Get Shorty: A Novel cp-1

by Elmore Leonard

  “You had the money in your hand?”

  “Take it easy, Harry.” The guy looked like he might go berserk. “I didn’t have to tell you, ’cause it isn’t any your business, is it? But I did. Okay, so forget it.”

  “Three hundred thousand.” Now he was shaking his head, still not looking too stable. “I don’t know what good you’re doing me.”

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  “I don’t raise money for you, Harry, that was never in the deal.”

  “What deal? I’d like to know what you do for me.

  “You telling me you’d use Leo’s money? Take a chance of him getting picked up—’cause he will, I know it. The first thing he’d do then is try and lay it on us, the whole con, and throw his wife in too.”

  Harry, staring straight ahead now, didn’t say anything. He looked uncomfortable, his suit too tight for him.

  Chili got out and held the door open as Karen approached the car. He couldn’t tell anything by her expression. When she got close to him, before ducking inside, she said, “The visual fabric of the theme? You might just make it, Chil.”

  He got in back. Harry started the car but didn’t move, looking at Karen. “You want to tell me what that was about?”

  “Elaine’s going to call Michael,” Karen said. “If he shows enough interest and you have the script revised, she’ll put it into development.”

  “Fucking studios,” Harry said, “they can’t give you a simple yes or no, they have to intrigue it up. Why’d she tell you that and not me?”

  “That wasn’t why she asked me to stay,” Karen said, and paused and said in a quieter tone, “Elaine offered me a job.”

  Harry squinted at her. “As what?”

  “Production exec. Maybe vice-president in a year.”

  Harry said, “Jesus Christ, I don’t believe it.”

  Chili reached over the seat to touch Karen’s shoulder. He said, “Nice going,” and just for a second she laid her cheek against his hand.

  21

  The last person Catlett would ever imagine having a tender feeling toward was Marcella, the woman that kept the limo service going. But he had one today. Walked in from the garage through the working office where Marcella looked up from her computer to say, “Mr. Zimm has been trying to get hold of you,” and Bo Catlett wanted to hug her.

  He said, “You don’t mean to tell me.”

  “He didn’t leave a message. He’ll call back.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know, but he sure called a buncha times,” this big doll in her pink outfit and pink-frame glasses said. Just then the phone rang on Marcella’s desk. He watched her pick it up and say, “Wingate Motors Limited,” dainty for a woman her size, the way she moved, the way she held her fifty-year-old head of golden hair. He had never noticed this before. Marcella said, “Yes, Mr. Catlett’s here. Just a moment, please.” Looked at him and nodded and this time he wanted to kiss her.

  He took it in Ronnie’s office, feet up on the desk, ankles crossed, looking at his shiny Cole-Haan

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  loafers as he said, “Harry, I was thinking of calling you, man. How you doing?”

  Harry said just great. The way he always did, sitting on the other side of this desk times before, here to ask for investment money—oh, everything was just great— though he did happen to have a few points left over if they wanted in. A few points meaning half the budget for the movie. In financial shit up to his chin, no doubt as he was at this moment, Harry was just great.

  “We got a deal going at Tower . . .”

  “On Mr. Lovejoy?”

  “They’re extremely high on it.”

  “I hear you got Michael Weir.”

  “Boy, this town. Word gets around, doesn’t it?”

  “So how can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for a little working capital.”

  “Like how much?”

  “Couple hundred.”

  “What’s wrong with using the money we put in Freaks?”

  “That’s in escrow, I can’t touch it.”

  Meaning the man had spent it. So for the time being Catlett resigned himself to forget it. Move on to bigger things.

  “You offering a participation in Lovejoy?”

  “A small one, considering it’s a twenty-milliondollar shoot, minimum. Maybe twenty-five.”

  “So we’re talking about like one percent.”

  “Around there.”

  “Or less.”

  “Tell me what you want,” Harry said. “Let’s see if we can work it out.”

  Listen to him. Cool for a man who was desperate or wouldn’t have picked up the phone. “I was about to call you, Harry.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Tell you how much I like Lovejoy.”

  “You read it?”

  “I think so much of it, man, I’m prepared to make you a deal you might not believe. But I also want to participate actively. You understand what I’m saying? I want to work on the movie with you, be part of it, man.”

  “I’d like to know where you got hold of a script.”

  “Harry, let’s me and you meet someplace and have a drink. I’ll tell you how you can put your hands on a hundred and seventy thousand and you won’t have to give me any points or pay interest on it. You pay me back at your convenience. How’s that sound?”

  “You serious?” Harry said.

  No mention now of the script.

  “Where you want to meet?” Catlett asked him.

  “I don’t care,” Harry said. “Where do you?”

  After going around on that Catlett called the Bear, named a restaurant and asked him to be there in half an hour. When Catlett left, going out through the working office where Marcella the pink woman sat behind her computer, he wondered what it was like to go to bed with a woman you would never think of going to bed with, if it was different.

  A Mexican in a white busboy coat and crummy-looking pants brought drinks to them on Karen’s patio. She sounded different, so polite saying, “Thank you, Miguel. I’ll see you tomorrow.” The Mexican didn’t say anything. He was bowlegged and had big gnarled hands on him. After Miguel went in the house Karen said, “Would you think he’s only in

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  his forties? He’s been a migrant farm worker all his life. He came by one day asking to do yard work and I hired him as my houseman.”

  Chili sipped his drink and said, “Jesus, I don’t think he put any tonic in this. It’s good though.”

  “Miguel’s learning,” Karen said, and looked up at the trees. “It’s nice out here, isn’t it? This is my favorite time of the day.”

  She sounded different this evening. Neither of them said anything for a minute or so, looking at the trees and the sky changing color. It reminded Chili a little of sitting with Fay as it got dark and they waited for Leo to come home; except Leo and Fay didn’t have a swimming pool. He had thought they were waiting for Harry—the plan, to go out to dinner—till Karen said Harry had already stopped by. Changed his mind, made a phone call and left. Still upset about the meeting, among other things.

  Chili took the “among other things” to mean him. “He doesn’t think I’m doing anything for him.”

  Karen turned to look at him. “Are you?”

  “What’s he want? I’ll do it.”

  “He wants Michael . . . But listen,” Karen said, “the way Harry’s acting, that’s his personality. To help him, you first have to break through this barrier he sets up—doing it his way, the independent producer, nobody knows anything but him. His last three pictures might’ve broken even, but didn’t do nearly as well as his early stuff. I tried to tell him. You know why? You haven’t kept up. If you’re going to do low budget exploitation you either have to go much heavier on the special effects, or you have to get outrageously campy, make pictures like Assault of the Killer Bimbos, Surf Nazis Must Die, Space Sluts in the Slammer—they’re so bad they’re fun. Or, you have to approach horro
r in a new and different way, like Near Dark, that I think is brilliant. A love story about a guy who falls for a vampire. But there’s not one scene in a dark empty castle, the vampire dressed like Fred Astaire in white tie and tails. These are raunchy vampires; they roam around this flat, empty farmland out west in a station wagon looking for blood, hurrying to get what they need and stay out of the sun or they’ll catch fire and burn up. It shows what it’s really like to be a vampire,” Karen said. “And I couldn’t get Harry to go see it.”

  Chili sipped his vodka and not much tonic, glad Harry wasn’t here, comfortable in the cushioned patio chair, more impressed by Karen every time he talked to her. She wasn’t anything like Fay, but she’d understand Fay and could play her in a minute.

  “You know all that stuff,” Chili said. “I don’t mean just what movies are about, but other things, the business.”

  “I’ve been out here fifteen years and I pay attention,” Karen said. “Harry’s upset, and one of the reasons is my being offered a studio job. He said, ‘I don’t believe it,’ because he still thinks of me as the girl he hired with nice tits and a great scream. My dad teaches quantum physics at a university and my mother’s a real estate broker, has her own company and is incredibly successful; she has a super business mind. I’m not saying I follow after either one of them exactly, but I did-n’t come into the world on a bus to L.A. I have a background. I know more about the film industry now than Harry does because I keep up, I know what’s going on and I have good story sense. Elaine knows that, it’s why she wants to hire me.”

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  “You gonna take the job?”

  “I’m thinking about it,” Karen said. “Meanwhile, poor Harry’s off trying to raise money, so he can hire a writer . . .”

  Chili paused, about to sip his drink.

  “. . . and get deeper in debt. That’s where he went, to talk to his investors.”

  Chili said, “You mean the limo guys?”

  “I know it’s the same ones he’s been trying to avoid. I said, ‘Harry, you told me you’ve been dying to get out from under them,’ and he said he didn’t have a choice.”

  “He went to their office?”

  “No, they’re meeting somewhere . . . Tribeca, it’s on Beverly Drive.”

  Chili put his drink down. “Can we have dinner there?”

  Karen said, “If you’d like,” and stared at him for maybe ten seconds before she said, “Harry’s a big boy,” and continued to stare as if wanting him to say something. “Isn’t he?”

  Chili got up. He said, “You ready?”

  They were in the big corner booth upstairs at Tribeca, Catlett, Harry, now the Bear sliding in and Catlett had to stop what he was saying to introduce his associate, this former movie stuntman, bodybuilder and health nut in the Hawaiian shirt. So what did the health nut do? Immediately dove into the bread basket and started eating rolls thick with butter, getting crumbs in his beard and all over the table in front of him. Now Harry, watching him, grabbed a roll for himself before they were gone. Harry was on his second Scotch, Catlett still sipping his ice-cold Pouilly-Fuissé. Harry had ordered the meatloaf, which Catlett liked the sound of, basic food, indicating the man was in a basic frame of mind and would not get tricky on him. Catlett had ordered the shrimp salad, not wanting to make this one his dinner; he’d have that later on at Mateo’s with people he liked, some cute woman who’d laugh at his wit and bullshit. The Bear ordered a beer— another simple soul—and would eat later, at home.

  So far Catlett had explained once again he’d give Harry one hundred and seventy thousand dollars, interest and point free, pay it back when you can, for the privilege of working on Lovejoy and learning from the expert how moving pictures were made. Fringe benefits would come up later. All he wanted, Catlett had mentioned this time, was some kind of small credit up on the screen, head gofer, anything, his friends would get a kick out of seeing. Now then . . .

  “I told you it was your boy, didn’t I, let me have the script?”

  Harry didn’t know who he meant. “My boy? . . .”

  “Chili Palmer, from Miami, Florida.”

  “He gave it to you?”

  “Loaned it. Was the other night in your office.”

  Harry said, “Well, you say you read it,” not yet convinced.

  “Ask me something.”

  “All right, what’s Lovejoy’s brother-in-law’s name?”

  “You mean Stanley? I was thinking it wouldn’t be bad if something happened to Stanley, the way he gets on your nerves. Even though as Lovejoy says to his sis, her and Stan have their own problems, being stuck with each other.”

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  Now the man couldn’t have a doubt in his head, just questions.

  “Why’d he show it to you?”

  “I thought maybe you told him to.”

  “I sent him to pick up a script, that’s all.”

  “Well, he called me, I went over. Man, I’ve been wondering why ever since. This town, you don’t want to go showing your ideas around. I know of a guy left a script in one of the limos and the producer fired him. I thought that was heavy. The producer—I won’t mention his name, one of the big power play-ers—he said if the guy wasn’t any more reliable than that he didn’t want him around.”

  Catlett sipped his wine, giving Harry a minute to think about it and then took a shot saying, “I asked this Chili Palmer what his position was and he said you and him were partners, gonna produce the movie together. It surprised me, him coming in off the street and not knowing shit, you know, about the business. I noticed he didn’t even know how to read a script, what some of the directions meant. In fact, he’s talking about producing the movie with you, he hadn’t even read it. Man, that didn’t sound right to me.”

  Harry picked up his roll and took a bite out of it like he was eating an apple, crumbs dribbling down the front of him. The Bear, spreading butter on his, paused to watch this.

  “I don’t mean to sound like I’m sticking my nose in your business,” Catlett said, going at him again, “and if you don’t care to tell me, don’t. It’s just I’m curious to know what this Chili Palmer does for you.”

  “Not much,” Harry said.

  Good, starting to speak.

  “He run errands for you?”

  “He has different functions, you might say.”

  “Kind of a tough guy, huh? That was how he came on,” Catlett said. “See, I suspected you had him around to do heavy work, deal with me and Ronnie, and that was something I couldn’t get straight in my head. What would you need him for? Has Ronnie ever given you any trouble? I know I haven’t. Ronnie might’ve shot off his mouth, but that’s Ronnie. Man, he’s from Santa Barbara and he’s gonna let you know it. Anyway, Ronnie isn’t in this deal— the one hundred and seventy thousand dollars I’m giving you as working capital in good faith. You’re gonna find out, Harry, I know more about movies than most people in the business. You watch me.”

  Harry said, “When can I have the money?”

  Getting right down to business. Never mind all the bullshit, huh? This was the meatloaf man.

  “Whenever you want it, Harry. The money’s in hundred dollar bills inside one of those jock bags, you know? In a locker at the airport, waiting to be picked up.”

  Harry looked at him. “The airport?”

  “It was waiting out there on another deal, one that didn’t go through you don’t want to know about,” Catlett said. “Or maybe you should know something about it. I don’t want you to get in any trouble. It was money put there to make a buy, if you know what I mean.”

  Harry picked up his glass and took a drink on that one.

  “Yeah?”

  But was still interested, look at that. Anxious.

  “What I’m saying to you, Harry, you could go out there, take the bag out of the locker and be on

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  your way, nobody bother you. But you never know

  who’s hanging a
round that airport.”

  “You mean cops,” Harry said.

  “Well, that’s possible, yeah. Maybe Drug Enforcement individuals—I don’t know. I was thinking more of other people in the product trade know buys are made out there, money changing hands. You understand what I’m saying? They the ones you have to watch out might rip you off. Like if you look, I don’t mean like one of them, but kinda suspicious, you act nervous taking the bag out of the locker . . .”

  “I don’t know,” Harry said, shaking his head.

  Wanting it, you could tell, but afraid.

  “It’s what I’m saying, it’s not the kind of thing you do,” Catlett said. “That’s why I was thinking you could send your boy, Chili Palmer. He gets hit on the head you aren’t out nothing.”

  They took Chili’s rented Toyota, down Rodeo to Wilshire to come back around on Beverly Drive. On the way he told Karen about going into a restaurant on Little Santa Monica when he first got here. Went in all dressed up and was put way in the back after waiting at the bar about an hour, while these people who looked like they’d been out camping would come in and get the empty front tables right away. He told her about the worn-out leather jacket Michael had been wearing.

  “You buy them new like that,” Karen said. “What did you think of him?”

  Chili said he thought he was basically a nice guy, but it was hard to tell. “He was on most of the time. I think he has trouble being just himself.”

  “He do any imitations?”

  “Michael Jackson.”

  “He used to do Howard Cosell constantly.” She said, “You know it isn’t easy being Michael Weir.”

  Chili didn’t comment on that, thinking seven million ought to make it a little easier.

  They were quiet and then she said, “What’s Nicki like?”

  “She’s a rock-and-roll singer.” He thought a moment and said, “She doesn’t shave under her arms.”

  “Michael probably goes for that. He thinks he’s earthy.”

  “You still like him?”

  “I don’t hold anything against him. He’s Michael Weir . . . and he’s great.”

  “You mean his acting.”