Get Shorty: A Novel

“For a minute.”

“A minute—it was a lot longer’n that.”

“Why’re you getting mad? I say I think you could be an actor, you take it the wrong way.”

“I don’t like being watched.”

“That could be a problem.”

“Why would it?”

“If you want to act.”

“I never said I did.”

“You don’t want to, then don’t.”

It was quiet for a minute or so.

“You don’t mean become a movie star. More like a character actor.”

“Let’s talk about it in the morning. I’m beat.”

“I ever made a movie, you know who’d go set it? My mother and my two aunts. Tommy, he’d go, for a laugh.”

Karen didn’t say anything, meaning that was the end of it.

He could see himself in different movies Robert De Niro had been in. He could maybe do an Al Pacino movie, play a hard-on . . . He couldn’t see himself in ones, like say the one where the three guys get stuck with a baby. They don’t know how to take care of it and you see these big grownup assholes acting cute. Put on a surprised look and that was as

GET SHORTY 281

far as they could take it. People liked that cute shit, they went to see it. But, man, that would be hard, try and act cute.

What else could he play? Himself? The shylock?

No, he’d start trying to act like himself and it wouldn’t work, because acting wasn’t as easy as it looked. He knew that much. No, what he needed . . .

He heard Karen’s voice in the dark say, “I forgot to tell you. The Bear called.”

Chili said, “Yeah?” even though for some reason he wasn’t surprised. “He say what he wanted?”

“He left a number.”

“I’ll call him in the morning.”

The Bear could wait. What he needed to think about was an ending. And maybe a title. Get Michael. Except that wasn’t the movie, that was real life. He kept getting the two mixed up, Chili’s Hollywood Adventure and whatever the other one was . . .

He must have heard the sounds coming from downstairs, because something woke him up before he heard Karen say, “Not again.” He turned over on his back and was looking at a faint square of light from the window reflected on the ceiling. Karen said, “It’s Harry, downstairs.” He could hear the sounds as faint voices now, a movie playing on the TV in the study. “Harry pulling the same stunt on you,” Karen said. “He was drinking, I’m sure of it, and got this wonderful idea.” He saw Karen sitting up, her face and breasts in profile. Another picture to keep. The clock on her side of the bed—seeing it behind her—said 4:36.

“If he was drinking all night . . .” Chili let the words trail off before saying, “he’d be out of it, wouldn’t he? How could he drive?”

“Ask him,” Karen said, “he’s waiting for you.”

She turned to fix her pillows, puff them up, and sunk back in the bed.

“If I know Harry he’ll act surprised to see you. ‘Oh, did I wake you up? Gee, I’m sorry.’ What happened at dinner, well, not forgotten, but put aside. This is Harry the survivor. Sometime during the past five hours or so he realized that if his project is dead, he’d better quick get a piece of yours. He’ll offer to take over as producer . . .”

“I don’t know,” Chili said, wanting to listen for sounds, different ones than the TV.

But Karen kept talking.

“He’ll get a writer, probably Murray, and handle all negotiations. He’ll already have a plot idea and that’s why he’s here at four-thirty in the morning. He’ll say he couldn’t wait to tell you. But the real reason is he wants to be annoying. He still resents what he thinks you pulled on him, stealing Michael, and I know he doesn’t like the idea of us being together . . .”

Telling him all that until he said, “I don’t think it’s Harry.”

And that stopped Karen long enough for him to hear the TV again and what sounded like gunshots and that sharp whining sound of ricochets, bullets singing off rocks.

Karen said, “If it isn’t Harry . . .”

“I don’t know for sure,” Chili said, “and I hope I’m wrong and you’re right.” It was a western. He heard John Wayne’s voice now. John Wayne talking to the West’s most unlikely cowboy, Dean Martin. Getting out of bed he said to Karen, “I think it’s Rio Bravo.”

GET SHORTY 283

Catlett sat in the dark with the big-screen TV on loud the way Harry said Chili Palmer had done it; the difference was a movie instead of David Letterman and Ronnie’s Hardballer .45 in his hand resting on the desk and pointed at the door part open. He believed the John Wayne movie was El Dorado, the big gunfight going on now with the sound turned up so high it was making him deaf, but he wanted Chili Palmer to hear it and come down thinking it was Harry paying him back. He’d checked to make sure Harry was home and not here and after so many rings he almost hung up, got Harry on the line slurring his words bad, the man almost all the way gone. He told Harry to go to bed before he fell down and hurt himself. All there was to do now was do it. Chili Palmer walks in the door—let him say something if he wanted, but don’t say nothing back. Do him once, twice, whatever it took and leave the way he had come in, through the door on the patio he found unlocked.

He had waited this long so as not to be seen or run into by other cars on the street. Most went to bed early in this town, but some stayed out to party and drove home drunk when the bars closed or in a nod. Four A.M. was the quietest time. He had been here now since four-twenty. Shit. If Chili Palmer didn’t come down in the next two minutes he’d have to go upstairs and find him.

Chili put on his pants and shoes, Karen watching him, and got out the Lakers T-shirt he’d bought at the airport to go with Karen’s Lakers T-shirt if he got lucky. But when he did, when they came upstairs earlier and jumped in bed, he wasn’t thinking of T-shirts.

This one fit pretty well. Karen probably couldn’t see what it was. He walked over to the bedroom door and stood listening. He was pretty sure the movie was

Rio Bravo.

After about a minute Karen said, “Are you going down?”

He turned to look at her.

“I don’t know.”

She said, “Then I will,” getting out of bed.

“You’re as bad as Harry.”

He watched her pull on the bulky sweater and a pair of jeans. She looked about twenty. When she came over to the door he raised his hand and then laid it on her shoulder.

“What if it isn’t Harry?”

“Someone else comes in and pulls exactly the same stunt?”

She was calm about it. He liked that.

“I think Harry might’ve told Catlett, and that’s who it is.”

She said, “Oh.”

Maybe accepting it, he wasn’t sure. “Or it could be somebody Catlett sent. You don’t have a gun, do you? Any kind would be fine.”

Karen shook her head. “I could call the police.”

“Maybe you better. Or call Harry first, see if he’s home.”

She moved past him to the bed, sat on the edge as she picked up the phone from the night table, punched Harry’s number and waited. And waited. Karen shook her head. “He’s not home.”