Get Shorty: A Novel cp-1 Page 22

  She said, “Catlett was here? . . .”

  “Yeah, did you see him?”

  “I almost ran into him, on his way out.”

  “I think basically he’s all the way out now,” Chili said. “I explained the whole thing to Harry, told him if he ever saw the guy again he oughta have his brain looked at. Harry kept nodding, yeah, he understood, till I got to the part, Bones walking out with the locker key? He hasn’t said a word to me since.”

  “He does that,” Karen said, “he pouts.”

  She wondered again about the shears, but was more anxious to tell him the latest amazing development.

  “Meanwhile, back at the studio, Elaine spoke to Michael . . .”

  Right away Chili said, “Hey, where’s Harry?” looking toward the door. “He’s got to hear this.”

  “He wants to meet with you,” Karen said. “He didn’t mention Harry.”

  She kept her eyes on Chili, who didn’t say anything now, staring at her as she sat down across the table from him.

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  “You told Michael about the drycleaner and the shylock.”

  “That’s what he wants to talk about?”

  “And he told Elaine it was the best pitch he’s ever heard. Now Elaine wants to hear it.”

  “Yeah, but it wasn’t a pitch. He was pretending he was a shylock, wondering what it’d be like. So I gave him a situation, that’s all.”

  “He wants to have dinner with you this evening, at Jimmy’s. That is,” Karen said, watching him, “if you can make it.”

  He said, “Is it a nice place?” with his bland look, eyebrows raised.

  And she said, “You think it’s funny. You do. But you’re going to meet with him, aren’t you?”

  “It depends,” Chili said. “Who pays?”

  “You don’t have a script. You have the beginning of an idea that doesn’t go anywhere . . .”

  “I’ve added to it. There’s a girl in it now.”

  “Yeah—and what happens? What’s the story?”

  “You mean what’s the theme? I’m still thinking about the visual fabric, as they say.”

  “I can’t believe you’re serious.”

  “The guy wants to talk—I know how to do that. But Harry has to be there too.”

  “Or you won’t meet with him?”

  “Why’s it have to be like that? Get his permission. Harry comes along, he’s there, right? What’s Michael gonna do, tell him to leave? We’ll talk about Lovejoy, bring it up, see what happens. If Michael says no, Harry’ll have a chance to argue with him. He won’t blame me if the guy doesn’t want to do it.”

  “You’re serious,” Karen said.

  “I don’t see what’s the big deal.”

  “Right, it’s only a movie.” She had to smile at him. “Fifteen years in Hollywood . . . I’d give anything to be there.”

  “You can come. Why not?”

  She was shaking her head as Harry walked in and Chili said, “Michael called. He wants to meet.”

  “Well, it’s about time,” Harry said.

  Karen shook her head again, this time slowly, in amazement. Harry, pouring himself a Scotch, didn’t notice. But Chili did. He gave her his innocent look, with the eyebrows.

  25

  When he asked Karen if it was a nice place he was kidding and she never said, or told him who was supposed to pay. As soon as they walked in through the dark cocktail lounge area, Chili knew dinner for three would run at least a hundred bucks with wine.

  He and Harry were taken to a table in the middle of the front section, eight-thirty, the restaurant crowded. Michael had made the reservation, but did-n’t show up till after nine. Then it took him about ten minutes to get to the table, stopping off to say hello to people sticking their hands out at him, Michael pleasant about it, smiling at everybody. Like Momo coming into a joint on 86th Street, getting the treatment. Only Momo would have a suit on, as most of the guys did here; Michael was wearing his World War Two flight jacket with a dark T-shirt under it.

  As soon as he sat down at the table he looked at their drinks, ordered a Perrier and then started fanning the air in front of him.

  “Would you guys mind terribly not smoking?”

  Harry stubbed his cigarette out in a hurry saying of course not, he was trying to quit anyway. Chili took another drag on his and blew it out past the empty chair at the table, toward the entrance to the room where a little guy with dark shiny hair was standing there looking around as the maître d’ hurried up to him, the maître d’ giving him the same treatment he had given Michael, though the guy was not a movie star or Chili would have known him. Chili believed ninety percent of the guys in Hollywood had dark hair and looking around the room confirmed it. What he saw was a lot of hair, dark hair on the guys, different shades of blond hair on the women; older guys with younger women, girls, which was what he had expected. He observed this as Michael was saying that, according to a study he read, smokers exercised less than nonsmokers, were not as likely to use seat belts, were more prone to argue, missed work more often than nonsmokers, and were two-point-two times more likely to be dissatisfied with their lives, not to mention they were two-point-six times more likely to have bronchitis and emphysema.

  Harry was saying, “They made a study, huh? Gee, that’s interesting, I’d like to read it,” as the maître d’ was looking this way now and the little guy with the dark shiny hair was coming to the table. Chili noticed he had on a dark-gray shirt and tie with a dark-gray sport coat and light-gray pants that looked like pajamas. Drab colors, but the guy still had a shiny appearance. He pulled out the empty chair and sat down. A waiter tried to push his chair in and the guy waved him away, turning the chair and hunching toward Michael, his back to Chili. As this was happening Michael said, “Buddy—” sounding a little surprised.

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  So this was Michael’s agent.

  Buddy was supposed to know Harry, but didn’t even glance at him. He started right in with, “They want you to take a meeting with this producer they keep talking about. You believe it? The guy’s a fucking writer. I mean he writes books, not even screenplays, but he wants this broad as the producer. I never heard of this in my life.”

  “I want the property,” Michael said.

  “Don’t worry about it, you’ll get the property. I said to the guy’s agent, ‘The fuck is this, you trying to hold a gun to my head? We have to take the broad?’ Which is out of the question. I said, ‘What if there’s no communication between she and Michael? What’s she made, three pictures?’ One did okay, the other two barely earned back negative costs.”

  “I want that book,” Michael said.

  “Michael, you’ll get the book, soon as we get done with this pissing contest. If it was a director— yeah, I can understand he’s got a producer he likes to work with. But this is a fucking writer. I said to his agent, ‘Hey, Michael doesn’t have to option this book, you know.’ And the agent goes, ‘And we don’t have to sell it.’ I go, ‘Well, what the fuck is the guy writing for, he doesn’t want to sell his work?’ You ever hear anything like that?”

  “You have to understand his motivation,” Michael said. “A writer can spend years working on a book he isn’t sure will ever sell. What makes him do it?”

  “Money. The idea of hitting big,” Buddy said. “Selling one to Michael Weir. What else? Look, what we do, we say okay to the meeting. The broad arrives, we ask her to wait a minute, be right with you. I call the guy’s agent and I say, ‘Do we have a deal? Come on, we have a deal or not? We don’t have a deal, I’m sending the broad home.’ Put it to them like that, I guarantee you within five minutes we’ll have a deal.”

  Chili watched Michael playing with a book of matches that would never be used for lighting cigarettes, Michael saying, “How you handle it is up to you.”

  Buddy said, “I’ll give you a call.”

  Getting up he seemed to notice Harry for the first time, Harry waiting to be recognized
, Harry saying, “Buddy, how you doing?” The agent nodded, said yeah, great. Chili watched him glance this way now—like, what, another one? Where’d these guys come from? Michael didn’t tell him. He said one more time he wanted that book. Buddy told him it was his, and left.

  Harry said, “Well now . . .”

  But there was something Chili wanted to know and he said to Michael, “What he mentioned to you there . . . You mind my asking—what if the other agent says okay, you got a deal? Then will you have the meeting with the woman, the producer?”

  “I don’t know, I suppose,” Michael said, “we’d talk to her. I’m not really involved in this.”

  Harry said, “Chil, it has nothing to do with Michael.”

  And now Michael was nodding. “All it amounts to is a power play, the dance of the agents, circling each other for position.”

  “With the woman in the middle,” Chili said, “not knowing what’s going on. I was thinking she’s sitting there like a hostage. Use her to get what you want.”

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  “Hey, come on, man. All I want is a book.”

  “They say no deal, what do you do, shoot her?”

  Chili smiled.

  Michael didn’t.

  He said, “Why is everybody giving me a hard time?”

  It was dark and Catlett still hadn’t spoken to the Bear. Had been calling him since coming home and getting no answer, the Bear’s machine turned off. Right now Catlett was standing out on his deck looking at the night, trying to get his head to settle.

  Looking at the view he started thinking about his great-great-grandfather with the cavalry sword, because that original Bo Catlett had lived on a mountain and must’ve had a view of his own, but without any lit-up swimming pools and girls laughing or, tonight, the cool sound of Jobim coming from down there. The original Bo Catlett had his view, had his sword, had his squaw wife—but what did he do? This Catlett’s grandmother said, that time before she died, “Oh, he had plenty to do,” but never said what. So this Catlett started thinking of western movies, wondering what people outside of cowboys did back then. They lived in little towns that had one street, wore six-guns and were always crossing the street going someplace, the extras in the movies. The stunt-men were always getting shot off of horses or off of roofs or falling through the railings on upstairs porches and balconies. Fall against the railing shot and it would give way every time, like the carpenters of the Old West didn’t know shit about putting up railings. Bump against a railing shot, man, you’re going through it . . .

  And here he was leaning against a railing himself, his head having come all the way around a hundred years back to now.

  You could bump against this railing all you wanted. It was California redwood, bolted together, built solid. The drop was about the same as looking down from a hotel room on the twelfth floor he had stayed in one time. If you fell through like in a movie, you wouldn’t come close to that swimming pool. You’d hit on the slope partway down and from there it would be like falling down stairs, only you’d land in the scrub and shit where the coyotes hid. . . . Seeing this and thinking, Invite Chili Palmer out here.

  Thinking, I don’t know why, Officer, but it just give way on him.

  Catlett picked up the phone from a deck chair, punched a number for about the twentieth time today and got him. Damn. The Bear’s voice came on and Catlett said, “How you doing this evening?” having decided hours ago to be cool with the Bear, save his emotions.

  “The guy faked them out,” the Bear said.

  “This Chili Palmer you speaking of? I know that much.”

  “You see on the news the drug bust at LAX? They picked up a guy from Miami. Alleged member of organized crime.”

  “You watching the news?” Catlett said. “What else? Watch some sitcoms ’stead of calling me?”

  “I had to take Farrah to Costa Mesa, to her mother’s. She had the news on and that’s when I saw it. Then I had to stay a while and visit, talk about how I’m always late with the check. I got back, I had to eat. I figured you’d have talked to Harry, found out

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  what happened. But I didn’t actually give a shit if you did or not. I don’t work for you no more, or Ronnie. I quit.”

  Catlett said, “This the man use to jump offa high buildings talking?”

  “Into air bags,” the Bear said. “There’s no cushion under what you’re doing. I got responsibilities, I got Farrah to think about.”

  “You always had Farrah. Took her on buys with you.”

  “I’m out of it, Cat. Ronnie picked up two keys for Palm Desert. I’ll drop off the rest tomorrow morning and I’m done.”

  “Been giving it serious thought, huh?”

  “All the way down to Costa Mesa and back.”

  “How ’bout we talk about it tomorrow? Tonight, later on, I got one for you doesn’t involve any heavy work. Chili Palmer’s staying with that woman, Karen? I need you to get me in the house.”

  “I’m already an accessory on one count,” the Bear said. “You want to get in, bust a window.”

  “I’m thinking she might have an alarm system.”

  “Good, so don’t do it.”

  “Something happened to you, huh? Like that tumble down the stairs shook you up.”

  “Or straightened me out,” the Bear said. “It’s different. It isn’t like a stunt gag, you’re ready, you know what’s gonna happen. This guy doesn’t fool around, he comes right at you. You talked to him, yeah, but you don’t know him.”

  Catlett said, “Uh-huh,” and said, “Bear, I had an idea. Listen to this.”

  Making it sound as though he was starting over and they were still friends.

  “You get your saw—no, get your wrench, and fix my deck railing to give way like they do in movies. You know what I’m saying? Like when the guy gets hit he falls against it and it gives way on him? All you do is loosen the bolts that hold the upright part of the rail to the deck. So then I invite Chili Palmer out here to look at my view. Get him to lean over the railing, see what’s down there . . . Huh? What you think?”

  “This isn’t a movie, Cat. This guy’s real.”

  “It could be done though. Sure, loosen some bolts. I can see it . . . Except how would I get him out here? So I better go in the woman’s house and do him. You helping me.”

  There was a silence on the line before the Bear said, “I’m not gonna do it.”

  “You sure?”

  “I told you, I quit.”

  “I hate being alone, Bear.”

  “That’s too fucking bad.”

  “I hate it so much, man, if I go down I’ll pleadeal you in. Give ’em this ace burglar now one of the West Coast dope kings, if they go easy on the Cat. You dig? Tell ’em where you live, where you keep the product, all that shit they love to hear.”

  There was that silence again. This time all the Bear said was “Why?” in a quiet tone of voice.

  “ ’Cause I’m a mean motherfucker,” Catlett said. “Why you think?” and hung up the phone.

  It was fun playing with the Bear, putting fear in a man his size. Now forget him. He hadn’t needed the Bear to do Yayo or the gas station man in Bakersfield or the fools he did over business, the one in his car waiting at a light, the other one on his front

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  steps. He didn’t sit down and plan doing those people. He saw the need and did them. Do this one the same way and don’t think so much, worrying if there was an alarm system in the house. Harry said Chili Palmer had come in the house at night. He didn’t say nothing about any alarm system going off. Chili Palmer had come in the house and turned the TV on and Harry had to go downstairs being the man, but without a gun, ’cause there wasn’t a gun in the house, was there?

  It took Harry about two minutes to decide on the Norwegian salmon—anxious to talk, get things going—and another Scotch. Chili kept reading the menu while Michael told them about the curious negative influence his father became
in motivating his career. Harry was willing to bet Chili, after all the time he spent on the menu, would order a steak; and he did, the filet rare, baked potato, house salad, the soup, a half-dozen bluepoints and, yeah, another Scotch. But Michael wasn’t finished telling about his dad, this tyrant who manufactured hairpieces and wanted his sonny to follow him in the rug trade, the headwaiter standing by. Then Michael had to look at the menu for a while, Harry willing to bet anything he wouldn’t order from it. It was an unwritten rule in Hollywood, actors never ordered straight from the menu; they’d think of something they had to have that wasn’t on it, or they’d tell exactly how they wanted the entrée prepared, the way their mother back in Queens used to fix it. The seven-million-dollar actor in the jacket a bum wouldn’t wear told the headwaiter he felt like an omelet, hesitant about it, almost apologetic. Could he have a cheese omelet with shallots, but with the shallots only slightly browned? The headwaiter said yes, of course. Then could he have some kind of light tomato sauce over it with just a hint of garlic but, please, no oregano? Of course. And fresh peas in the tomato sauce? Harry wanted to tell him, Michael, you can have any fucking thing you want. You want boiled goat? They’ll send out for it if they don’t have one. Jesus, what you had to go through with actors. The ideal situation would be if you could make movies without them.

  “What fascinates me about this one,” Michael said, “is the chance to play an essentially cliché-type character in a way that’s never been done before, against his accepted image.”

  Harry liked the sound of that. He wished he could light up, so he could enjoy it more. Chili, busy eating ice cream, might or might not be paying attention.

  “It’s not unlike the way I saw Bonaparte in Elba, “Michael said. “The script had him morose, dour, bound by his destiny to play the tragic figure. I thought, yeah, that’s the portrait we’ve all seen, with the hand shoved inside his coat. But why were his troops so loyal? Why were they willing to follow this neurotic guy, with the original Napoleon complex, to hell and back time after time, until finally Waterloo?”

  Harry thinking, To Hell and Back, Audie Murphy, about 1955.