by Tim Dorsey
Your nine oclock, said Betty.
The Glicks wiped their noses and slid coke drawers shut.
Three unsure young men entered and stood in the center of the room. They all had spiked, gelled hair like the Glicks did last week. They stared at the brothers shaved heads and suffered a loss of nerve.
The Glicks simultaneously checked appointment books, then leaned back in padded European upholstery and folded hands in their laps.
So, you want us to back your independent film, said Ian.
Indies used to be hot, said Mel.
But now theyre ice-cold, said Ian.
Which means theyre just about to get hot again, said Mel. Your timings perfect.
Tell us about it, said Ian.
The young man in the middle timidly stepped forward. Its the story of a
No, said Mel. How much can we make it for?
The young man was off balance. Uh, depends on what you want
We want shit, said Ian.
The young man glanced at his partners, then back at the brothers. Do you know what the storys about?
No, said Mel.
But weve heard good things, said Ian.
How much? asked Mel.
Its hard to say because the story
Does the story have a beginning and an end? asked Ian.
The young man nodded.
Then youre way ahead of the game, said Mel.
You wouldnt believe some of the people we get in here, said Ian.
Its got a beginning and an end, said Mel. So theres your movie. Any problems in between, our indie department will hammer it out.
Indie department?
All the big studios have them now, said Ian. Theyve got that indie feel down to a science.
Produce movies that look ten times more indie than any independent studio, said Mel.
They can even make a movie look like it was shot on a credit card, said Ian.
In fact, that would be better, said Mel. Less expensive. We can make a fifty-thousand-dollar credit-card movie for under three million.
Thats our specialty, said Ian. Costs the other studios at least five.
Its settled, said Mel. Credit-card movie. What else?
Well, because of the tone and texture of the period, we envisioned black-and-white
Black-and-whites cheaper, said Ian. Good thinking.
Looks like you got yourself a picture, said Mel.
We start shooting Thursday, said Ian.
Fourth floor, said Mel, standing up to shake hands. Theyll have your contracts.
But
But what? asked Ian.
We just wanted financing. We were going to make the movie ourselves.
The Glicks looked at each other and laughed.
Tell you what, said Mel. Well make you fourth assistant directors. Wont that be a hoot?
Ian smiled at the young men. Of course, we cant pay you extra for the directing jobs.
In fact, wed rather you didnt go near the set, said Mel. Insurance reasons. You understand.
But
But what? asked Ian.
Me and my friends worked on this script for years. All through college. Its very personal.
Dont worry, said Mel. You wont even recognize it.
But
You want to be in films or not?
Yes, sir, Mr. Glick.
Fourth floor.
The young men shook the brothers hands and hurried out the door.
The Glicks opened their cocaine drawers.
You try to help these kids, said Ian. Sniffle.
Everyone wants to start at the top, said Mel. Sniffle. Nobody wants to pay the dues like we did.
Actually, we started at the top, said Mel.
Right. The dues were much higher up there.
A knock at the door. The drawers closed.
Come in.
Betty: Your nine-thirty
The brothers checked their appointment books. Joey Bucks. Theatrical agent. Shit.
A fiftyish man in a tennis outfit entered. Trim, fit, salt-and-pepper hair combed like Hoffman. He was one of those people who looked like he looked ten years younger. Superconfident stride and an even cockier smile. The Glicks hated his guts.
Great to see you! said Ian, standing and shaking hands.
Missed you at the club, said Joey.
Its this nutty business. All the egos. Like running a preschool.
Tell me about it, said Joey.
They all sat at the same time.
I hear youre doing good, said Mel. That client of yours, Grant? See his face everywhere, on so many magazines, I despise him.
Yeah, hes way too overexposed, said Joey. We just convinced People to do a cover piece on his overexposure.
What can we do for you today? asked Ian.
More like what Im going to do for you, said Joey. He reached in the tennis bag next to his chair, and tossed a pair of eight-by-ten airbrushed casting photos at the brothers desks. Both pictures fell on the floor and the brothers had to stoop. Joey leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. Youll owe me big time for this one.
The brothers studied the head shot: an actress in a soft light with long, sandy hair streaming behind her. It had been taken in front of an exhaust fan. The brothers read the name on the bottom. Natalie Schaaf.
Ian put his photo down. Thanks for bringing her to us.
But right now we dont have any parts, said Mel.
Yes, you do, said Joey.
We really dont, said Ian. Im serious.
So am I, said Joey. You might want to take another look at that photo.
The brothers did. Big deal.
Okay, we looked again, said Ian. We still dont have anything.
You dont recognize her? asked Joey.
The brothers shook their heads.
The party Friday in Bel Air? said Joey. Heard she put on quite an audition.
Mel still didnt recognize the photo. Ian, was this yours?
Joey sprayed Binaca in his mouth. And shes also got a fascinating background. Long family history in law enforcement.
Ian began nodding in defeat. I forgot. We have a small role that just opened up this morning.
Joey stood and grabbed his tennis bag. Always a pleasure doing business with you.
Mel got up and shook hands again. Dont be a stranger.
A final stabbing grin. I have a funny feeling I wont.
He left and closed the door.
God, I hate that prick! said Mel, opening a drawer.
Hes had work done, said Ian, opening his own drawer. You can tell. Around the eyes.
Knock-knock. Betty. Your ten oclock.
Work, work, work. Drawers closed. Their appointment books said: Development.
A young man in jeans entered. Brad. He had a clipboard. Not much to report. Regular mixture of big and small screen. Mostly rehash. Feisty mom brings corporation to knees, feisty amputee loses the Olympics but wins our hearts, an adult has to go back to grade school for some reason, a dramatic comedy based on The South Beach Diet
Tell us about it, said Ian.
But its just a diet book
said Brad.
That sold millions, added Mel.
Couple of treatments, said Brad. The first one opens with the reading of a barons will. Jack Black forced to complete diet or forfeit estate to Ivy League half brother. Courteney Cox as the improbable love interest who inspir
es him to conquer all. Or straight-to-video with the Olsens stealing diet formula from bumbling foreign agents.
What else?
A Victorias Secret movie. A Sports Illustrated swimsuit movie. A very special Botox Christmas.
Thats it?
Well, there is one other thing. I hesitated to bring it up because it still has a lot of problems. But Ive got this feeling
What is it?
He told them.
I love it! said Mel.
You do?
The plots a bit of a stretch, said Ian. I mean, nothing like that could ever happen in real life.
So well cover it up with sex, said Mel. Whos the writer?
Thats the best part, said Brad. Already on staff.
One of our own writers? said Ian.
Better, said Brad. Works in props.
Props?
He stuck it in my mailbox. Brad checked his clipboard. Ford Oelman. Ive had legal take a peek. Looks like we might already own it.
Hows that? said Mel.
Not ethically, said Brad. But wed win in court. Checked the security cameras. He was making notes and corrections on the clock, so we got him on intellectual property.
Brad! said Mel. Youre a genius!
We should give you a big bonus, said Ian.
But were not going to, said Mel. Would fuck up the most-favored-nation clauses in everyones contracts. You understand.
Is this Ford guy working today? asked Ian.
Just saw him, said Brad. Wheeling a guillotine to the Potemkin set.
Mel leaned to his intercom and pressed a button. Betty
** Chapter 8
ST. PETERSBURG
A gold 71 Buick Riviera raced over Tampa Bay on the Gandy Bridge. Pelicans glided alongside the car at window level. Others dive-bombed the water for fish. The Buick reached the causeway on the west end of the span, featuring a coliform beach popular among shitkickers and sub-shitkickers genetically predisposed to Golden Flake chips, lapsed insurance, bottle rockets and Trans Ams with unrepaired fender damage.
The Buick kept going: bait stores, radio towers, Goodwill, a Crab Shack, batting cages and finally what Serge had come for. He made a skidding left into a parking lot on the south side of the road. Old signs with red neon from the Eisenhower years.
Serge jumped out and spread his arms. There she is!
But its just an old dog track, said Coleman.
How can you say that about Derby Lane? He began trotting toward the entrance. Established 1925
Wait up. Coleman stopped and panted as Serge bought tickets. Youve been going a million miles an hour, driving all over the place.
Im on a research roll. Serge handed Coleman his ticket. Ever since I found my hook.
I still dont understand the hook.
I told you. Its a movie about making movies. Works every time. Its like crack in Hollywood.
Sounds vague.
The key to my hook is its vagueness. Ive left room for the studio people to piss on it with their changes. Then its their idea and they fall in love with it.
I got a movie idea, said Coleman.
Go for it.
Remember Planet of the Apes?
A seventies high-water mark.
Get your hands off me, you damn dirty ape!
And?
Thats it.
They went inside.
The only way to research is complete immersion, said Serge, heading up the grandstands. Thats why we have to visit as many Florida movie sites as possible: Ocala, home of The Creature from the Black Lagoon. Levy County, Elviss destination in the hillbilly tour-de-force Follow That Dream. And dont forget Tarpon Springs, which gave us 1953s Beneath the Twelve-Mile Reef, the often-copied-but-never-duplicated tale of a Greek sponge-diving love triangle complicated by a giant killer octopus.
Coleman stopped climbing and grabbed his knees. Serge. I need a break.
Serge looked around. This should be high enough anyway. He took a seat and propped his feet up on the empty chair in front of him. But sometimes studying Floridas film legacy is like searching for a lost city thats been covered by the dust of history. Like the studio that used to be over there.
Coleman sat in the next seat. Where?
Right there. Serge waved an arm over the top of the scoreboard. See all those mangroves on the edge of the water?
Yeah?
Thousands of years ago, the original Floridians lived there and piled up a shell mound. Then, during Prohibition, someone built a speakeasy called the San Remo Club, because the site was so remote. The building was later converted into the headquarters of Sun Haven Studios. It didnt last either.
Why not?
Movies like Hired Wife and Chloe, Love Is Calling. Dont look for them on DVD.
Coleman pointed down at the track and giggled. One of the dogs just went to the bathroom.
Isnt it soothing? said Serge. This is what its about, nothing but Old Florida: venerable race track circling the lagoon, palm trees, freshly mowed infield. But nobody appreciates it anymore
He gestured at the people across the aisle. Just a few triple-A personality types wired to their own doomsday clocks with disaster-filled day planners and family dynamics involving case workers. The people across the aisle turned and looked at Serge. He smiled. I didnt mean you specifically. Or maybe I did. I havent had enough time to chart your demise. Guess what? Babe Ruth and Dizzy Dean posed right down there for advertising photos in 1934, holding the number cards they used before the odds board went electric
The people got up and began walking down the stairs.
Oh, I get it! Serge shouted after them. Go ahead! Run from the past!
I think you hurt their feelings, said Coleman.
That was one of my mini-interventions. Serge placed his hands behind his head and leaned back. Lets just relax and take this in.
Serge jumped up from his seat and moved down to the next one. Coleman got up and scooted over with him.
Serge put his feet up again. It was the golden era when pari-mutuels ruled. Horses, dogs, jai alai, celebrities, elegance. I love coming here.
I didnt know you gambled.
I dont. I hate gambling.
Why?
Because Im good at math. Serge got up and moved over another seat.
Coleman moved with him. But Serge, if youre in such a hurry to visit all these movie places, why are we wasting time here?
Because this grandstand is one of them. Serge moved over again. Its where they shot Carl Reiners intro in the remake of Oceans 11. Except I dont know his exact seat, so I have to sit in all of them. Otherwise, Im just living a lie.
Coleman stood. Im going to place a bet. Serge handed him a quarter. Get me a newspaper.
Coleman came back a few minutes later, Tribune under his arm, walking extra slow not to spill the brimming cups of beer in each hand. He stopped and looked around.
Up here! Serge waved from the top row.
Coleman carefully climbed the stairs and set the cups on the ground. Serge took the newspaper and opened it. What dog did you finally pick?
Coleman took a seat and picked up one of the cups. I only had a few bucks left so I bet on beer.
Its a sure thing. Serge flipped his paper to the metro section and folded it over. Here we go. The Geriatric Rage Roundup.
Coleman had a beer-foam mustache. Whats that?
You know how the rest of the country is worried about the rage phenomenon? Aggressive driving, predatory kids, people going bonkers on airplanes?
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Yeah?
So in Florida, its senior citizens. Everyone makes fun like theyre a bunch of doddering old farts, but nothings further from the truth. I dont know the cause, but they retire to the Sunshine State and turn into killer bees. Super-irritable, attacking everything that moves. They scare the hell out of me.
Coleman took another big sip and wiped his mouth with his shirt. But they seem so nice.
Right up until shits on, said Serge. I see an old person, I cross the street.
I havent had any problems, said Coleman.
Thats because they mostly just fuck with each other. Theres been such an explosion in gray-on-gray crime that Florida newspapers need special roundup boxes to fit it all in. Like this item from West Palm Beach: chairs flying again at a condo meeting. And Sarasota: Police had to clear the shuffleboard courts with tear gas. And Fort Lauderdale: the daily cafeteria meltdown
. Oooo, this was a big one. Forty people involved. Half the retirees ran screaming, the rest jumped in the pile. Broken hips, heart attacks. They triaged in the dining room and took them to five different hospitals
Howd it start?
Cops say some guy in the cafeteria line couldnt make up his mind and got a bowl of Jell-O cubes mashed in his face. Here are the names and conditions and
Oh, my God! Serge dropped the newspaper and took off down the stairs.
Coleman chased after him. What is it?
They ran across the parking lot and jumped in the Buick.
Serge, whats going on?
Serge was busy screeching back onto the causeway and grabbing a cell phone from the glove compartment. He called information, then other numbers. Room 23? Are you sure? He hung up and floored the gas.
** Chapter 9
VISTAMAX STUDIOS
A knock at the door. Betty stuck her head inside. Murrays here.
The brothers were finishing a late lunch. Ian chewed calamari. Send him in.
A balding, middle-aged man with a pencil over his ear approached their desks. He wore a brown tie and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He read from a computer printout with sprocket holes.
Eight forty-two. White tiger escapes
Tiger?
Morning rewrite, said Murray. New African scene. Zebras, too.
The brothers were already feeling ill. The worst part of their day. Updates from the set of All That Glitters.