Get Shorty: A Novel

She wondered again about the shears, but was more anxious to tell him the latest amazing development.

“Meanwhile, back at the studio, Elaine spoke to Michael . . .”

Right away Chili said, “Hey, where’s Harry?” looking toward the door. “He’s got to hear this.”

“He wants to meet with you,” Karen said. “He didn’t mention Harry.”

She kept her eyes on Chili, who didn’t say anything now, staring at her as she sat down across the table from him.

GET SHORTY 259

“You told Michael about the drycleaner and the shylock.”

“That’s what he wants to talk about?”

“And he told Elaine it was the best pitch he’s ever heard. Now Elaine wants to hear it.”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t a pitch. He was pretending he was a shylock, wondering what it’d be like. So I gave him a situation, that’s all.”

“He wants to have dinner with you this evening, at Jimmy’s. That is,” Karen said, watching him, “if you can make it.”

He said, “Is it a nice place?” with his bland look, eyebrows raised.

And she said, “You think it’s funny. You do. But you’re going to meet with him, aren’t you?”

“It depends,” Chili said. “Who pays?”

“You don’t have a script. You have the beginning of an idea that doesn’t go anywhere . . .”

“I’ve added to it. There’s a girl in it now.”

“Yeah—and what happens? What’s the story?”

“You mean what’s the theme? I’m still thinking about the visual fabric, as they say.”

“I can’t believe you’re serious.”

“The guy wants to talk—I know how to do that. But Harry has to be there too.”

“Or you won’t meet with him?”

“Why’s it have to be like that? Get his permission. Harry comes along, he’s there, right? What’s Michael gonna do, tell him to leave? We’ll talk about Lovejoy, bring it up, see what happens. If Michael says no, Harry’ll have a chance to argue with him. He won’t blame me if the guy doesn’t want to do it.”

“You’re serious,” Karen said.

“I don’t see what’s the big deal.”

“Right, it’s only a movie.” She had to smile at him. “Fifteen years in Hollywood . . . I’d give anything to be there.”

“You can come. Why not?”

She was shaking her head as Harry walked in and Chili said, “Michael called. He wants to meet.”

“Well, it’s about time,” Harry said.

Karen shook her head again, this time slowly, in amazement. Harry, pouring himself a Scotch, didn’t notice. But Chili did. He gave her his innocent look, with the eyebrows.

25

When he asked Karen if it was a nice place he was kidding and she never said, or told him who was supposed to pay. As soon as they walked in through the dark cocktail lounge area, Chili knew dinner for three would run at least a hundred bucks with wine.

He and Harry were taken to a table in the middle of the front section, eight-thirty, the restaurant crowded. Michael had made the reservation, but did-n’t show up till after nine. Then it took him about ten minutes to get to the table, stopping off to say hello to people sticking their hands out at him, Michael pleasant about it, smiling at everybody. Like Momo coming into a joint on 86th Street, getting the treatment. Only Momo would have a suit on, as most of the guys did here; Michael was wearing his World War Two flight jacket with a dark T-shirt under it.

As soon as he sat down at the table he looked at their drinks, ordered a Perrier and then started fanning the air in front of him.

“Would you guys mind terribly not smoking?”

Harry stubbed his cigarette out in a hurry saying of course not, he was trying to quit anyway. Chili took another drag on his and blew it out past the empty chair at the table, toward the entrance to the room where a little guy with dark shiny hair was standing there looking around as the maitre d’ hurried up to him, the maitre d’ giving him the same treatment he had given Michael, though the guy was not a movie star or Chili would have known him. Chili believed ninety percent of the guys in Hollywood had dark hair and looking around the room confirmed it. What he saw was a lot of hair, dark hair on the guys, different shades of blond hair on the women; older guys with younger women, girls, which was what he had expected. He observed this as Michael was saying that, according to a study he read, smokers exercised less than nonsmokers, were not as likely to use seat belts, were more prone to argue, missed work more often than nonsmokers, and were two-point-two times more likely to be dissatisfied with their lives, not to mention they were two-point-six times more likely to have bronchitis and emphysema.

Harry was saying, “They made a study, huh? Gee, that’s interesting, I’d like to read it,” as the maitre d’ was looking this way now and the little guy with the dark shiny hair was coming to the table. Chili noticed he had on a dark-gray shirt and tie with a dark-gray sport coat and light-gray pants that looked like pajamas. Drab colors, but the guy still had a shiny appearance. He pulled out the empty chair and sat down. A waiter tried to push his chair in and the guy waved him away, turning the chair and hunching toward Michael, his back to Chili. As this was happening Michael said, “Buddy—” sounding a little surprised.

GET SHORTY 263

So this was Michael’s agent.

Buddy was supposed to know Harry, but didn’t even glance at him. He started right in with, “They want you to take a meeting with this producer they keep talking about. You believe it? The guy’s a fucking writer. I mean he writes books, not even screenplays, but he wants this broad as the producer. I never heard of this in my life.”

“I want the property,” Michael said.

“Don’t worry about it, you’ll get the property. I said to the guy’s agent, ‘The fuck is this, you trying to hold a gun to my head? We have to take the broad?’ Which is out of the question. I said, ‘What if there’s no communication between she and Michael? What’s she made, three pictures?’ One did okay, the other two barely earned back negative costs.”

“I want that book,” Michael said.

“Michael, you’ll get the book, soon as we get done with this pissing contest. If it was a director— yeah, I can understand he’s got a producer he likes to work with. But this is a fucking writer. I said to his agent, ‘Hey, Michael doesn’t have to option this book, you know.’ And the agent goes, ‘And we don’t have to sell it.’ I go, ‘Well, what the fuck is the guy writing for, he doesn’t want to sell his work?’ You ever hear anything like that?”

“You have to understand his motivation,” Michael said. “A writer can spend years working on a book he isn’t sure will ever sell. What makes him do it?”

“Money. The idea of hitting big,” Buddy said. “Selling one to Michael Weir. What else? Look, what we do, we say okay to the meeting. The broad arrives, we ask her to wait a minute, be right with you. I call the guy’s agent and I say, ‘Do we have a deal? Come on, we have a deal or not? We don’t have a deal, I’m sending the broad home.’ Put it to them like that, I guarantee you within five minutes we’ll have a deal.”

Chili watched Michael playing with a book of matches that would never be used for lighting cigarettes, Michael saying, “How you handle it is up to you.”

Buddy said, “I’ll give you a call.”

Getting up he seemed to notice Harry for the first time, Harry waiting to be recognized, Harry saying, “Buddy, how you doing?” The agent nodded, said yeah, great. Chili watched him glance this way now—like, what, another