* * *
Everyone stops and looks at him. STAN theatrically shoots his cuffs like a magician to show nothing is up his sleeve.
* * *
STAN
You ever want to know how to fuck somebody without them even knowing they’ve been fucked? Used to do this all the time
Very simple... All you have to do is drink...
C’mon, drink, you don’t need me to show you how to do that, do you?
Do you??
* * *
He opens the tap, letting out a stream of Tequila - AGUINALDO’s men hesitate.
AGUINALDO, watching STAN intently for a moment then nods. His men are soon helping themselves to generous shots of the free-flowing alcohol...
* * *
STAN
(quietly singing to himself)
If you drive over the bogs today, You’re sure of a big surprise, If you flee over the border today, You can kiss your ass goodbye.
* * *
SCENE 21 INT. TEQUILA BARREL
* * *
As the level of tequila goes down the detonator inside slowly stops floating and is instead suspended above it. The string is tightened and the detonator hangs like a pendulum, the weight of the cork and coins straining against the pin in the alcohol fumes...
* * *
SCENE 22. INT. MARQUEE. NIGHT
* * *
Stan now in his stride...
* * *
STAN
When we wanted to off somebody but walk away totally clean... you know how you do that? Let your Daddy show you... We used to surprise those dumb Provos when they were making some secret delivery, ‘Our day will come’ my ass. We’d chase them across the moors, all the way to Muckno Lake in Crossmaglen... Left this little gift. We’d be sure they always start off with a full tank of gas – go on, you rabble, keep drinking! – The tank empties nice and s-l-o-w-l-y... just like this little beauty is emptying –
* * *
He glances over at JONAS and TIKO –
* * *
STAN
Tank fills up with those l-o-v-e-l-y fumes – bounce bounce, bounce over that terrain.
* * *
He pulls back his arm –
* * *
STAN
One big bounce… Then that little cocksucker detonator and fumes say hi and fuck you very much to each other…
* * *
STAN WHACKS the keg
* * *
SCENE 23. INT. BEER KEG. NIGHT.
* * *
The pin PULLS out of the detonator –
* * *
SCENE 24 INT. BAR. NIGHT.
* * *
– The keg EXPLODES, showering STAN’s impromptu audience with Tequila, much to Stan’s amusement.
* * *
JONAS
You sonofabitch!!!
* * *
STAN
Perfect way to blow up a runaway car... Patented by Stan Barnes Esq. and Her Majesty’s Armed Forces.
Yours to use if you so desire...
(Takes a bow)
* * *
TIKO
(Calm despite being drenched)
War is based on deception.
* * *
STAN
Very good. Sun-Tzu’s Art of War?
* * *
(a beat as he surveys the room)
* * *
Here’s another.
You cannot stop innovation.
* * *
TIKO expressionless. AGUINALDO stares in cold fury at the soaked chaos. A beat, then throws back head in laughter.
* * *
Marcus had witnessed Bill Baines going through the exact same routine in front of the crew of THE LAST COMPANY all those years before. Nevertheless there was something about that scene that didn’t gel with Marcus’ memory. It wasn’t Sam’s snappy dialogue, who could remember exactly what was said? Just something added or out of place. Maybe he just couldn’t separate truth from Sam’s creative license? He tried harder to recall the real events.
At the actual party for THE LAST COMPANY, it had been the locals, the set construction gang that had been soaked. No one had said a word. Their leader had slowly taken off his drenched leather jacket.
Marcus remembered tensing up ready for the big man to leap at Bill. Instead he had raised the jacket over his head and slowly twisted the garment until the booze ran down into his upturned mouth.
“Mustn’t waste,” the big man said. They all burst out laughing. Bill had made his point though. He was not a man to be crossed and earned the big man’s respect.
Amid the mud and the rain of the shoot were whispers of illicit deals and suspect finance; but movie sets were always a hotbed of rumor and scandal especially when referring to the ‘suits’ back home.
McConnell had made things very clear. Marcus was the man on the spot, this was his big break. If there were problems, he had to sort it or be replaced. However unbeknownst to Marcus, at McConnell’s request, Kelso had been quietly undermining the young producer’s schedule and budget.
THE LAST COMPANY’S largest set had been inside a big rock. It was where the renegade unit was to have made their last stand and hide the money looted from the American Embassy at the fall of Saigon.
On McConnell’s instructions the set designer had been kept in LA and simply sent his designs to Kelso and the construction gang on how to dig out this last resting place from a cave in the rock face. No one was allowed to visit during the complicated excavation and set dressing process. Only Kelso checked on progress with the head of construction who visited the director occasionally on the sets in the valley. To Marcus it had seemed one of a number of puzzling decisions, as normally the cave scenes would have been shot in a studio; a controlled environment which would have cost a fraction of what they spent on excavation and build.
“Screw a studio if we can use the real thing. It will look fantastic! No one’s allowed on that cave set till it’s ready to be dressed. It’s bloody dangerous in there,” Kelso enthused when Marcus confronted him.
“Just handle my schedule or I’ll get McConnell to replace you with someone who can,” he said with a grin but with enough of a concealed threat to make Marcus comply.
Kelso was also trapped by Louis’ demands but was aware the size of his fee made real confrontation difficult. He just hoped Louis’ strange requests were founded in some sort of logic.
It didn’t all make sense to Marcus, but he didn’t have the time to argue.
Sitting in the production office of THE LAST COMPANY, one afternoon Marcus was wrestling with a ransom note.
“We have your dailies. $250,000 in 48 hours or we start burning a can every four hours. Instructions to follow. You have no friends here.” Marcus had called an emergency meeting. Kelso and Wood were there, Bill was on his way.
“Can we raise the money?” asked Robert.
“In 48 hours…?” replied Marcus.
“We’re screwed,” Sam cut in. “You gotta call McConnell. Even if it is the middle of the night. Fuck him. Make him sweat for once.”
Bill burst in joining Robert and Sam.
“Some local leaning outside the door saw me coming in. Instructed me about how to deliver $250,000. I asked the little bastard what the fuck is he talking about and he hooked his thumb over his shoulder towards you lot and walked away a few feet. You can see him”.
Marcus quickly explained and showed Bill the note. “But why you?” asked Marcus.
“Who knows or cares?” Bill quipped. “It’s just overambitious locals out for a buck. The amount is bullshit. They need some sense knocked into them. Lemme go negotiate.”
“You’re nuts,” said Sam.
“I’ve dealt with tougher people than these guys. Believe me, I can sort this. I’ll put a little team together, we’ll go have a pow-wow.”
“Seems like an easy answer to me. Just do it,” Kelso said. “I’ve got to get back to the set.”
When Kelso left, Marcu
s was wavering. Sam, however, was adamantly against this idea.
“If this goes tits-up and we lose those dailies ’cos you let Bill play G.I. Joe, this movie and our careers are screwed. And I am gonna blame you, Marcus. Swallow your pride and ring McConnell. We need help,” Sam said, storming out.
But it had been hard for Marcus to refuse Bill. He had an easy charm. He balanced danger with fun, but behind it all was a serious streak. Every time Marcus had watched Bill handle a weapon or choreograph and block an action sequence, he knew Bill’s world of make-believe was based on stone cold reality. If you wanted rescuing, he was your man. If he was chasing you down, God help you.
“OK, no heroics. We just need that film back. I’ll man the phones and try and raise the money.”
“I guarantee you won’t need it. At worst it will be only a tenth of what they’re demanding. Just stay cool Marcus. We can find $25,000 in the budget.”
It proved to be a monumentally reckless decision. Marcus let his ambition and Bill’s enthusiasm overrule common sense and seek help from the outside. Marcus let Bill go. With three sidekicks by his side, Bill turned to give Marcus a thumbs up and a broad smile as he headed out. It was the last time Marcus saw his friend. A few hours later only Bill’s three back-up men came back, white with fear and with only one day’s rushes. The kidnappers were holding the remaining film and now Bill as well, until the ransom of $250,000 was paid in full. If not, neither would ever be seen again.
Marcus never had a chance to even try to get the money. The next day the local crew vanished. The kidnappers were not heard from again. Bill never re-appeared. The three men who had been with Bill swore they had not seen the faces of the kidnappers nor had any idea who they were. With no one to pay the money to, even if Marcus could raise it, everything ended. The movie, friendships, careers and almost certainly Bill’s life.
Marcus poured himself another drink. The three men who returned without Bill were the same three from Cara’s list. All dead.
24
PRIVATE JET TO CANNES, FRANCE
‘Kelso is ‘Back in the Saddle’, announced the banner headline on a pre-festival interview he had given The Hollywood Reporter. Robert was news again. Louis was right. He didn’t need Marcus. He also didn’t need Louis. The Citation Bravo jet accelerated down the runway gently pushing the director back into his plush leather seat.
He and Christo had spent the weekend in Paris and were taking off from Le Bourget heading to the private airstrip at Mandelieu just north of Cannes. It was here where nearly all the major celebrities touched down during the Film Festival, unless they arrived on some leviathan of a yacht adorning one of the two harbors in Cannes itself. As the light of day dimmed on the horizon, the light inside Kelso was beginning to glow again.
Of course, he’d seen Sam’s finger pointing at him in veiled references to THE LAST COMPANY. Admittedly, not at first and, unfortunately, well after the initial euphoria of reading the screenplay and the mistake of ringing Louis and sending him his notes.
Robert knew he had to tread very carefully. His playing dumb with Louis over lunch seemed to have worked for now; had at least bought him time to see if he could go it alone. Louis was easy to handle if you didn’t come over as a threat. Even better if you appeared less intelligent than he was. Robert thought his matinee performance at lunch had given just the right balance of enthusiasm and deference. Pompous ass.
Sam wasn’t the only one who was going to cleanse his creative soul by opening up the past. So was he. The self-imposed exile was over. He was going to put it up there on the screen. Make the film on his own terms. Just as soon as he could get Marcus to sign over the rights.
Thinking about premieres and his rekindled career was getting ahead of himself. There were more immediate dangers he needed to focus on; the inexorably intertwined angels and demons that were pulling him toward the camera and boosting his self-confidence were also trailing the drink and the drugs behind them. He hoped to God that Christo would see this blossoming confidence as being brought about by this wonderful screenplay and not from falling off the wagon. He could keep it under control. He just needed the occasional line; just enough to give him the boost to take the project out of Marcus’ hands and the courage to defy Louis.
“Screw him,” Robert said out loud, quite by mistake.
“Who?” Christo asked looking up.
“Louis,” he replied quickly but knowing he had really meant his old self.
“So, what should I really expect? Help me not look like a Cannes virgin,” Christo asked.
“You need to remember three things. One, never lose or forget to hang round your neck the white accreditation badge, or carte blanche as it’s called, which is exactly what it gives you,” Robert said, counting off each point with a raised finger. “Two, never stop people walking in the street to chit chat; they’re on their way somewhere and everyone is always late. Talk is to be done over a drink or a meal. Three, and most important of all, never believe that the greeting ‘J’arrive Monsieur’ from a waiter in a crowded bar means ‘I’m coming sir’. It means ‘Fuck off, you foreign jerk, I’ll get to you when I’ve served all the French first, and that young starlet in the corner.”
“That it?” asked Christo.
“Just that he’ll still expect a big tip.”
* * *
An hour later Robert and Christo descended the steps of the plane onto the tarmac and into a waiting limousine, the rear door held open by a short and immaculately attired driver.
They settled into the back seat. Soon they were driving up La Croisette, the famous stretch of road that ran along the shoreline. On the sea facing north-side stood many well-known landmarks and hotels. Movie billboards were displayed at regular intervals along the palm-lined central boulevard and already the town was overflowing with crowds who looked like they were permanently dressed to party.
“Before this all kicks off, Bob,” said Christo taking Robert’s hand, “I want you to know how much this means to me to see you so re-engaged with what you do best. I’m proud of you.” He looked him straight in the eyes. “Don’t let yourself down.”
Kelso took a deep breath then calmly replied, “Thanks. I’m glad you are here with me. I’m going to get those rights, Christo. When I do, I’m not assigning them to anyone, least of all Louis. This time I’m going to call all the shots.”
The car pulled up to a marble clad apartment building and they entered. The vast penthouse had over 3,000 square feet of living space, with a roof garden above it the same size. The apartment had panoramic views not only of the bay in front of it, but of the hills behind it too. The outdoor space had a barbecue area, a shaded grove of olive trees, a hammock, sun deck, multi-colored plants, flowers, and a blue tiled swimming pool.
Beautiful as the garden was, it was the pool itself that drew the biggest gasp from Christo. Sunk into the deck, one whole side of the pool had a glass wall like an aquarium, so that those in the room below had a grandstand view of people cavorting in it. The effect was to bathe the vast reception room in an aquamarine glow. The chauffeur, who had collected the bags from the trunk of the car, set them down discreetly in two separate piles just inside the penthouse silently awaiting instruction as to which bedroom he should deliver them to. There were five in all. “Bonsoir.”
A petite lady of about 55, dressed in a formal maid’s outfit, appeared from the kitchen with a trolley laden with a bottle of Crystal Champagne, canapés, hot coffee, and, as a nod to her American clients, two cans of Diet Coke.
“Yvette,” she smiled, second guessing the question, her body almost at attention and her salt and pepper hair neatly tied in a bun. In one move she gestured to the driver, provided by the apartment’s owner, that she would now take over and surreptitiously handed him a €50 gratuity. She turned back to her new charges. “Leave your bags. I will unpack them, if that is acceptable to you?” The twinkle in her gentle grey eyes betrayed nothing. A devout Protestant, nearly everything about Can
nes shocked her. As a professional she held it all back and was resigned to the fact that the good Lord would still probably forgive all these sinners, so who was she to judge?
“Bedrooms?” asked Robert, as he picked a can of Diet Coke from the cart and snapped back the tab.
“May I suggest this,” she said, leading them to a large double door off the hallway to her left. “They all have wonderful views, but the decoration in this one is, ah…,” she struggled to find the most appropriate words in English, “most pleasing.”
With that she theatrically pushed open both doors. Unlike the living room, which was decorated with modern red Italian leather furniture, and a Hockney painting of a pool, the contents of the bedroom were antique, regal and decidedly authentic.
The furniture was French Empire. The escritoire was mahogany with exquisitely turned legs decorated with carved honeysuckle leaves. On the desk top stood brass and ormolu mounts of Roman Eagles and a Sphinx. Next to the desk were two Egyptian style chairs. “Denon, a favorite of Napoléon,” said Yvette. A sleigh bed faced out towards a large private balcony with an uninterrupted view of the sea. The lights were glittering on l’Île Sainte-Marguerite in the distance.
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