Get Shorty: A Novel

years. Had lunch at Chasen’s every day, or he’d call and have them deliver. Scallops and creamed spinach. Go down the hall right now—Harry bet that’s what he’d be eating, scallops and spinach. “I asked him one time what type of writing brought the most money and the agent says, ‘Ransom notes.’ ”

“What about the script, Harry?”

The guy’s mind was wandering all over the place. In the car on the way here, Harry had started talking about Mr. Lovejoy, the story, but was barely into it when he said, “The famous Trocadero once stood right there,” and the ride to the office became a tour of Sunset Strip, Harry pointing out mostly where places used to be. Schwab’s drugstore. Ciro’s, known for movie-star bar fights, now the Comedy Store. A restaurant that was once John Barrymore’s guesthouse. The Garden of Allah, where movie stars used to shack up, now a bank and a parking lot. The Chateau Marmont was still there—look at it—home on and off to Jean Harlow, Greta Garbo, Howard Hughes, where John Belushi checked out. Harry wide-awake, but off into Old Hollywood. Then telling what it was like when hippies took over the Strip, little broads in granny dresses, traffic bumper to bumper. “By the time you got from Doheny to here, you were stoned on the marijuana fumes.” Chili reminded him the limo guys were coming at noon and Harry said, “Oh . . . yeah.”

He poked through the clutter on his desk till he came to several Mr. Lovejoy scripts. “Here it is.”

Chili picked one up, the first time he’d ever held a movie script in his hands. He had no idea what it would look like. It wasn’t as thick as he thought it would be, less than an inch of pages between red covers, ZigZag Productions printed in gold on the front with speedlines coming off the lettering, the way they showed cars moving in a comic strip. Chili opened the script about in the middle, studied the way the page was set up and began to read, not understanding the first word he saw but kept going.

INT. LOVEJOY’SVAN – DAY

Ilona sits behind the wheel watching the corner bar across the street. Behind her, Lovejoy is getting his video camera ready for action.

ILONA How long’s he been in there?

LOVEJOY (glancing at his watch)

Seventeen and a half minutes.

ILONA I wish he’d hurry up.

LOVEJOY

(focusing camera) We have to be patient. But sooner or later . . .

ILONA There he is!

LOVEJOY (quietly) I see him.

EXT. CORNER BAR – CLOSE ON ROXY – DAY

Roxy hooks his thumbs in his belt, looks about idly. Gradually his gaze moves to the van and holds.

INT. LOVEJOY’SVAN – DAY

Ilona reacts, hunching down behind the wheel.

ILONA He sees us!

LOVEJOY No, he’s walking to the car. Ilona, this could be it!!!

Chili looked up from the script. “What’s he doing, following the guy?”

“Read it,” Harry said. “It’s a grabber.”

Chili closed the script, laid it on the desk where he stood between a pair of fat red-leather chairs, old and cracked. He said to Harry, “We better get ready,” placing his hands on the chairs. “Make sure they sit here, not over on the sofa.” He saw Harry tugging at the string to lower the venetian blinds. “Leave ’em up, we want the light in their eyes. I’ll be at the desk . . . But don’t introduce me, let it go, just start talking. You’re gonna be here.” Chili stepped back from the chairs. “Behind ’em when they sit down.”

“They’ll be looking at you,” Harry said. “They don’t know who you are.”

“That’s right, they’re wondering, who’s this guy? You don’t tell ’em. You’re on your feet the whole time. You say, ‘Well, I’m glad you assholes stopped by, so I can set you straight.’ ”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“It’s up to you. You’re talking, relaxed, you stroll around to where you are now—all you tell ’em is the movie’s been postponed. Say, till next year, if you

want. But don’t tell ’em why or what you’re doing.”

“They won’t like it.”

“They don’t have to. Just do what I tell you,” Chili said. “Okay, now the two guys. The one in charge is Ronnie? . . .”

“Ronnie Wingate. That’s the name of the company, Wingate Motor Cars Limited, on Santa Monica.”

Harry was poking around the desk again, straightening it up. Or nervous, feeling a need to be doing something.

“Ronnie, I think of as a rich kid who never grew up. He’s from Santa Barbara, real estate money, came to Hollywood to be an actor but didn’t make it. He thinks he knows the business because his grandfather was a producer at Metro at one time. Now he’s after me to give him a part, wants to play one of the freaks.”

“Why’s he scare you?”

“I don’t trust him, he’s unstable. He’s close to forty, he acts like a burned-out teenager.”

“Maybe that’s what he is.”

“He has a gun in his office. He’ll take it out and start aiming it around the room while he’s talking to you. With one eye closed, going ‘Couuu,’ making that sound, you know, like he’s shooting.”

“What kind of gun?”

“I don’t know, an automatic.”

“And the other one, Bo Catlett?”

It was a familiar name. When Chili first heard it he thought of an all-star jazz drummer by the name of Catlett.

“He doesn’t say much,” Harry said. “The only time he opened up, I happened to mention I was raised in Detroit and started out there doing movies for the car companies. Catlett said, ‘Yeah? I went to high school in Detroit. Loved it, like home to me.’ I told him I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He said, ‘Then you don’t know it.’ Other times he’d call me Mr. De-troit. He might be Chicano or some kind of Latin, I’m not sure, but he has that look. Ronnie mentioned once Catlett had been a farm worker, a migrant, and a lot of them I know are Chicano. He’s tall, dresses up . . . You see Ronnie, the boss, he looks like he’s going out to cut the grass, Catlett will have a suit and tie on. In fact, almost always. Dresses strictly Rodeo Drive.”

“Bo Catlett,” Chili said. The one he was thinking of was Sid Catlett. Big Sid.

“Ronnie, sometimes he’ll call him Cat. He’ll say, ‘Hey, Cat, what do you think?’ But you know Ronnie’s already made up his mind.” Harry came away from the desk. “I have to go down the hall.”

“You nervous, Harry?”

“I’m fine. I gotta go to the bathroom, that’s all.”

He walked out and Chili moved around behind the desk to sit in the creaky swivel chair and look over Harry’s office, his world, old and dusts, his shelves of books and scripts, his photos on the wall above the sofa: Harry with giant bugs, Harry shaking hands with mutants and maniacs, Harry and a much younger Karen with blond hair, Harry holding her by the arm. He didn’t look too bad in the pictures. It got Chili thinking about them in bed together. It didn’t make sense. There was no way, with her looks, she could be that hard up. This morning when he walked in the kitchen . . .

Karen was having a cup of coffee, reading the paper. Dressed up, ready to leave. Purse and a movie script on the table. She said good morning and asked if he slept okay. Karen could be one of those people who acted more polite when they were pissed off. Chili poured a cup and sat down with her, saying he woke up and forgot where he was for a minute. Karen started reading the paper again and he felt stupid, wanting to start over. She had on a neat black suit, no blouse under it, pearl stud earrings in her dark hair, some eye makeup. Her eyes were brown. She had a nice clean look and smelled good, had some kind of perfume on.

“I’m sorry about walking in your house last night,” Chili said, thinking she’d pass it off and that would be it.

But she didn’t. Karen put the paper down saying, “What do you want me to tell you, it’s okay? I’m glad you’re here?”