Get Shorty (16 page)

Chili said, “Well, actually . . .” The movie star had his head turned and was watching Nicki and her group wailing away. “Actually, what I started to mention, the movie we want you to be in is
Mr. Lovejoy.
We understand you read the script and like it . . . a lot.”

Now he had to wait for this to make sense, give the movie star time to think about it. Michael said,
“Lovejoy,”
looking over again. “That's the one, the florist sees his boy run over?”

“And goes after the guy, to catch him driving his car.”

“What production company was that?”

“ZigZag, Harry Zimm.”

“That's right, the slime-people guy. I read for Harry when I first started working in features. I didn't get the part.”

Chili said, “He turned you down? Come on.”

“I wasn't Michael Weir then,” Michael said.

He wasn't kidding either. It sounded strange.

“Anyway, we're going to Tower Studios with it,” Chili said, and that got a smile from Michael.

He said, “You know what they say about Elaine Levin. She fucked her Rolodex to get where she is. But I'll tell you something, she didn't have to if she did. Elaine knows what she's doing. She made an awful lot of money for Metro up to the time they forced that disaster on her. Did you see it,
San Juan Hill
?”

“I liked it,” Chili said.

“It wasn't a bad picture,” Michael said. “It had the facts right for once, the black troops saving Teddy Roosevelt's ass, but that didn't sell tickets and it was way overproduced. The picture cost more than the actual war, which hadn't been done to my knowledge since
A Message to Garcia
with John Boles. I remember a script called
Siboney,
the same war, I thought very seriously about doing. That was a fascinating period, the U.S. emerging as a world power, the enactment of the Monroe Doctrine, eminent domain . . . I might look at that script again,
Siboney.
That was where our troops landed in Cuba.”

“Sounds good,” Chili said, not having any idea what the guy was talking about. He tried to get back to
Lovejoy
with, “Listen, what we're thinking—”

But Michael was already saying, “The title does have a nice sound. Build the score around the song. Si-bo-ney, da da
da
da . . .”

Christ, now he was singing it, against the rock beat in the background.

“Da da
da
da, Si-bo-ney . . . It's an old piece but has all kinds of dramatic riffs in it. It can be stirring, romantic, militaristic. Someone like John Williams could score the ass off that picture.”

Chili said, “What I wanted to mention . . .” and paused. The room was quiet again, the band finished
with their number. “We're definitely gonna produce the movie at a studio.”

Michael Weir nodded. But now he was getting up, looking over at Nicki raising her guitar strap over her head. He said, “I guess we're taking off. It was nice talking to you.”

“You have to go, huh?”

“Nicki's waiting. We're going to duck out . . .”

“But you like
Lovejoy
?”

“I like the character, the guy, he has possibilities. But the way the plot develops it turns into a B movie by the time you're into the second act. Take a look at
The Cyclone
again, the way a visual fabric is maintained even while the metaphor plays on different levels, with the priest, with the mother . . . so that you never lose sight of the picture's thematic intent.”

Chili said, “Yeah, well, we're already making changes. Getting a girl in it, fixing up the ending . . .”

“Sounds good.”

“Can we talk about it, you get a chance?”

“Anytime,” Michael Weir said, moving away. “Call Buddy and we'll set something up.”

“Buddy?”

“My agent,” the movie star said. “Harry knows him.”

 

Chili opened the door to 325 to see the message light on the phone blinking on and off. He lit a cigarette before dialing the operator.

She said, “Just a minute.” The one with maybe a Latin accent. She came back on saying, “A Mr. Zimm called. You have a meeting tomorrow, three p.m. at Tower Studios. He'll call you in the morning. Let's see. And a Mr. Carlo called. He said he was
going out for the evening and to tell you . . . Mr. Barboni will arrive tomorrow on Delta Flight Eighty-nine at twelve-oh-five. You like me to repeat that?”

Chili told her thanks anyway.

Catlett was thinking maybe the best way would be if Lovejoy did have a gun and shot Roxy with it to get his satisfaction.

He was dressed casual today, white linen jacket over French blue India cotton, sitting in Ronnie's chair in Ronnie's office waiting for the Bear to come in and report, Marcella's radio playing Top 40 hits in the other office. There was no reason for her to come in here; Marcella was the kind you said hi to and bye to, you didn't chat with her.

The audience would like it: see Lovejoy open this old trunk of his, take out a big revolver and load it. Be dramatic, that part, except this was movies and the kind of good guy Lovejoy was couldn't just go out and shoot the bad guy—like you drive past a man's house was edging into your business and shoot him off his front steps. Or another time the man was sitting in his car, pull up next to him,
bam.
The way it was done in real life. The way soon as Yayo threatened him, bye-bye, Yayo, the mean little Colombian now two feet under the desert somewhere off U.S. 10. The Bear had said, “Never again. I don't clean up after, become an accessory.” The Bear due here any minute now. Yayo's people
in Miami had called asking where he was and Catlett told them, “I saw him take the bag from the locker. He never came back? You have any friends down in Old Mexico could look into it? Check out Acapulco? Ixtapa?” Something you could pull on those people one time only. Losing a hundred and seventy grand and a mule was worth a phone call; it ever happened again, they'd be out. Man, but that money and the stepped-on bag of product in the locker could come in handy for something else now, the way Catlett was looking at his future: his mind going from Lovejoy to Chili Palmer, but most of the time stuck on Chili Palmer and the need to get the man out of the picture.

 

The Bear brought Farrah and a video game they plugged into the TV, something to occupy the child while the Bear made his report.

“One, according to the plane ticket on his dresser he's C. Palmer. Flew here from Vegas and has an open return to Miami. Two, also on the dresser, an Express Mail receipt for a package he sent to a person by the name of Fay Devoe in Miami. Three, the label in his suit and a couple of sport coats are all a men's store in Miami. So what does that tell you?”

Catlett was watching the little girl playing Top Gun, three years old in a jet fighter, zapping bandits out of the sky. He said, “Look at that child.”

“I mean what else does it tell you,” the Bear said, “outside of he's from Miami?”

“Not what you're thinking,” Catlett said. “That he's connected to Yayo? Uh-unh. He was here before Yayo, has nothing to do with product, or he'd have made some mention of it or let it slip. What else have you got to tell me?”

“The man has ten grand in casino bank straps, all hundreds.”

“That's interesting.”

“Laid out in the bottom of his suitcase.”

“You take it?”

“I almost did.”

“Anybody see you go in his room?”

“Come on.”

“Just checking. What about Harry? You put somebody on him?”

“Harry showed up at his apartment yesterday afternoon, stayed about an hour and came out carrying a hanging bag. He drove to an address on La Collina in Beverly Hills, top of the street. I went over there later and spoke to a neighbor's maid walking the dog. For ten bucks, she says, ‘Oh, that's a movie star lives there, Karen Flores.' “

“Man, I been trying to place that name. Sure, Karen Flores,” Catlett said. “Was in some of Harry Zimm's pictures and some others after that, but never made it. That's where he's been hanging out?”

“It's where he was last night.”

“That old man—I believe he's casting. Gonna get himself some of that. Say he'll give her a part in
Lovejoy
if she'll play Great Balls of Fire with him.”

“What's Great Balls of Fire?”

“You never played it? You light your dick and the woman quick has to blow it out.”

The Bear didn't say anything.

“Man, you don't ever smile, do you?”

“If I hear something funny.”

“So—Karen Flores, yeah. The way she was built she could play the whore, except she be too old now. Less they want to do the part as an old whore. That
wouldn't hurt nothing. Get Theresa or Greta for the new female lead.” Catlett paused. He said, “Wait a minute,” getting up straighter in Ronnie's cushy chair. “Karen Flores, she was married one time to Michael Weir. And Michael Weir's suppose to be in the movie.”

He saw the Bear watching Farrah shooting down jets with that electronic wapping-zapping sound, hitting every one of them as they popped on the screen, the Bear urging her now, saying, “Get it, honey. Get that son of a bitch.”

“You hear what I'm saying?” Catlett said. “Karen Flores, Michael Weir, and Harry's over at her house . . . The man wasn't lying, Harry's doing the picture with Michael Weir and, man, it's gonna be
big.
I had the feeling, you know it, ever since I noticed the way Harry was hanging on to that script. Like it was made of gold and you'd have to kill him to get it. I knew it without even reading it. Then when I did . . .”

The Bear was grinning, watching his little girl.

“There was two copies of the script and Chili Palmer took 'em both. Wouldn't even consider us getting together on it, the perfect team. Dumbass, hadn't even read it. And Harry took him as his associate? Bear, this is
my
chance. Chili Palmer's gonna have to wait on his, get in line. You listening to me?”

Not only listening the Bear was a jump ahead, saying, “I'm not taking any more trips to the desert. I told you that. Stick my neck out to help your career. You want to be a producer there's all kinds of deals in this town you can buy into.”

Catlett said, “Not with Michael Weir on a twenty-million-plus production. This is a big big one. No
mutated bugs, no bloodsucking geeks or kung-fu kind of Rambo assholes kicking the shit out of dress-extras, uh-unh. This's the big movie I've been looking to get in on.”

“They all sound big,” the Bear said, “at the talking stage.”

Catlett said, “Bear, I drive limos now and then.”

“I know that.”

“Why—'cause I like to listen, hear all about the deals and shit happening. Hear who's hot and who's not. What names you can take to the bank this month. Learn what studio head is on his way out 'cause he pissed on a big producer's script. Learn who the hot agents are, what they're packaging, who's getting two hundred phone calls a day. Hear the agent tell the actor he's gonna pull out the guns, kill to make the deal, gonna take no fucking prisoners. Weekends, some of the agents and producers and studio execs, they're up in the Malibu hills playing war games with these CO
₂
guns. Running around in the woods shooting paint bullets at each other. You hear what I'm saying? They talk about how they're gonna kill to make a deal. Then they go out and play with toy guns.” Catlett grinned. “Shit, huh? You think I can't manage with people like that? Man, I've done it for real.”

“I've played that game,” the Bear said. “It's fun.”

“And you've fallen off buildings and rolled cars and been in five hundred fights—in the movies. But you don't know what the real thing is like, do you? The ultimate deed. Shoot a man.”

“How many have you?” the Bear said, not watching Farrah now, Farrah on her own.

“What's the difference, one on five, on ten? One and you're blooded,” Catlett said, leaning on Ronnie's desk. “My first time, I was eighteen years old and had gone to Bakersfield to see my mother. Got out of school, picked up an Olds Cutlass, maroon, and drove there from Detroit. This day we're out for a ride, we stop at a gas station, my mother wanting to use the ladies' room. The gas station man told her no migrants could use it. Then he changed his mind, said okay. She's in there, he comes in and starts messing with her. She told me in the car, after. I drove back there, I said to the man, ‘You disrespected my mother. I'd like you to apologize to her.' He start laughing and told us to get out. My mother was crying the whole time . . . I went back later on to have a talk with the man. He got ugly and I shot him.”

“Eighteen years old,” the Bean said. “Where'd you get the gun?”

“I had it. Brought it with me.”

“But why'd you have it?”

“I was out of school, starting to look over career possibilities.” Catlett smiled. “Way before I knew I wanted to be in the movie business.”

“You killed a man 'cause he showed your mother disrespect?”

“He dissed me too. Said I must be one of those motherfuckers he'd heard about. I did him, got on the interstate and went back to Detroit. Oh, and I took his cash. I sent it to my mother.”

“Show her,” the Bear said, “what a sweet boy you are.”

“I see her. She's living in Delano now, has friends there she doesn't want to leave. I bought her a house.”

“I imagine,” the Bear said, “not knowing any better, she's proud of you.”

Catlett watched the Bear, rubbing his beard, look over toward the wapping-zapping sound of his child knocking jets out of the sky. A daddy proud of his little girl. It would be fun to have one of those of his own. Pick a good-looking woman with nice features and have one. Pick a woman wasn't a tighthead. He used to say he didn't deal in coal when he was running around with white women, but had changed his mind about that, since meeting some fine little sisters out here.

He said, “Bear? This man Chili Palmer, what you suppose he does?”

“Ten grand in his suitcase,” the Bear said, “what do you think, he's a bank messenger?”

“He scored it at a casino, didn't he?”

“Whether he did or not,” the Bear said, “the guy's into some kind of hustle.”

“How do you know that?”

“I've done desk reads in this business,” the Bear said, looking over, “where somebody wants to know, say, what this executive is up to. Like if he's about to leave with a property he hasn't told the studio about. They want to know if he might be negotiating someplace. I look at the man's telephone notes, play his recorder, see who's on his Rolodex, get to know him. This guy C. Palmer has got nothing that puts him with anybody or tells what he might be doing. He's too clean. The only thing he had written down on his note pad was ‘Raji's, Hollywood Blvd. near Vine.' “

Catlett frowned. “
Raji's
? Man, that's a hard rock joint. You can tell looking at Chili Palmer he ain't into that metal shit. I might have to look into that one.”

“I'll tell you one thing,” the Bear said. “You shoot him, you'll never see me again.”

Catlett started frowning again. “No, man, I don't want that on my conscience. Focking Yayo, that was different, he could've hurt us. And I mean both of us, right? You buried that monkey chaser you were protecting your own ass as much as mine. No, what I'm thinking . . . Bear, you listening?”

“I can hear you.”

“We got the cash out the airport and the stepped-on bag that ain't worth shit. What I'm thinking, what if Chili Palmer went out there to pick it up?”

Catlett waited for the Bear to turn his head this way, the Bear nodding, seeing the picture.

“Yeah?”

“We even call the feds. Make that anonymous kind of phone-in tip they love to get. What would happen?”

“You'd be out a hundred and seventy grand.”

“When they bust him, haul his ass off to jail.”

“You don't care about the money?”

“We got stuff for it, didn't we? We're not out nothing.”

“He'll tell the feds he was set up.”

“I ‘magine he will, but how's he gonna put it on
me
? I don't even know the man and there isn't anybody seen us together.”

“Harry has.”

“I can talk to Harry,” Catlett said. “No, the trick will be getting Mr. Chili Palmer to go out to the airport and open that locker.”

Find some way to work that or do it clean and quick, the way Farrah was zapping jets out of the sky.

Catlett said, “Man, she's gooood.”

The Bear said, “That's my little ace.”

 

Ray Bones came off the Delta flight to find a young guy with more hair and gold jewelry than he needed holding a square of laundry cardboard that said mr barbone in black Magic Marker. The young guy's shirt was open halfway down, his sleeves turned up twice. He said, “Mr. Bar-bone? Welcome to L.A. I'm Bobby, your driver. Mr. DePhillips asked me to extend you his best and be of help any way I can. You have a good flight?”

Bones said, “I hope you drive better than you fuckin spell. My name's Barboni, not Bar-bone.”

Northbound from the airport on 405, Bones rode in the backseat of the Cadillac enclosed in dark glass. He commented on the traffic. “Shit, this isn't bad. Miami, we got bumper to bumper all day long.” He asked Bobby the driver, “What's that over there?”

“Oil wells,” Bobby said.

“They're ugly fuckin things. You got oil wells and freeways. You got smog . . .”

“You ever wanta go to the beach,” Bobby said, “here's the freeway you take, we're coming to.”

“I live in Miami Beach,” Bones said, “and you want to show me a fuckin beach? The sun ever come out here, or you have this smog all the time? Jesus. Where's downtown at? I don't see it.”

Four-oh-five to Santa Monica Boulevard to the Beverly Hilton, Bobby telling Bones it was the home of Trader Vic's, if he liked Chinese. Bones said he hated it. They pulled up to the hotel entrance and got out.

“What do you have for me?”

Bobby opened the trunk, brought out Bones' luggage, one bag, went back in and came out with a
black leather attaché case. “Compliments of Mr. DePhillips. The names and phone numbers are in here. The same ones that were given to your friend Mr. Palmer.”