by Dan Fante
Two of the cars were to go to shops in Beverly Hills to transport their owners, fish experts, and the third was to pick up a guy named Dr. Atwalt at Universal Studios.
After getting Robert at County Jail we drove directly to the store on Little Santa Monica Boulevard and found a frantic lady, Nora Hiramoto, waiting outside at the curb.
Simpson’s gated mansion was on Calle Tu Juevos, back in the mountains above the Beverly Hills Hotel. When we got there the carport looked like an aerial scene from a S.W.A.T. TV episode. Twenty vehicles, among them several limos, but mostly cop cars and emergency trucks with flashing lights, made it impossible for us to get near the home’s entrance. I parked outside on the street, then me and Robert and Nora Hiramoto made our way down the one-acre lawn toward where everyone was gathered at the ninety-foot, Marilyn Monroe-shaped, swimming pool.
I recognized one of the other drivers in a black suit from a competing limo company, Music Excess. We had worked together at concert gigs. His name was Zeke. “Hey, Zeke,” I said. “What’s up? What’s all the commotion?”
“Hey,” he said back. “It’s just goddamn Mr. Winkie. He’s at it again.”
“At what?” I asked. “Who’s Mr. Winkie?”
“Don Simpson. Mr. Nutcase himself. Your customer and our former customer. You’ve got three or four cars here. Right?”
“Right,” I said.
“Mr. Winkie. Jesus, you can have him. I can’t stand the jerkoff.”
“He’s been good for us so far,” I said.
“Just wait,” Zeke said. “You’ll find out. He rides around to studio meetings with the partition up and his pants down smoking meth and talking to his cock, asking it for advice. They have meetings together in the back of the car.”
“C’mon. You’re joking. Right?”
“Straight dope. The dude’s a total squirrel cage. A rich, crazy, meth-sucking asshole. You should hear the stuff he says to his dick.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Forget it. Just trust me. He won’t be your customer for long. You’ll want nothing to do with the guy in a month or so, millions or no millions.”
And there was Simpson in his open bathrobe, a cigarette in one hand and a telephone in the other, his back to the huge koi pond that rimmed the decking of the swimming pool, frantic, screaming into the telephone while simultaneously barking orders to the police and firemen.
According to Zeke the madness had started innocently enough. An hour before, while one of his groundskeepers had been cleaning the koi pond, one of Simpson’s fish had jumped from the guy’s net and fallen into the swimming pool. The little guy had been frolicking in the water with the chlorine and chemicals for over half an hour and death, the panicked Simpson insisted, would be certain and inevitable unless he was rescued.
Dr. Atwalt, the Universal Studios animal curator, had arrived with two rolls of fishnetting. Here was a man of action. Atwalt understood command in an emergency situation. He began barking orders and selected four volunteers from the three dozen bystanders gathered around the pool. The men stepped forward. All firemen. They removed their clothing down to their underwear then descended into the evil, chlorine-filled waters at the deep end of the pool.
The nets were unfurled by Doctor Atwalt and the foursome, now wearing varying colored fins and goggles from Simpson’s pool house, slowly began swimming from the deep end toward the shallow end in an attempt to entrap the eight-inch koi, who still appeared to be having the time of his life.
Ten minutes later the rescue had been a success and Simpson, who’d since managed to tie his bathrobe closed, was shaking hands, passing out cigars and hundred dollar bills, congratulating all concerned.
twenty
Back at the office in the chauffeur’s room, through the window, I could see our driver Marty Humphrey, chain-smoking and guzzling a Big Blast energy drink, waiting to talk to me. He’d had an incident the night before with one of our clients and Rosie let me know that he was very upset and I needed to meet with him immediately.
I entered the chauffeur’s room and closed the door behind me, then turned off the Dodgers game.
“Look,” Marty said, getting to his feet, “I just want to know: Am I fired or not? I need this job. Just tell me if I’m bumped. Yes or no.”
“What happened?” I asked. “I know nothing about this. I just got here. I’ve been chasing fish in a swimming pool all morning.”
“Okay, right. Look, you know that we started driving Jennifer Lopiss, right?”
“Right,” I said. “We got the account from her management company. Damn decent new clients according to Koffman. We drive them in New York.”
“Well, last night after a party in Hollywood, like around two a.m., I was taking Lopiss back to her place above Sunset and she’s in the back of the car talking on her cell most of the ride. Just this and that kinda stuff, but you could tell she was pissed-off at someone. Her manager or an agent or somebody.”
“Okay.”
“So, I didn’t realize that she ended the call. I was doing something else. You know, checking her street address on the GPS. Something. But then she starts yelling at me. “Hey, jerkoff! Whaz your problem? I’m talkin’ to you! Hey, moron, don’t fuckin’ ignore me!’”
“So I look in my rearview mirror and now she’s right behind me on the jump seat. She’s kicking the console with the heels of her pointy boots. Screaming. Going nuts, you know. I mean I’m thinking maybe she’s on dust or speed or something, but I can see she’s doing some real damage to the car.”
“Okay. So what happened?”
“We were on La Cienega. I put the flashers on and pulled over and got out. I walked around to the passenger side and opened the back door. ‘Look,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t hear you. I thought you were talking on your cell. I’m very sorry. But you’ve got to stop kicking the car.’”
“I’d have done the same thing,” I said. “You can’t put up with that stuff. It doesn’t matter who she is.”
“But now she’s completely out of control, calling me bitch and cocksucker and faggot and screaming and all.”
“So…?”
“So I pulled her by the arm out of the car. Then I handed her her purse. I couldn’t think of anything else to do. I left her on the sidewalk and drove off. Right there.”
Marty’s account sounded true and I knew him as a decent guy. Reliable, presentable, and always on time. I was sure that the story had already gotten back to David Koffman and that there would be major problems. “Well,” I said, “as far as I’m concerned you’re clean. You were looking out for company property.”
“But when I come in this morning for my airport run Rosie’s frantic ’n’ all. She got calls from Lopiss’s manager and two different attorneys. Rosie says they’re going to press charges for assault and sue the company for this and that.”
“Spoiled-brat central, pal,” I said. “Welcome to the exciting and glamorous limo business.”
“Look, man, I didn’t hurt the woman. I was trying to do the right thing is all. I just want to know: Will I get fired for what happened? Is my job at risk here?”
“No,” I said, “you’re not fired from this company. Of course I’ll go over the details but if everything you just said is on the money, you and I have no problem. That’s a promise.”
“What about David Koffman? He gets upset. I’ve seen it. He’s pretty picky.”
“I’ll handle David.”
“You mean we’re cool?”
“Just keep doing your job and I’ll straighten this out with Koffman and our attorney and whoever else is hunting your scalp.”
“Thanks, Bruno. I mean really, thank you.”
“You’re a good chauffeur, Marty. Go in and tell Rosie to put you back on the schedule. Tell her I said it’s okay.”
twenty-one
By Friday that week the Malibu shoot with Stedman was over. The director of It Creeps, Mel Kleinman, had been sacked and I was hoping for a week layoff
between locations. That, apparently, was not to be. My Monday morning dispatch instructions were to pick up Ronny at his production office at 9200 Sunset.
I was parked at a meter outside the building when my cell phone rang. It was Ronny’s new secretary Brandi telling me that Mr. Stedman wanted me to come up to the eleventh floor.
When I got off the elevator and walked into the lobby of Hollywood Star Productions, sexy no-bra Brandi asked me to have a seat, then went into Ronny’s office to report my arrival.
I was sure that I’d screwed up but I couldn’t figure out what I’d done. I hated to lose Stedman as a client for Dav-Ko at twelve to fifteen hundred bucks a day. I hadn’t had so much as a beer in over a week and aside from a few vikes and Xanax here and there I was totally clean, so I searched my head for an insult or some off-color wisecrack I’d made but could only think of one incident where I’d told an actress after a bedroom scene that I liked how her thong fit. But that was lightweight snot. Nothing. They hear that stuff all the time. Then I realized Stedman might somehow have heard about the crazy incident with Don Simpson. They were both movie producers. Maybe my remarks by the pool with Zeke about his tweaked-out weirdness in calling the cops and the fire department over a fucking koi fish had been overheard by Snipson himself and had gotten back to Ronny Stedman. This meeting might be retribution for my big mouth.
Brandi appeared again and directed me to step into Stedman’s inner office.
Once inside I took off my chauffeur’s cap and Ronny got up from behind his desk. I prepared myself for a shitstorm.
But Stedman was smiling. Instead of a face-off confrontation I was introduced to the new director of It Creeps, a twenty-five-year-old film school grad named Billy Cohen—a kid with a short Afro sitting across the room on the plum-colored velour couch.
The knot in my stomach went away. Long-legged Brandi wanted to know if we’d all like some coffee.
Then Ronny picked up a stack of manuscripts from his desk and, in a gesture of mock exasperation, tossed three of them in the wastebasket. I saw the title page of the one he was still holding. It was Belly Up, my story collection.
“This fucker is gold,” he barked. “Remember, in the car, I told you that I’d read your stuff. And I did. I kept my word.”
I nodded.
Ronnie went on. “And ‘Santa Monica Pier’ is perfect for a film. Billy read it yesterday and thinks so too. Right, Billy?”
Young Billy nodded approvingly.
“Edgy shit, Bruno,” Stedman went on. “Raw and gut level and in-your-face writing. This is the kind of stuff—L.A. street stuff—that, as a film, just might get hot the way Pulp Fiction got hot. Both Billy and I think raw just might be the new wave in the film business. Know what I’m sayin’?”
“Yeah,” I said, attempting to get my head into the conversation, “I think I know what you’re saying.”
“Billy thinks we can combine three of the stories into a single plotline and pitch it to HBO as a movie or a series. With a little editing, ‘Santa Monica Pier’ and ‘Two Beers’ and ‘Granite Man’ are ONE idea. Ya follow?”
“Okay, I hear you,” I said, now sure that Dav-Ko and a bite out of my ass was not going to be the topic of conversation.
Ronny went on. “The cab driver theme is spot-on. The jaded eye of your main character Ricky is exactly right for someone like Colin Farrell or maybe an older guy like John Travolta.”
Then Billy spoke up. “Or Robert Downey, Jr.,” he chirped. “He’d be great for it too. I know Robert’s agent. We went to Pali High together.”
Stedman pointed at a matching plum chair. “Sit down, Bruno. Let’s talk this idea through.”
I sat down and lit a cigarette.
Then Brandi appeared again, dancing back in with a tray of coffee and pastries.
Stedman’s arms were across his chest. “Hey, do you mind, my man? My office is a smoke-free office.”
I put the smoke out on a brass dish that Brandi provided, then reminded myself that Ronny snorted more blow than almost any of my customers. Absolutely, I thought. Second-hand smoke is poison. The shit kills millions every day.
Now Stedman was grinning again. “So how would you like to be in the film business, my man?”
The question put a knot in my stomach. Brandi passed me my coffee mug and I dumped in two teaspoons of sugar and milk. “I’ve never written anything like a screenplay,” I said finally, tasting the concoction. “It’s not something I’ve even thought about.”
“Not a problem, Brun-issimo! The point is you pick up a copy of Final Draft software and the goddamn program writes the thing for you. It’s a no-brainer, I promise.”
Brandi, in the miniskirt, was leaving the room with her empty coffee tray in hand. Me and Stedman and Billy couldn’t help but watch her exit. After 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 th
at? 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 now I was at the orchid. My nose close to the stinky fucker. “Funny smell,” I said.
“It’s plastic, for chrissake.”
“Oh,” I said, touching one of the fake white blooms. “And it actually looks real. But, you know, it smells funny. A bit like piss.”
Without saying good-bye or shaking Stedman’s hand I began moving toward the door. “Look,” I said. “Let me think all this over. There’s a lot to consider. How about that?”
Stedman appeared puzzled but immediately recovered himself. “Abso-fuckin’-lutely, my man! Give yourself a day or two. The point is, after we have the screenplay—the pages—we get the ball rolling. You write it—we shoot it. No screwing around. Belly Up is now our next project.”
“I hear you,” I said, still backing across the flesh-eating swans toward the door.
“Billy,” Ronny bellowed, “I’m really excited that the three of us will be working together. Aren’t you?”