Get Shorty: A Novel

“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-Fuisse. 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 around 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.