A Crossword to Die For (19 page)

“You mean Jules?” The name sounded as if it would go a long way in a jewelry store.

“I'm afraid I didn't get the man's—”

“I'm sure it was Jules. He handles all Mr. Oclen's appointments … Jules and I perform very different duties for Mr. Oclen. Mr. Oclen believes ‘the staff should suit the task'—or is it the other way around?”

“I guess it depends on whose staff you're talking about.”

Candie continued in her molasses-sweet drawl. “I understand you-all are in the film business?”

“That's right. We're shooting a little thriller up in Boston right now.”

“I used to do some acting in Houston … But nothing you might have seen … The films were more of the adult variety.” Candie appeared to think for a moment. “I'd be happy to audition for you—if that might be of interest. I can read from a play … or, you know … extemporize?”

“I'd hate to take you away from your duties here at Savante, Candie, but when we reach that point in production, I'll be sure to have the casting people get in touch.”

She gave Rosco a sugary smile and opened a mahogany door that led to Carl Oclen's inner sanctum. “Mr. Balboa's here, Mr. O. The movie director …”

Oclen's three-sided office faced south, west, and north and consumed nearly fifteen hundred square feet, its windows affording a sweeping view that included the Statue of Liberty, the Hudson River, and nearly all of lower Manhattan. The CEO's desk was almost as large as Rosco's entire office while the man sitting behind it was clearly the same person who'd graced the copy of
Crude
in the waiting area.

Impeccably sculpted hair that had probably been
enhanced
into a lustrous chestnut color, a physique that cried out
personal trainer
, and a suit that looked as if it would cost more to replace than Rosco's aging Jeep, Carl Oclen was the picture of wealth. He was on the phone and waved for his guest to take a seat. Instead, Rosco walked to the window and looked out over the tip of Manhattan. Thirty-three stories below sat Trinity Church. The church was illuminated by a single ray of sunlight; an untouchable beacon of peace in a cavern of vast skyscrapers.

Oclen dropped the telephone receiver into its cradle, stood and moved alongside Rosco. “Hell of a view, isn't it? I was at this very desk when those vermin took out the towers. What did they think? They'd break New York? Break New Yorkers? Break America? Not in a million years, pardner.” The Texas drawl had been smoothed into an all-purpose good-ole-boy twang, but Rosco guessed the accent could just as easily vanish—or thicken—depending on the circumstances, or the guest.

“As a film person I'm always looking at the visual; camera angles, interesting locations, et cetera.” Rosco extended his hand. “I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me on such short notice. I had a meeting set with Exxon, but they canceled out on me at the last minute.”

“Happy to do it. Especially when it means beating out the competition.” Oclen smiled. It was not a warm and fuzzy expression.

“I have a good notion to dump their credit card as a result of the mix-up … Unfortunately we get caught up in a film slate, and any little thing can throw us off schedule.”

“I've always been a bit of a movie buff, Mr. Balboa, so, like I said, I'm happy to help out.”

“Please … Call me Chuck.”

“All right.”

Rosco noted that the first-name-basis invitation wasn't reciprocated as Oclen walked back to his desk and sat. “What can I do you for, Chuck? I believe Jules mentioned that the picture you're making is an action-adventure … something to do with oil imports?”

Rosco sat in a brown leather chair opposite Oclen. He also smiled. “Well, let's start with this: Is it possible that a company like Savante could smuggle cocaine into the United States on its oil tankers?”

Oclen's face turned to stone.

CHAPTER 26

Rosco remained focused on Carl Oclen's hard, unwavering stare, hoping to garner information, but the eyes revealed nothing.

“Sorry,” Rosco finally said, “that was just a little ploy we directors like to use—Actors' Studio stuff; mention something deeply personal, something shocking, and then gauge the reaction. It helps me with my actors … I learn what's real and what isn't—emotionally speaking … I get to know what I want to use down the road. I get to learn what buttons to push …” Rosco was weaving his story from whole cloth, but it was sounding pretty good to him—pretty believable, too. Or so he hoped.

Oclen's expression softened slightly, but only slightly.

“Anyway,” Rosco continued with another sunny, L.A.-type grin, “I'm getting ahead of myself here. The screenplay—as Jules correctly inferred—is an action-adventure tale about a DEA agent on the trail of drug smugglers: i.e.
The Bad Guys
. My writer has the cocaine shipments entering the U.S. on fishing boats … I'm sure you heard about that load the Coast Guard pulled off a Belizian boat a while back …? Our timing is perfect on this.”

“I … did read something on that, yes. It was in
Daily Finance …”
Oclen's tone remained cautious.

“Right. I guess everyone did … Anyway, that's my point; fishing boats have been done to death. You got storms—been done; whales—been done; old ships; new ships … You heard of
Moby Dick
, right?
The Old Man and the Sea?
I mean, who hasn't? Classics, both of them … Apparently they were books first. Anyway, what I'm thinking is this: Everyone's got storms; everyone's got fish. What I need is a fresh angle … So, here's the deal: We give this script a quick rewrite and change the venue to an oil tanker. Plus, we get all that testosterone stuff—guys on a mother of a boat, polished steel, uniforms, a bow slicing through the sea … And I mean a
big
bow. I saw that picture of you on the cover of
Crude
, out in the lobby”—Rosco cocked his thumb over his shoulder—”and I'm thinking: Is this a dynamite setup or what? I mean, like that's the money shot right there—”

“And what is it exactly you want from me … Chuck?” The tone was still frosty although Rosco sensed he was making headway. Everyone liked to imagine they had movie star potential.

“Just a little background, really, so that the
color
rings true for the audience. I'm placing my action down in the Gulf of Mexico … pretty places, fab food—the crew has to eat, know what I mean? So I'd like to stay with those locations … And I've booked gear for December …” On the assumption that all film directors behaved like Woody Allen, Rosco moved his hands in jerky motions as he talked. The nervous movements, as well as what his attempt at Hollywood-speak were clearly beginning to win Oclen over. “I figure we can have an American oil company drilling off the Mexican coast—”

“Whoa, hold up there, Chuck.” Oclen's small smile had turned decidedly smug. “Let me tell you how things work down in the Gulf. First of all, once you get south of Texas, I hate to break it to you, pal, but it ain't America no more.
Enchiladas
or no
enchiladas
… The rules change. Big time. The oil and natural gas industry in Mexico is one hundred percent government controlled. You've got to be solidly outside of Mexico's territorial waters if you want to start sinking wells. And if the water's too deep, you're talking a floating rig … first tropical storm that rips up the coast is going to take your rig straight to New Orleans to join the Mardi Gras parade.” The CEO chuckled at his own witticism. “Look what happened to that baby off of Brazil.
Adios, amigo
. Davy Jones's locker for everyone on that baby.”

“Is that the same with the other countries down there? Belize? Guatemala? Nicaragua? All government controlled?”

“Look, Chuck, each nation sets different policies; and any oil company—be it owned by the Brits or the Dutch or whoever—has to obey local government regulations. Look at Alaska. And that's the U.S. of A., for pete's sake … You've got to pick up a few politicians along the way. It's not like the old days when you could just buy a tract of mineral-rich land, cross your fingers and pray for the mother lode … Latin America's different, sure. None of the owl-huggers we have up here. The rules are more
flexible
, but you still have to deal with governments—”

Rosco interrupted. He tried to look crest fallen. “Damn … That's bad news for me … So we don't get any Mexican oil here in the States?”

“I didn't say that. But what you're talking about there is transportation. That's another ball of wax all together … Now, I deal with Pemex. We all do. The company's the government monopoly south of the border. We transport Mexican product up to New Jersey all the time. It's contract work. Subcontract, actually … But to be honest: Most of our imports are coming from Venezuela now. And I'm working on some Cuba stuff—but that's off the record.”

“But you do have tankers coming from the Gulf?”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay,” Rosco said, watching Oclen's reaction closely, “this is only hypothetical … the hypothetical back-story to my plot—that's the … um … that's the reason for making the film … Now, suppose someone—like yourself—owned an oil tanker, and wanted to smuggle drugs into the country. It would be pretty easy, right?”

Oclen's expression again darkened. “Look, Chuck, I'm trying to help you here … I don't know what it's like in the fishing business; I don't know what the boat owners are into, but I can tell you one thing: They don't have the kind of money invested in their vessels that I have. A shrimp captain goes out into the Gulf …? Hey, one quick cocaine drop can make his day. He can pay off his boat's mortgage in a weekend, so maybe it's worth the gamble for him. But Savante? I have millions tied up in a single tanker. You think I'd risk letting the DEA impound one of my ships, all of my ships, just to pick up what amounts to little more than pocket change for me? Not on your life.”

Oclen's point made a lot of sense. Rosco was about to try a different tack when Savante's CEO opened his desk drawer, removed a baseball, and flipped it toward his guest. Rosco caught it instinctively. It was signed by Babe Ruth.

“Is … this … real?” Rosco stammered.

“See, that's my point exactly, Chuck. That ball's worth about twenty thousand dollars, maybe more. I should have it in a glass case somewhere, right? But I don't because I can afford to hold it. I can afford to roll it in my hand and enjoy it. If I ruin it someday …? Well, hell, that's my business, and nobody else's. Once I buy something, it's mine—I do with it as I please.”

Rosco set the ball on the desk—reluctantly.

“Now,” Oclen continued, “if you want to make a movie about someone smuggling drugs on an oil tanker, you have to look at the little guy. You can't make your bad guy the CEO of a multinational petroleum company.” Oclen chuckled again. “It makes no sense. Hell, I make too much money off the damn oil to worry about a sideline as picayune as drug smuggling … No, you've got to make your smuggler one of the crew.”

“Like the captain?”

Oclen shook his head. “No … And the more I think about it, it's too implausible. On a tanker, nothing's loaded or unloaded like it is on a freighter. The cargo's pumped; tankers don't require cranes and they don't even berth at loading facilities that use cranes … Oh, sure, one of the crew could bring on a small package; maybe ten or fifteen pounds, and no one would notice … but if you're thinking a big-time smuggling operation … No, I'm sorry to say, Chuck, I think you have to stay with the fishing boat angle. They're the only ones with the loading equipment. And they can off-load in smaller facilities.” Oclen shrugged slightly. “What did you say the title of this flick was again?”

Rosco sidestepped the question with a facsimile of a long and frustrated sigh. “I see your point … Damn. I thought I was really on to something … Sort of a
Top Gun
meets
Raiders of the Lost Ark
… Well, you never know until you ask—”

“What do you mean:
‘Top Gun
meets
Raiders of the Lost Ark'?”

“Oh, sorry … that's Hollywood talk. What it means is a combination of two films. You take strong elements from a couple of flicks … In this case, macho guys … huge boats … And you spell Adventure with a capital A, and profit with a capital P—”

“Raiders of the Lost Ark
didn't have any boats in it.”

Rosco stared. He'd never been good at remembering movie plots, and he'd pulled the title out of some long-retired memory bank assuming the ark meant—well, an ark. “Right …” he now said. “Of course not … I was just using it as an example of the way things work out on the Coast.” He picked up the baseball once more and turned it over in his hand. “You're sharp, Mr. O. Real sharp. But I guess you don't get to be CEO or a multinational without serious smarts … No ark in the
Raiders
movie … Boy, are you ever right about that!” Rosco's eyes wandered back to the windows and the view of the Statue of Liberty sitting serenely in the wide, blue bay. “There's one other little thing I wanted to ask you. I sent my screenwriter down to Princeton a few weeks ago to sit in on your speech … I was hoping he might get a few ideas by listening to you—”

Oclen stiffened immediately. “That talk was closed to the public.”

“I know that. The guy couldn't get in. And man, was he steamed about going all the way down there and coming back empty-handed … It's a boring drive from Boston to Princeton. Anyway, after your presentation ended, he heard that some old coot really laid into you, and that you two shared some pretty fiery words—”

Oclen leaned across the table. “What's that got to do with your movie?”