Harry: “So, we know the script needs a little work, no problem. I’ll give Murray our comments.”
Elaine: “Which Murray is that?”
Harry: “Murray Saffrin, my writer.”
Elaine: “Oh . . . Well, I’ll tell you right now, I wouldn’t have a chance with Murray Saffrin. Karen could take the script upstairs bareass and not sell Murray Saffrin.”
Harry: “So I’ll get somebody else.”
Elaine: “It’s your decision. I can give you a few names, writers I know would be acceptable, like . . .”
Chili listened to the names, not surprised he’d never heard of any of them. How many people knew who wrote the movies they saw?
Harry: “So we’re talking development?”
Elaine: “Not till I have at least a treatment I know I can sell. It’s still your project, Harry. Your decision, if you want to see how far we can run with it.”
Harry: “You’re saying I pay the writer. Any of the guys you mentioned, what’s a rewrite gonna cost me?”
Elaine: “Depending on who you get, I would say anywhere from one-fifty to four, and a few points. Call their agents, see who’s available and might want to do it.”
Harry: “I love talking to agents, right next to having a case of hives. You don’t think bringing Michael Weir deserves a development deal?”
GET SHORTY 209
Elaine: “Michael Weir signed, gagged and chained to a wall till you start shooting, I can take upstairs. I tell them Michael Weir likes the part . . . Yeah? What else is new? Harry, it’s your decision, think it over. Karen, I wonder if you’d stay a few minutes. If the gentlemen wouldn’t mind waiting . . .”
Chili got up with Harry. They started out.
Elaine: “Harry? What about romance among less than attractive people?”
Harry:
Elaine: “Beyond
Harry: “The seven-hundred-pound broad who crushes her lovers to death when she climaxes?”
Elaine: “Call me, Harry, okay?”
They waited for Karen in Harry’s car, parked next to a sound stage as big as a hangar, up the street from the Hyman Tower Building and the front gate. Chili half expected to see extras walking around in period costumes and military uniforms, the way you saw them in movies about movies, but there didn’t seem to be anything going on. Harry, coming out of the building, kept asking about Michael Weir. And then what did he say? He really seemed interested? How was it left? Why did-n’t you call me last night? Why’d you wait till in the meeting? You trying to make points? All that. Chili said, “I think you ought to listen to what Elaine says about the guy. He doesn’t sound too reliable.” Getting in the car, the front seat, Chili said, “Last night I noticed he’s a lot shorter than I thought.”
Next, Harry started bitching about how studio people never come right out and say yes or no, they string you along. They put you in a high-risk position you can’t afford to be in and say it’s up to you.
It was hot in the car. Chili rolled down his window. “What’d she say a writer would cost?”
“Between one-fifty and four hundred thousand.”
“Jesus Christ,” Chili said, “just to fix it? That’s what I thought she meant, but I wasn’t sure. The writers do okay, huh?”
“It’s the fucking agents ruining the business. Agents and the unions. But you know what? If I had the dough I’d hire one of those guys. That’s how sure I am of this one.”
Chili, not at all sure, didn’t say anything.
“With a little luck, say if you were to run into your pal the drycleaner,” Harry said, “and could negotiate me a quick loan . . .”
Chili watched two young ladies walking up the middle of the studio street: long blond hair, miniskirts, a couple of Miss Californias.
“I found him, Harry.”
Harry said, “Where?” jumping on it, twisting around in that tight space between the seat and the steering wheel.
“What’s the difference where? I took the money off him and sent it to his wife.”
“You didn’t.”
“Three hunnerd grand. I kept ten for Bones, if I decide to pay him.”
“You had the money in your
“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.”
GET SHORTY 211
“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
