The Big Bamboo (34 page)

“First, we make them symmetrical.”

“Then they’re not twins.”

“Only one person.”

“She’s a secret agent.”

“We’re talking to Sandra Bullock.”

“What else you got for us in that nutty head of yours?”

They leaned forward again.

“Uh…” Serge checked his notes. “I was thinking a sports movie that’s also chick flick. Like
A League of Their Own
, only—”

“Gender crossover.”

“Genius.”

“The key is to limit the sports…”

“…Then take it out.”

“Just a hint of off-camera sports floating in the background.”

“We’ve heard enough.”

“You’re our man.”

The secretary brought in the contracts. Serge flipped page after long-form page of microscopic print. Section C, Part 2, paragraph vii…

Serge shook his head in disbelief. “So it’s true.”

“What’s true?”

“I’d heard about these clauses, but I thought someone was pulling my chain. They really do exist.”

“What are you talking about?”

“These right here,” said Serge. “Where you reserve certain residuals
from the beginning to the end of time
.”

“In case they make time machines…”

“
On this world or any other
,” read Serge.

“In case we colonize Mars…”

“
In the known or unknown existence
.”

“You never know.”

“This really is serious?” said Serge. “You don’t see the humor?”

“What do you mean?”

Serge began writing in the margins. “I need to make some changes…”

They read over Serge’s new terms, then stood and shook hands. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“Welcome aboard.”

“Any questions?”

“Yeah.” Serge pulled a prescription bottle from his pocket. “You got a wastebasket?”

“This is Greta Van Susteren and welcome back to
On the Record
, where our distinguished panel continues its gavel-to-gavel coverage of the Ally Street murder case. Just before our break, we witnessed the defense’s first news conference. Gloria Allred, your reaction?”

“I’m still stunned. Is he working for the prosecution?”

“Geoffrey Fieger?”

“Sure, it’s a shaky start. But at least he understands these things need to be tried in the media.”

“Let’s take another look at that tape.
”

Noon. Courthouse steps.

A head with receding hair poked up from behind a bank of fifty microphones. He tapped one. “Are these things on?”

“Go ahead!”

“As you know, I represent Ford Oelman, who has been viciously smeared by a police department attempting to try this case on the courthouse steps. Not only am I prepared to establish my client’s innocence beyond all doubt, but in just a few days I will produce the real killers. We’re looking for a devil-worshipping Indonesian heroin syndicate in a brown van walking a dog—”

“What about the panties?” yelled a reporter.

“What panties?”

“The ones found in your client’s car.”

“You sure?”

“They found them with his cell phone traced to the ransom calls.”

“I’m going to have to ask him about that.”

“What about the hundreds of court filings against the studio?”

“That’s an easy one,” said Rodney. “I filed those for him.”

“He asked you to?”

“Well, yeah…”

“So it’s true?” “What is?” “That he was bent on revenge.” “Who said that?” “You did.” “Wow,” said Rodney. “That doesn’t sound good.”

Mel was on the phone.

“You what!”

“Signed him to a contract! Isn’t that great?” said the muscular development agent. “You’ll love the terms. We were able to pay him less than our usual low in exchange for certain provisos he requested.”

“You weren’t supposed to sign him to shit!”

“Thought that’s what you wanted. Said you were high on him.”

“Favor for the in-laws. But now they can connect him to us!”

“The in-laws can connect him?—”

“Shut up! You have no idea what you’ve just done!…Hold a sec…”

Ian was whispering, motioning his brother to cover the phone. “This could actually help.”

“How can it possibly help?”

“Remember we were trying to figure how to get two million dollars out of the company without you-know-who in Japan finding out? Said not to pay a dime?”

“So?”

“It’s the perfect legit write-off, and the two bozos in development are our beards. We bury it deep in the books.”

“Of course!” Mel uncovered the phone. “I’ve changed my mind. You did a fantastic job landing this guy.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Found out he was about to go to a competitor. As a matter of fact, I want you to increase the deal. Two million dollars. Nonrefundable advance for an exclusive five-picture deal.”

“Two million! No newcomer gets that.”

“Do it.” He hung up.

“Now we just have to make sure word of the deal doesn’t get out,” said Ian.

“If you-know-who…”—Mel looked west—“…It’s sayonara.”

“I’ll get ahold of publicity. Tell them none of the regular releases to the trades.”

“And tell development it’s hush-hush—we’re trying to land Nicholson.”

“We’ll pay them cash. I’ll go to the bank this afternoon and fill the briefcase.”

“Cash?”

“Shortens the paper trail. Fewer eyes in accounting the better.”

“And we definitely don’t want those psychos coming by the studio to pick up a check.”

“No kidding.”

“That about does it. There’s no possible way this can leak.”

“Jesus! Can you imagine if it did?”

The brothers broke up laughing.

HOLLYWOOD—In a stunning announcement, Vistamax Studios has paid an unprecedented $2 million advance to an unknown screenwriter with no previous credits to his name.

Anonymous sources close to the negotiations say the contract was inked with Floridian Serge A. Storms based upon the strength of several plot synopses, including what is being described as a career vehicle for Sandra Bullock.

Publicists for the actress said they were unaware of the proposed role for their client but welcomed the publicity.

The normally frugal Vistamax (see related story) also made other unheard-of concessions to prevent Mr. Storms from signing with rival Warner Brothers, including distribution rights to several of the outer planets and certain periods of history.

“Yes, it’s unusual, but this is a franchise player,” said one studio insider. “We don’t lightly hand over Neptune and the Dark Ages.”

Reached in Japan, a Vistamax board member responded to the news with unintelligible shouting before the line went dead.

Observers say the otherwise reclusive Glick brothers had been seen personally courting Mr. Storms for some time, although the intense negotiations almost collapsed last week during a heated argument in the Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel.

“I’ve never seen anyone talk to the Glicks that way,” said one of the hotel’s waiters. “We almost had to throw them out. And he took a bunch of our matchbooks.”

Besides a volatile temper, little else is know about the mysterious newcomer. “I do remember one thing,” added the waiter. “He seemed to be an Eagles fan.”

Reached in San Simeon, the Eagles’ publicist said he had never heard of Mr. Storms, but thanked Eagles fans in general, especially those who preorder the new box set.

HOLLYWOOD—In light of recent developments in the Ally Street kidnapping case, acclaimed director Werner B. Potemkin has decided to resume shooting his ambitious epic All That Glitters.

A leaked copy of the shooting schedule shows the director now plans to go forward with the grand climax of the film and push the already record budget at least $25 million higher, not including settlements from pending wrongful-death actions.

The revelation drew strong charges of insensitivity from the entertainment press, who further speculated that Potemkin was secretly planning to write Ms. Street’s part out of the movie’s final scenes.

“Categorically not,” said a Potemkin spokesman. “Despite what the police are saying, we have every hope that Ally will be found alive in time to rejoin the cast before we wrap. That scene where we killed her off with a body double was just for the insurance company.”

Four A.M. It started like any other Final Day. A rented Chrysler sat at the curb on Fairfax. Serge and Coleman sat in a curved corner booth inside the restaurant.

“Serge, I feel like crap. Why’d you get me up so early?”

“Because it’s the Final Day. You have to get a jump.”

Coleman unfolded a large laminated menu. “The Final Day?”

“Everything comes to a head. Loose ends tied up. Justice rendered.”

“But how do you know it’s the Final Day.”

“You just know. Like when you’re in a theater watching a movie. At a certain point you look at your watch and get a gut feeling they’re about to wrap it up.”

“Or when you’re reading a book?” said Coleman. “And there are just a few pages left?”

“Or that.”

“Serge?”

“What?”

“I don’t understand this menu. It’s got too many words.”

“It’s Canter’s.” Serge made a squeaking sound rubbing a finger along the dark orange vinyl. “The menu’s part of the experience, like trying to crack the Dead Sea Scrolls. God, I love this place!”

“I got a hangover.”

“Breakfast will cure that. It’s the most important meal of the day, especially the Final Day.”

A waitress as old as the restaurant came by with Serge’s coffee. She opened her menu pad. Serge opened his notepad.

“Are you ready to order yet?”

“No, but I’ve got some questions. Which wall did Nicholas Cage shatter the ketchup bottle against?”

“I don’t know. I just work here.”

“He was trying to impress a date,” said Serge, spooning ice from his water into the coffee. “But he got thrown out for that stunt. Good for you!
Raising Arizona
doesn’t mean you can go through life slinging condiments.”

“You want me to come back?”

“I think we’re ready.” Serge chugged his coffee and raised the plastic menu. “Coleman, you know what you want?”

“What’s lox?”

“Liquid oxygen,” said Serge.

“I’ll come back…”

“No, I’ll order for both of us.” Serge snatched the menu from Coleman, folding it along with his own. “He’ll have the corned beef, and I’ll get the matzo balls with a double side of bacon.” He handed the menus to the waitress. “And a refill on the coffee when you get a chance.”

She left in no-nonsense shoes.

Serge leaned over his notebook and clicked a pen.

Coleman popped a beer under the table. “How does the Final Day start?”

“That’s what I’m working on.” Serge scribbled. “It’s very intricate. Timing has to be absolutely perfect. First, we run by the police department and Vistamax, then head back to our hotel…”

“But, Serge, we already checked out.”

“I know. We have to swing by to pick up our tail from Alabama.”

“Aren’t we supposed to
lose
tails?”

“Not on the Final Day,” said Serge. “Otherwise they won’t know how to get to the studio. They should be arriving any minute for their stakeout.”

Coleman pointed across the dining room toward a thumping sound. “What’s that section over there? Looks like they serve alcohol.”

“The Kibitz Room. Added in 1961 with live music. Tiny dive with an old Hebrew sign, which is why it’s so cool to see all these famous acts drop by for impromptu sets.”

“Like who?”

“Like Slash. He used to work at a newsstand up the street.”

“From Guns N’ Roses?”

“Another cool thing about L.A.,” said Serge. “You walk up to a newsstand: ‘I’d like a
USA Today
and some gum and…Hey, Slash! Didn’t recognize you. Welcome to the jungle. When’s the new album?’”

Food came. Coffee topped off.

Serge continued writing in his notebook. “…And we do that, and then this happens, which leads to this—mental note to bring extra ammo there…and then that…”

“Look at the size of this sandwich.” Coleman removed the cellophane toothpick. “Someone must be stoned back there.”

Serge entered the brass-tacks zone, time-motion efficiency, eating with his left hand, jotting with his right, coffee gulps. Faster and faster, quickly filling several pages with small, tightly spaced print. Finally, he reached the end.

“…And then the credits roll.” Serge smiled with fulfillment and clicked his pen shut. He looked at his wristwatch. “Damn. We’re behind schedule. The planes start landing any minute at LAX.” He stood and threw currency on the table.

Predawn darkness at the terminal, employees with photo-badges arriving, some kind of maintenance vehicle with a blinking yellow light in the fog. All the coffeepots going in the cafés. A skycap smoked on the sidewalk in front of Delta.

Flights started trickling in from the runways. An international red-eye, a private Lear.

The Lear taxied to an executive terminal. Six large men with Dixie drawls and blood allegiance to the Southeastern Football Conference sat quietly with automatic weapons in their laps. The plane taxied to a waiting limo. The men piled in.

The limo exited the tarmac behind the international airside, where six large Japanese men had just cleared Customs and marched with silent purpose for their own limo waiting outside Baggage Claim.

Ian and Mel arrived early at Vistamax.

“Did you count it?” asked Mel.

Ian set the briefcase on his desk. “Twice. It’s all there.”

“When do we make the handoff?”

“Said he’d call.”