Get Shorty: A Novel cp-1

by Elmore Leonard

  But it was weird—hearing that line again.

  When she first read it she said to Harry, “You’ve got to be kidding.” It was his line, he was always rewriting, sticking in additional dialogue. Harry said, “Yeah, but it works. You hear the roof being torn off, you look up and say to the guy, ‘Maybe it’s only the wind.’You know why?”

  “Because I’m stupid?”

  “Because you want it to be the wind and not that fucking maniac up there. It may sound stupid, but what it does, it gives the audience a chance to release nervous laughter.”

  “At my expense,” Karen said.

  And Harry said, “You going to sulk? It’s entertainment, babe. It’s a put-on, the whole business of making pictures. You ever catch yourself taking it seriously you’re in trouble.”

  Karen recited the line. It got a laugh and a picture that cost four hundred thousand to make grossed over twenty million worldwide. She told Harry it was still schlock. He said, “Yeah, but it’s my schlock. If it does-n’t make me famous, at least it can make me rich.”

  She might ask Harry in the morning, “Who’s taking it seriously now?” Harry dreaming of a twenty-million-plus production he’d never get off the ground. And a star he’d never sign. With or without her help.

  She might ask him, “Remember I told you last night about a picture I’ve been offered?” After a seven-year layoff. She had expected Harry to at least be curious, show some interest. “You remember I wanted to talk about it and all you said was ‘Yeah? Great’?”

  Now she was the one taking it seriously, standing on the upstairs landing in her T-shirt . . . listening, beginning to see the stairway and the foyer below as a set.

  It would be lighted to get eerie shadows and she would have on a see-through nightie rather than a T-shirt. She hears a sound and calls out softly, “Harry? Is that you?” She starts down the stairs and stops as a shadow appears in the foyer, a moving shadow coming out of the study. She calls again, “Harry?” in a stupid, tentative voice knowing goddamn well it isn’t Harry. If it’s a Zig shadow, now the maniac appears, looks up, sees her. A Zag shadow is followed by a gross, oversized mutation. Either one, she stands there long enough to belt out a scream that will fill movie theaters, raise millions of goose bumps and make Harry a lot of money.

  Karen cleared her throat. It was something she always did before the camera rolled. Cleared her throat and took a deep breath. She had never screamed for the fun of it because it wasn’t fun. After only three takes—Harry’s limit—her throat would be raw.

  The house was so quiet.

  She was thinking, Maybe do one, hang it out there for about five beats. See what happens.

  And in almost the same moment heard Harry’s voice coming from the study.

  “We gonna sit here all night?”

  Now she heard a faint murmur of voices, Harry’s and another voice, but not the words, Harry carrying on a conversation with someone who had walked in her house, or broken in. You could take that seriously. Now she heard Harry’s voice again, unmistakably Harry.

  “Yeah? What’s it about?”

  Those familiar words.

  A question she heard every day when they were living together and Harry got her involved in story development because he hated to read. What’s it about? Never mind a script synopsis, coverage to Harry meant giving him the plot in three sentences, fifty words or less.

  Karen went back through the bedroom to the bathroom and turned the light on. She stared at herself in the mirror as she took a minute to run a comb through her hair.

  What’s it about? . . . It’s what Hollywood was about. Somebody making a pitch.

  5

  While they were still in the other room, the study, getting ready to come out here, Harry said to him, “You’re Chili? . . . I don’t think I caught your last name.”

  Chili told him it was Chili Palmer and saw Harry give him that look. Oh? Like he was wondering what the name was before somebody changed it.

  They were in the kitchen now. It was as big as the kitchen in the Holmhurst Hotel, Atlantic City, where he had washed dishes a couple of summers when he was a kid, back before they tore the place down to make a parking lot. The fifth of Dewar’s, what was left of it, and a tray of ice were on the butcher-block table. There were all kinds of pots and pans hanging from a rack right above them. He saw Harry, who was sitting at the end of the table facing the door to the hall, look up as he was about to take a drink and stop.

  Harry said, “Karen?” sounding surprised. He took the drink then and said, “Karen, say hello to Chili Palmer. Dick Allen sent him. You remember Dick, at Mesas? Chili, this is Karen Weir.”

  “Flores,” Karen said.

  “That’s right,” Harry said, “you changed it back.”

  Chili had been telling his movie idea until this interruption, which he didn’t mind at all, a chance to meet Karen Flores. He sat with his arms resting on the table, looking past his shoulder now at Karen in the doorway, the hall behind her dark. She looked smaller in real life than in movies, about five-two and no more than ninety-nine pounds. She was still good looking, but where was all the blond hair? And the boobs he remembered as big ones for her slim figure. He nodded, saying to her, “Karen, it’s a pleasure. How you doing?”

  She didn’t say anything, looking at him as if trying to figure out if she knew him. Or she was giving him a pose, standing there with her arms folded in a Los Angeles Lakers T-shirt that came down just past her crotch and was like a little minidress on her. Middle of the night, never saw him before in her life—she could be on the muscle without showing it. Her legs were nice and tan.

  Harry was telling her, “Chili’s the one called you the other day. He says just from talking to you on the phone he had a feeling I’d show up here sooner or later. You imagine that?”

  Harry seemed in a better mood since coming out here to get ice and they sat down with their drinks, Harry more talkative. Listening to the movie idea he kept sticking his own ideas in.

  Chili straightened, touched the front of his jacket to smooth it down. He thought of getting up but now it was too late. He liked the way Karen kept looking right at him without appearing nervous or emotional, putting on any kind of act. No, this was her. Not anything like Karen the screamer facing the maniac with a butcher knife or seven-foot rats or giant ticks gorged on human blood. He liked her hair, the way it was now, thick and dark, hanging down close to one eye. He noticed how thin her neck was and took a few more pounds off, got her down to around ninety-five. He figured she was now up in her thirties, but hadn’t lost any of her looks to speak of.

  “He’s telling me an idea for a movie,” Harry said. “It’s not bad, so far.” He motioned with his glass. “Tell Karen, let’s see what she thinks.”

  “You want me to start over?”

  “Yeah, start over.” Harry looked at Karen again. “Why don’t you sit down, have a drink?”

  Chili watched her shake her head.

  “I’m fine, Harry.”

  He liked her voice, the quiet way she spoke. She was looking at him again, curious, doing a read.

  “How did you get in the house?”

  “The door from the patio, in back.”

  “You broke in?”

  “No, it was open. I mean it wasn’t locked.”

  “What if it was?”

  That was a good question. He didn’t have to answer it though, Harry saying, “He works for Dick Allen. Got sent here to check up on me.”

  Karen said, “Oh,” and nodded. “That makes it all right to walk in my house.”

  Chili didn’t say anything. He liked the way she was handling it. If she was pissed off you couldn’t tell.

  “He knew I was gonna turn up here,” Harry said, “just from talking to you on the phone.”

  “Why, what did I say?”

  “Something about your voice. It was a feeling he had, a hunch. You want to hear his idea?”

  Chili watched her. His feeling now was Kare
n’d say no and tell him to get the hell out of her house. But she didn’t say anything. Or Harry didn’t give her a chance.

  “It’s about a guy,” Harry said, “who scams an airline out of three hundred grand. Go on, tell her.”

  “You just did.”

  “I mean the way you told it to me. Start at the beginning, we see how the story line develops.”

  “Well, basically,” Chili said, “this guy owes a shylock fifteen thousand, plus he’s a few weeks behind on the vig, the interest you have to pay, on account of he doesn’t have it. The guy runs a drycleaner’s but spends everything he makes at the track.”

  Chili could see Harry ready to cut in and let him.

  “You understand what he means,” Harry said. “The guy borrowed money from a loan shark. It’s the kind of situation, you don’t pay you get your legs broken.”

  “Or the guy thinks he could get ’em broken,” Chili said. “You have to understand the loan shark’s in business the same as anybody else. He isn’t in it looking for a chance to hurt people. He’s in it to make money. You go to him, you understand that, you’re gonna pay him every week. You don’t like that idea, you don’t have any business going to him.”

  Karen said, “Yeah?” Telling him to go on.

  “But you don’t make your payments,” Harry said, “you can get your legs broken, or worse.”

  “It can happen,” Chili said, looking at Karen, “but it’s not, you know, the usual way. Maybe once in a while you hear about it.”

  “If the guy doesn’t think it’s gonna happen to him,” Harry said, “you don’t have a story. That’s the only reason he gets on the plane, he’s scared to death, he’s running for his life.”

  “That’s right,” Chili said, “the guy’s scared. I just meant he wouldn’t necessarily get his legs broken in that kind of situation, a few weeks behind. The guy doesn’t know any better, so he gets on the plane.”

  “This’s Miami,” Harry said. “He’s going to Vegas. He’s got a few bucks and he’s thinking maybe it’s his only chance.”

  “He gets on the plane,” Chili said, watching Karen’s eyes come back to him, “ready to go, and the plane sits there at the gate, doesn’t move. They announce over the PA there’s some kind of mechanical problem, they’ll be there maybe an hour, but keep your seats in case they get it fixed sooner. The guy’s nervous, in no shape to just sit there, sweat it out. So he gets off the plane, goes in the cocktail lounge and starts throwing ’em down, one after the other. He’s in there when the plane takes off . . .”

  “Without him,” Harry said. “The guy’s so out of it he doesn’t even know it’s gone.”

  “That’s right,” Chili said. “As a matter of fact, he’s still in the cocktail lounge when he hears people talking about a plane crash. But the shape he’s in, he doesn’t find out right away it’s the plane he was on. It didn’t gain altitude on account of something to do with the wind and went down in the Everglades, the swamp there, and exploded. Killed everybody aboard, a hunnerd and seventeen people counting the crew. Then when the guy finds out it was his flight, he can’t believe it. If he’d stayed on that plane he’d be dead. Right then he knows his luck has changed. If everybody thinks he’s dead he won’t have to pay back the fifteen or what he owes on the vig, four and a half a week. He’d be saving himself a pile of dough.”

  Karen was about to say something, but Harry beat her.

  “Not to mention saving his ass.”

  She said to Chili, “The interest is four hundred and fifty a week on fifteen thousand?”

  “That’s right. Three percent.”

  “But a week,” Karen said. “That’s a hundred and fifty percent a year.”

  “A hunnerd and fifty-six,” Chili said. “That’s not too bad. I mean some’ll charge you more’n that, go as high as six for five on a short-term loan.”

  He watched her shrug without unfolding her arms.

  “What the guy does,” Chili said, “is look in the Herald for his name on the list of victims. See, the way the plane exploded and went down in the swamp, they’re not only having trouble identifying bodies, they can’t find ’em all. Or a lot of ’em, they find like just parts of bodies, an arm . . . Others, they’re burned beyond recognition. So when the guy doesn’t see his name in the paper right away, he has his wife call the airline and say her husband was on that flight. What they do, they bring her out to the airport where they’re identifying bodies and going through personal effects, whatever wasn’t burned up. See, the guy’s bags were on the plane. Oh, the bodies they keep in refrigerated trucks right there in the hangar. They don’t show the wife any bodies, they tell her to get her husband’s dental chart from his dentist. She says Leo hasn’t been to a dentist for as long as they’re married. The guy’s name is Leo, Leo Devoe.”

  Karen moved to lean against the doorjamb and Chili noticed she was barefoot. He wondered if she wore anything under that T-shirt she slept in.

  “So what the wife does, she identifies stuff from Leo’s bags. Tells ’em what to look for and there it is, his monogrammed shirts, what kind of razor he used, things only she would know about. So Leo’s identified and gets his name in the paper. A couple days go by, people from the airline come to see the wife, tell her how sorry they are and all and offer her a settlement, the amount based on what he would’ve earned operating the drycleaner’s the rest of his life. Leo had some kind of trouble with his kidneys, so they were giving him about ten years.”

  “Yeah, but wait,” Harry said. “The best part, the guy hadn’t even thought about a settlement, he’s so happy to get out from under the shylock. All of a sudden he realizes he can sue the airline, go for at least a million. It’s the loser’s grandiose dream, see, but now he’s pressing his luck . . .”

  Karen said, “How much is the wife offered? . . .”

  Chili started to tell her as Harry said, “Three hundred grand, and they take it, money in the hand, babe. The guy has his wife cash the check and he takes off for Las Vegas with the dough. Gets there, he’s supposed to call her, tell her when to come out . . . Wait, he does call her a couple of times.”

  “Twice,” Chili said. “Basically stringing her along.”

  “After that, nothing,” Harry said. “She never hears from him again. Meanwhile, the guy’s hot.

  Runs the three hundred grand up to almost half a million . . .”

  “He comes to L.A.,” Chili said, and stopped as Harry raised his hand.

  “It drives the guy nuts, he’s winning but can’t tell anybody who he is. You show in a back story his motivation, his desire to be famous, pal around with celebrities, the headliners doing the big rooms. Now he’s got the dough to buy his way in, mix with celebs and he can’t resist the temptation. Even if it means he’s liable to be revealed as a fraud, and very likely shot dead by the shylock, he makes up his mind to go for it. Where else but Hollywood. That wouldn’t be a bad title, Go for It.” Harry said all this to Karen. Now he looked at Chili again. “So, he comes to L.A . . . .”

  “I don’t know about his wanting to meet celebrities,” Chili said, “that’s something new. But, yeah, he comes to L.A. Then, after that, I don’t know what happens.”

  He saw Karen waiting. She seemed patient, moved only that one time. He turned his head to see Harry looking at him, Harry saying after a moment, “That’s it? That’s your great idea for a movie?”

  “I said I had an idea, that’s all.”

  “That’s half a movie, with holes in it.” Harry looked at Karen. “Maybe forty minutes of screen time.”

  Karen said, “How did you know Harry was here?”

  Like that, getting back to it.

  “His car’s in the garage,” Chili said.

  “You called, that was four days ago. How did you know he’d be here this evening?”

  “I’ve been stopping by. See if there’s a gray ’83 Mercedes around with ZIGZAG on the license plate.”

  “So you walked in. What if all the doors
were locked?”

  “I would’ve rung the bell.”

  “Hey, it’s okay,” Harry said. “The guy’s a friend of Dick Allen’s. He’s not gonna take anything.”

  “It might be okay with you,” Karen said. “What you’re doing, Harry, you’re bringing your dirty laundry into my house and I don’t want it.”

  Chili felt she was going to keep talking but Harry moved in saying he should’ve rung the bell. Why didn’t he? Chili said he wanted to surprise him, catch him with his pants down, so to speak. A little humor there. Nobody laughed though or even smiled. Karen asked, what if she had called the police? Chili told her Harry would’ve explained to them it was okay, just like he explained it to her now. She stared at him and he stared back at her until Harry told him, well, anyway, he had the beginning of an idea but it was full of holes.

  “In the first place,” Harry said, “it’s not believable the wife would get a settlement that fast. From an insurance company? Without them checking her out?”

  “They did,” Chili said. “I didn’t tell you all the details, how nervous she was about it and all.”

  “Harry doesn’t realize it’s a true story,” Karen said.

  They were both looking at her now.

  “That Miami flight that went down in the Everglades, it was on the news every day for about a week, covering the investigation, interviews with witnesses, relatives of the victims from around here . . . Harry was busy.”

  Chili caught the tone. So she knew about Harry’s problems, but wasn’t exactly crying over them.

  Harry was squinting, as if to get his memory to work, saying, “Yeah, on the news . . .” and then turning to Chili. “That’s where you got the idea.”

  “Part of it, yeah.”

  “And you made up the rest.”

  “No, it’s all true, Harry, everything I told you.” This got him squinting again. Chili could see his mind working. He expected to hear from Karen, but Harry was staying with it.