi, I’ll be right there. You want a soda, mineral water, some coffee?” She was from New York, no question. Karen gave her a wave saying thanks, but they just had lunch. Harry said to Chili, “What’d I tell you?” They sat down in the living room part, Chili next to Karen on a dull-green sofa that looked like an antique and felt like one, the seat round and hard. Harry was moving his butt around in a chair with a carved wood back and arms, trying to get comfortable. The floor and the walls were bare, no carpeting, no pictures or anything. As Chili was looking around Karen said, “Elaine’s redecorating. All this stuff goes.” Harry said, “Studio office, one week it’s Old English, the next week art deco moderne. You know who makes out in this town, the interior designers. On account of turnover.” Harry started pushing himself up and now Karen got up, so Chili did too as Elaine came over to them, her hand out.

  She was smaller than Chili thought she’d be, maybe five-two in her stocking feet, which was the way she actually was, wearing a beige suit with the sleeves pushed up but no shoes. She wasn’t bad looking though, even with that mop of hair all over the place, like she hadn’t combed it in a week. Shaking

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  Harry’s hand she said, “Harry, I feel as if I know you. I’ve been a fan of yours ever since Slime Creatures. They remind me of so many people I know in the industry.” Harry told Elaine he’d been following her career with interest ever since she broke in. Elaine turned to Chili and gave his hand a good grip as Karen introduced them and Elaine said, “My word, both the gentlemen in suits, I’m flattered. You should see the way most of them come in, like they do yard work and I guess some of them do, the writers, if they’re not parking cars.” Still holding on to his hand she said, “Chili Palmer, hmmmm,” in the slow way she spoke. It surprised him, this offhand manner she had about her, talking a lot but in no hurry. Maybe her mind somewhere else. Not what he’d heard about dynamic women executives. Elaine sat down, now the four of them around a coffee table where there was a big ashtray loaded with butts. She brought a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of her jacket saying, “Mr. Lovejoy . . .” and Chili got ready to take his first meeting at a movie studio.

  Harry: “What hooked me, Elaine, is the theme. Redemption and retribution, the little guy’s triumph over the system.”

  Elaine: “Yeah . . . well, I’m as turned on by redemption and retribution, Harry, as anyone; but what’s the system he triumphs over?”

  Harry: “The legal system.”

  Elaine: “I don’t see the ending exactly as a triumph. The man who killed his boy is dead, but Lovejoy would still owe—what is it, a hundred thousand to somebody, the guy’s heirs?”

  Harry: “We’re revising the ending . . .”

  Elaine: “Good.”

  Harry: “Roxy has brought Lovejoy to court, but the case is still pending when Roxy is killed. So Lovejoy keeps his flower shop, doesn’t have to pay anything.”

  Elaine: “Uh-huh, yeah . . . But what about motivation? Why he goes after the guy with a video camera.”

  Harry: “Why? To see justice done.”

  Elaine: “But it isn’t. The guy gets his license revoked again—so what?”

  Harry: “What we plan to do as part of revising the ending, is have Lovejoy do something to cause Roxy’s death. I don’t mean murder him, but not have Lovejoy just standing there either.”

  Elaine: “That gets us back to his motivation. I can’t see this mingy florist becom
ing so vindictive.”

  Harry: “Who, Lovejoy?”

  Elaine: “Even his name.”

  Harry: “We’re thinking of changing it. No, but the idea—here’s a guy you think is a schlub, right? But beneath that quiet exterior he’s passionate, impulsive and extremely likable. Once you get to know him.”

  Elaine: “He’s passionate? Who does he fuck?”

  Harry: “You mean in the script?”

  Elaine: “In his life. His wife left him—who does he sleep with. He’s quiet, low-key, yeah, but does that mean he doesn’t fuck?”

  Chili couldn’t believe he was hearing her say that. There were all kinds of movies where nobody got laid in them. Unless she meant it as something the guy did that you never saw. Like people in movies never went to the bathroom even though you

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  know they would have to.

  There was a pause, a silence right after Elaine spoke. And then Karen got into it.

  Karen: “What he needs—what the story needs is for somebody to give him a kick in the ass, get him going. I’m thinking about a woman who’s been abused by Roxy, knows his life, his habits, that he’s into something illegal. And she also knows he’s driving—that’s it, when he’s not supposed to. Otherwise where does Lovejoy get the idea to catch him at it? She goes to Lovejoy and lays it out. Let’s get this son of a bitch. Catch him driving. What’s the girl’s name in the script, the hooker?”

  Harry: “Lola.”

  Karen: “Lovejoy, Ilona, Lola—come on. Call her—I don’t know—Peggy. Working class but bright. From a big family she’s had to help support. Worked all her life . . . Roxy’s hobby is making porno films he shows to his friends. He gets Peggy stoned and shoots nude footage of her. She discovers it, burns the tape and he beats her up . . . This is the kind of situation I mean, not necessarily what will work best. But get her personally involved. Where does the video camera come from? It’s Roxy’s. She rips it off . . . You see what I’m getting at?”

  Elaine: “You’re on the right track.”

  Harry: “But then it’s not Lovejoy’s story, it’s the girl’s.”

  Karen: “It’s a subplot. We’re looking for motivation, what gets Lovejoy started.”

  Harry: “And I’m looking at a property, as it is, Michael Weir wants to do.”

  Elaine: “Oh, God. Michael.”

  Chili watched Elaine look over at Karen.

  Harry: “Elaine, Michael read it and flipped. Why? Because it’s about life. It’s cosmic, it’s about universal feelings and values. But he won’t touch it if it isn’t his story. You know that. Michael is bigger than the idea.”

  Elaine: “Mr. Indecisive, won’t be pressured into making a commitment. I love him, but he’s worse than Hoffman and Redford put together, and his price isn’t even as high as theirs. You know what he does, don’t you? He puts his writer on it and every few months or so they show up with a different version of the story. Then he’ll bring a director, some guy who’s in awe of Michael and if the picture’s ever shot he’ll make the mistake of allowing Michael in the cutting room. You go over budget, miss release dates and post-production goes on forever while Michael fine-tunes.”

  Harry: “And if you can get him, it’s worth it.”

  Elaine: “Why don’t you bring me a nice sci-fi / horror idea? Something original. No pissed-off teenagers or comic-book characters. Drama, if it’s offbeat, quirky but real. I want to discover new actors, do something different.”

  Chili saw her looking at him over her glasses. She blew out a stream of cigarette smoke.

  Elaine: “Mr. Palmer, what do you think of Michael Weir?”

  “I think he’s a great actor,” Chili said, “and I think you could get him to do it. When I was talking to him last night he said he likes the character a lot.” That got their attention. “He also likes the idea of putting a girl in it and fixing the ending, but he thinks it turns into a B movie in the second act.”

  Elaine: “He means whenever you cut away from him.”

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  “I think he was talking mostly,” Chili said, “about the visual fabric of the movie and the theme, what you’re doing here, so it doesn’t start to look like something else.”

  Elaine: “You know Michael?”

  “I know the girl lives with him, Nicki. She introduced me.” Harry was looking at him from across the coffee table, staring. Karen, on the sofa next to him, had her head turned to look right at him. “Speaking of the ending,” Chili said, “I think if Lovejoy runs the guy over with his van the audience in the theater would get up and cheer.”

  Elaine: “The direct approach.”

  “Say he wants to do it,” Chili said. “He starts out with every intention and then changes his mind. But it happens anyway, he runs the guy over and kills him and you don’t know for sure if he meant it or it was an accident.” He watched Elaine take her glasses off. She kept looking at him without saying anything.

  Karen: “I kind of like that. Keep it ambiguous till the very end. Say he tells Peggy it was an accident and she believes him . . .”

  Elaine: “But the audience still isn’t sure.”

  Karen: “That’s what I was thinking. Give them something to talk about after they walk out.”

  Elaine: “You mean leave the theater.”

  Karen, smiling: “Right.” Still smiling: “Warren’s idea—did he tell you?”

  Chili placed the name, the studio exec Karen had mentioned who sounded like an asshole.

  Elaine: “We talked about it briefly.”

  Karen: “Lovejoy videotapes a couple of robberies and becomes a surveillance expert?”

  Elaine: “With Mel Gibson. We do sequels or sell it to a network for a series.”

  Harry: “So, the next step—”

  Karen: “I thought he’d be here.”

  Elaine: “Warren’s no longer with us. He’s in Publicity.”

  Karen: “Oh.”

  Harry: “So, we know the script needs a little work, no problem. I’ll give Murray our comments.”

  Elaine: “Which Murray is that?”

  Harry: “Murray Saffrin, my writer.”

  Elaine: “Oh . . . Well, I’ll tell you right now, I wouldn’t have a chance with Murray Saffrin. Karen could take the script upstairs bareass and not sell Murray Saffrin.”

  Harry: “So I’ll get somebody else.”

  Elaine: “It’s your decision. I can give you a few names, writers I know would be acceptable, like . . .”

  Chili listened to the names, not surprised he’d never heard of any of them. How many people knew who wrote the movies they saw?

  Harry: “So we’re talking development?”

  Elaine: “Not till I have at least a treatment I know I can sell. It’s still your project, Harry. Your decision, if you want to see how far we can run with it.”

  Harry: “You’re saying I pay the writer. Any of the guys you mentioned, what’s a rewrite gonna cost me?”

  Elaine: “Depending on who you get, I would say anywhere from one-fifty to four, and a few points. Call their agents, see who’s available and might want to do it.”

  Harry: “I love talking to agents, right next to having a case of hives. You don’t think bringing Michael Weir deserves a development deal?”

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  Elaine: “Michael Weir signed, gagged and chained to a wall till you start shooting, I can take upstairs. I tell them Michael Weir likes the part . . . Yeah? What else is new? Harry, it’s your decision, think it over. Karen, I wonder if you’d stay a few minutes. If the gentlemen wouldn’t mind waiting . . .”

  Chili got up with Harry. They started out.

  Elaine: “Harry? What about romance among less than attractive people?”

  Harry: “Marty?”

  Elaine: “Beyond Marty.”

  Harry: “The seven-hundred-pound broad who crushes her lovers to death when she climaxes?”

  Elaine: “Call me, Harry, okay?”


  They waited for Karen in Harry’s car, parked next to a sound stage as big as a hangar, up the street from the Hyman Tower Building and the front gate. Chili half expected to see extras walking around in period costumes and military uniforms, the way you saw them in movies about movies, but there didn’t seem to be anything going on. Harry, coming out of the building, kept asking about Michael Weir. And then what did he say? He really seemed interested? How was it left? Why did-n’t you call me last night? Why’d you wait till in the meeting? You trying to make points? All that. Chili said, “I think you ought to listen to what Elaine says about the guy. He doesn’t sound too reliable.” Getting in the car, the front seat, Chili said, “Last night I noticed he’s a lot shorter than I thought.”

  Next, Harry started bitching about how studio people never come right out and say yes or no, they string you along. They put you in a high-risk position you can’t afford to be in and say it’s up to you.

  It was hot in the car. Chili rolled down his window. “What’d she say a writer would cost?”

  “Between one-fifty and four hundred thousand.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Chili said, “just to fix it? That’s what I thought she meant, but I wasn’t sure. The writers do okay, huh?”

  “It’s the fucking agents ruining the business. Agents and the unions. But you know what? If I had the dough I’d hire one of those guys. That’s how sure I am of this one.”

  Chili, not at all sure, didn’t say anything.

  “With a little luck, say if you were to run into your pal the drycleaner,” Harry said, “and could negotiate me a quick loan . . .”

  Chili watched two young ladies walking up the middle of the studio street: long blond hair, miniskirts, a couple of Miss Californias.

  “I found him, Harry.”

  Harry said, “Where?” jumping on it, twisting around in that tight space between the seat and the steering wheel.

  “What’s the difference where? I took the money off him and sent it to his wife.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Three hunnerd grand. I kept ten for Bones, if I decide to pay him.”