Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk

MONEY MAKES US REAL

THEY COME UPON ALBERT in the corridor outside of Norm’s suite, head down, back propped against the wall, tapping on his BlackBerry with his silver tapping stick. He beams when they turn the corner.

“Guys! What up?”

“Up, down, all around,” Dime answers.

“Let’s hang here a minute, I’ll bring you up to speed.” He turns to Josh with a pleasant, pointed look.

“I’ll go tell Mr. Oglesby we’re here,” Josh says.

“Excellent idea.” Albert herds Dime and Billy down the corridor some distance from the suite. “Looking good at halftime, guys, you did yourselves proud. You meet Beyoncé and the girls?”

“Hell no,” Dime grumps.

“What? No? That’s lousy. So what was that about down on the field, after? Looked like a flash mob or something, Black Friday at a Wal-Mart out in North Jersey. We couldn’t figure out what was going on.”

“It was nothing,” Dime says. “Just boys being boys.”

“Somebody giving you a hard time?”

Dime looks to Billy. “Was somebody giving us a hard time?”

“No, relatively speaking,” Billy answers.

“He’ll go far,” Albert says to Dime. “All right fellas, here’s the deal.” He pauses to smile at a passing couple, waits for the swish of their fur and cashmere to recede down the hall. “Norm’s in. He wants to put together an investor group to make our picture, but that’s not all. He’s inspired, shall we say, you guys have inspired him to think big thoughts today. He’s decided to form his own production company and start making films.”

“Might as well. His football team sure sucks,” says Dime.

Albert sniggers, glances up and down the hall. “Apparently he’s been mulling it over for quite some time, then we show up and he figures that’s God’s way of telling him to make his move. And frankly why not, the studios are looking to slough off risk any way they can. A guy who comes in with his own product, his own money, this is a very desirable commodity in Hollywood these days.”

He pauses while several more couples pass. One of the men snaps his fingers at Dime.

“Hey, great job at halftime!”

Dime snaps his fingers back. “Hey, you too!”

Albert waits until they’re gone. “It helps that he’s going all in, we’ll have that much more credibility shopping our picture around. With a one-off deal you’re sort of a lame duck, but if they know you’re sticking around? All the more reason for him to make a statement with this picture. Anyway, as far as our deal goes, as soon as he gets the company formed I’ll assign my option over to it, then when we’ve got the package together the company exercises the option, you guys get some money, and we go into production.”

“Cool,” says Dime.

“I’ll need you guys’ consent to transfer the option over.”

Dime hesitates. “But you’ll still be our producer.”

“You better believe it.”

“What about the Swank situation?”

“He’s still got a blunt up his ass about Hilary, but we can deal with that. All kinds of ways to deal with that. Believe me, having her in the mix is nothing but good for us. But listen.” Albert coughs into his fist. “You need to know going in, Norm’s got somewhat of a problem with the option price.”

“What kind of problem.”

“A size problem. A hundred thousand per Bravo, ten Bravos, that’s a tough nut to crack right out of the gate. We’re already looking at plunking half a million for the script, then getting a lead on the level of a Hilary, a Clooney, we’re talking multiple millions here.”

Dime turns to Billy. “Here’s where we get fucked.”

“No!” Albert cries. “No, no, no, no, Dave, have some faith! We’ve come this far together, you think I’m gonna toss you over the side now? Dave, Dave, you guys are my guys, either we make it together or we go down together. That’s what I told them in there, but I’m not gonna bullshit you, Norm’s not Santa Claus, he’s not spending one more dime than he has to. He, they, one of his guys — look, these are businessmen, okay? Understand they’re very crude in their thinking, just by definition. They floated the idea of dealing with just you two, they see your stories as the principal elements in this and the rest of the guys as, well, ancillary. I said I’d run it by you, but—”

“No.”

“—uh huh, total nonstarter, that’s what I told them. Bravo lives by the warrior code, I said. They won’t ever leave one of their own behind.”

“For them to even—”

“I know! But you have to understand that’s the mentality we’re dealing with here. Streamlining, return on capital, all that MBA shit, but I think they got the message. It’s gotta be all Bravos or no Bravos, nothing in between.”

“Damn straight,” Dime woofs, with volume enough to raise giggles from the busboys down the hall.

“David, relax.”

“I’m totally relaxed. Billy’s relaxed too, aren’t you Billy?”

“Totally, Sergeant.”

“Hang with me, guys, I’m gonna get you there. Right now what they’re offering is, well, what you’d be doing is deferring moneys up front for a net-profits percentage in the movie. You get an advance when the option is exercised, then you get another pop when we go into production—”

“How much?”

“—David, let me finish, please. Look, just ballparking this thing, if it has even decent success on the scale I’m thinking of, you guys will come out considerably better than a hundred thousand, but you’ll have to hang in there and be patient. When I set our up-front number two weeks ago I was thinking we’d be playing with studio money, but it’s a whole different game when you go independent. The numbers scale back across the board, people usually end up taking a profits percentage in lieu of cash. Even stars take percentage if it’s a project near and dear to their hearts.”

“Fine, I hear you. How much.”

“Well, initially it’s pretty minimal. Fifty-five hundred against profits when the option’s exercised—”

A gurgling commences in Dime’s throat.

“—but you’ll get that second advance when production starts—”

“Fifty-five fucking hundred?”

“I know it’s not what you were hoping for—”

“No shit!”

“—but then you’ll get that second advance—”

“How much?”

“Well, we’re still working on that, but usually it’s tied to production budget. The bigger the budget, the bigger your advance—”

“Not our deal, Albert. You said a hundred thousand up front.”

“I did, because I believe in your story so much, and I still think we’re gonna home-run this thing. Look, two weeks ago I thought we had a real chance of taking studio bids, you guys had such outrageous buzz coming in. But we get a couple of no’s, and Russell Crowe taking a pass, that really hurt us. It doesn’t take much for the buzz to fade, and I admit, maybe I got a little ahead of myself, I jacked up everybody’s expectations and now we’re all going to have to adjust. Plus the fact that the war’s put up some spotty box-office numbers, didn’t I say that might be a problem? So we’re bucking that too. I know fifty-five hundred sounds pretty lame after the numbers we’ve been talking about, but for young men like yourselves, young soldiers on Army pay, it’s not nothing, right?”

“Albert, don’t even talk to me like that.”

“Dave, I’m just trying to get you to think long-term here. This is equity, think of it as stock, stock options, you’re deferring a chunk of money up front for a shot at real money down the road. And you guys would be helping to build something, that’s what equity’s all about. If the company makes money, you make money, you’ll be fully vested partners with Legends on this deal—”

“Wait, who?”

“Legends. That’s the name Norm wants for his company.”

“Jesus Christ, he’s already got the fucking name?”

“You better believe he’s got the name and that’s great, I got no interest being partners with a ball scratcher, and neither should you. He’s ready to go, Norm’ll pull a damn trigger — do you not realize the value of that? How freaking rare that is in my world? You die by the slow no in this business, lemme get back to you, lemme get back to you, lemme get back to you, everybody’s so scared of screwing up they’d rather lose a kidney than make an actual business decision. So here we are in Dallas, we meet this guy, he sizes up the situation and wham, he’s good to go. I’m not saying you have to love the guy, but you’ve got to respect the power of that.”

Respect this, Billy can practically hear the Bravos woof. As if in pain Dime swags his head side to side.

“But Albert.”

“What?”

“You said they love us.”

“I did, David, but that was two weeks ago. People move on, they start to focus on other things.”

“So you’re saying this is the best offer we’re going to get?”

“Dave, I’m saying this is the only offer we’ve got.”

“Does Norm know?”

Albert shrugs. “He knows we’ve been talking to people.”

“So what he’s offering is, basically, fifty-five hundred bucks apiece. And that’s all he’s on the hook for. No guarantees we’ll get anything else.”

“Dave, you want a guarantee, go buy a microwave. No guarantees in my world unless your name is Tom Cruise.”

Dime sighs, and to Billy’s profound alarm he turns and asks, “What do you think?” but before Billy can answer an unmarked door pops open between them and the suite, and Mr. Jones leans out.

“Mr. Ratner, the third quarter’s about to end.”

“Thanks. We’ll be right there.”

Mr. Jones withdraws but leaves the door ajar. Albert turns to Dime and Billy, lowers his voice. “Guys, tell me what you want. You wanna go in there and talk, or should I just yell through the door no thanks.”

“No,” Dime says.

“No what?”

“This sucks,” Dime says to Billy.

Albert gives them a big smile. “Always, guys, always, it’s just a question of degree. Be thankful it’s not rectal bleeding.”

“What happens to the rest of it if we say no? His big production company, all the movies he wants to make.”

Albert drops the smile. “I think he’s planning to go forward with that. He seems committed.”

“Are you going to be involved?”

Albert’s mouth forms a tidy little purse. “Well, I’d be foolish not to consider every opportunity.”

“Albert, you’re an asshole.”

The producer doesn’t bat an eye. “Dave, I got you an offer. If you think you can do better, let’s go in there and talk to the man.”

“Okay, fuck it. Let’s go in there and talk.”

Billy says he’ll be fine waiting in the hall, but Dime gives him such a blistering look that he’s shamed into coming. Mr. Jones is standing just inside the door, which he shuts and locks behind them. They descend a couple of steps into a dim, cramped, low-ceilinged space furnished along the ad hoc lines of a waiting room at a car wash. It’s a super-private adjunct to the official owner’s suite next door, a man place, ripe with the muzzy smells of sweat, burnt coffee, vestigial cigarette smoke, plus a percolating flatulence that might be stale lunch meat. Everyone turns and smiles for the Bravos. “Gentlemen! Welcome to the war room!” someone cries, and they are urged forward, offered chairs and refreshments. TVs mounted on wall brackets are tuned to the game, the announcers nattering like parrots in a cage. A bare wet bar occupies one corner of the room. Norm and his sons are seated at a counter that runs the length of the plate-glass front. Scattered about the countertop are laptops, spreadsheets, loose-leaf notebooks, bottles of water and sports drinks; as his eyes adjust to the bad light Billy sees not a drop of alcohol in sight. Two Cowboys executives are moving about, big, burly guys with the trouser-hitching swagger of management who started out on the loading dock. Mr. Jones perches on a stool by the wet bar, still with his suit coat buttoned. Everyone else is down to loose ties and rolled sleeves, except for Josh, who’s doing his mannequin thing at the back of the room.

Dime asks for coffee. Billy says he’ll have the same. Norm has swung his Aeron chair around to face them, and now he rubs his eyes and tips the chair back, giving the scoreboard a last glance as the quarter expires.

“Sorry about the lights,” he says, nodding at the ceiling. “We keep them off during games, otherwise it’s like a fishbowl in here. Damn irritating to look over at the TV and see yourself staring at yourself on the tube.”

“Or dropping the f-bomb,” says one of the execs. “Not that that’s ever happened here.”

Norm shakes his head as the others laugh. “We try to keep at least an R rating up here.”

“Not many people ever see the inside of this room,” says the second executive, who has introduced himself as Jim. “This is the inner sanctum, boys. A lot of folks would give their left arm to be sitting where you are.”

“You should charge admission,” Dime says, and everyone laughs but him.

“I’m not sure we could get it today,” says Norm. “Not our most stellar effort, I’m sorry to say. I was really hoping we’d put on a show for you fellas. But maybe we’ll turn it around in the fourth.”

“Some pass blocking from Stennhauser would be nice,” says f-bomb, to sour laughs. Norm turns to one of his sons.

“Skip, how many carries does Riddick have?”

Skip consults his laptop. “Nineteen. For thirty-four yards.”

Groans rise from several sectors of the room. “He’s done, coach,” says Jim. “Let’s give Buckner a go, at least he’s got fresh legs.”

“He don’t have any holes to hit, what does it matter,” says f-bomb. “We need to be pushing some bodies around up front.”

Norm frowns and takes a sip of Fiji water. Skip hands him a sheet of paper he’s just printed out, from which Norm proceeds to read aloud third-quarter statistics. A waiter enters through a side door, showing a momentary slice of the main suite. Over there it’s a pretty good party; over here, a long day at the office. Billy accepts his coffee and takes some sips. He likes it here. The close quarters evoke a sense of primal security, a kind of hunkered-down campfire intimacy that seems specifically masculine. It’s that long-sought place of ultimate safety, all the better for its cave-like feel, its air of chummy exclusivity. He would love to wipe the war from his brain, if only for a moment, and indulge in the luxury of pretending that he’s permanent here.

“This defense is as tough as any we’ve faced all year,” Norm says, perhaps rehearsing for the post-game press conference. He sets the printout aside and speaks past the Bravos to Albert, who’s chosen to sit where the soldiers can’t see his face.

“Albert, did you tell our young friends about our plans for their film?”

“Sure did!” Albert answers, spreading the pep a bit thick.

“Congratulations on your movie company, sir,” says Dime. “Sounds epic.”

“Thank you, Sergeant, thank you very much. It’s something we’ve been kicking around for a while, and we’re excited to get it going, incredibly excited. It’s definitely going to be a challenge, but with Albert on the team I like our chances. And I’m especially excited about bringing your story to the screen, and let me pledge to you right now, and I can’t emphasize this enough, we’re going all-out on this. Anyone here will tell you, when I decide to do something, I don’t go halfway.”

“Norm loves his work,” says f-bomb.

Everyone laughs, and Norm joins in with a boyish chuckle, he doesn’t mind this sly poke at his workaholic rep. Billy is struck by the depths he finds in Norm’s watery blue eyes, the sincerity, the evident eagerness to concur and connect. Watching him at close range, it’s hard to believe he’s as mean as people say.

“I believe in your story,” Norm tells the Bravos, with only the briefest glance at the field, “and I believe in the good it can do for our country. It’s a story of courage, hope, optimism, love of freedom, all the convictions that motivated you young men to do what you did, and I think this film will go a long way toward reinvigorating our commitment to the war. Let’s face it, a lot of people are discouraged. The insurgency gets some traction, casualties mount, the price tag keeps going up, it’s only natural some people are going to lose their nerve. They forget why we went there in the first place — why are we fighting? They forget some things are actually worth fighting for, and that’s where your story comes in, the Bravo story. And if the Hollywood crowd won’t step up to the plate, well, I’m happy to pinch-hit, more than happy. This is an obligation I willingly assume.”

Son Skip is absorbed in his computer screen. Norm’s other son — Todd? Trey? — has swung his chair around to listen to his father, though at the moment he’s tapping out a text on his cell. Jim is pouring himself a soda at the bar. F-bomb executive is leaning against the wall, munching a sandwich and nodding his head to the beat of his boss’s speech.

“I have my doubts about Hollywood anyway,” Norm is saying, “their politics, the whole cultural attitude out there. And some of the concepts they’ve been throwing around? This whole thing with Hilary Swank — look, I know she’s a great actress, I’m sure she’d do a great job. But having a woman in the lead just sends the wrong message, in my view. This is a story about men, men defending their country, and I’m sorry, that’s just what it is.”

“But Hilary’s still a prospect,” Albert pipes up, and everybody laughs.

“She is, she is,” Norm concedes, grinning, “I didn’t say she isn’t. And if casting her turns out to be the best thing for our movie, that’s what we’ll do. I’m not interested in making a good movie, I want something great, something people will be watching a hundred years from now. I want a movie that’s going to rank right up there with the best American films of all time.”

And with that everything seems settled and fine, until Dime speaks up and spoils it.

“What makes you think you can?” he asks, taunting, jeering, lifting his chin as if dismissing some object of contempt. Someone gasps, or so it seems when Billy later recalls these moments. Skip turns from his computer, slowly folding down the screen. Todd stares, fingers poised over the keypad of his phone. F-bomb executive has paused in midchew.

“Pardon?” Norm’s dazed smile makes a pudding of his face.

“Can you do it, can you deliver. You want to buy our story for fifty-five hundred bucks, that sure sounds like chump change to me. We could sell it to pretty much anybody for that, hell, my granny could swing that deal with a trip to the ATM. With all due respect, Mr. Oglesby, sir, show us you’re serious. Show us you’re a player.”

Still with that knocked-wonky smile, Norm sits back and carefully crosses his arms. He turns to his sons, then to the two executives, and as if cued by some mysterious signal, they all bust up laughing.

“Look around you, son,” Norm says, regarding Dime with a warm, pitying cast to his eyes. “Look around and think for a moment about everything you see. Then you tell me, am I a player?”

Billy knows if it was up to him, he would fold right now. It’s too strong, the dark mojo of these rich, powerful men operating in the comfort of their home turf, and Norm above all with his kindly blue eyes, his fatherly patience, the paralytic force field of his mesmerizing narcissism. Billy wishes Albert would speak up and pull them back from the brink, but Dime presses on.

“Sir, may I speak frankly?”

Norm smiles, shows his palms. “Why stop now?”

More yuks from the cheering section. The small of Billy’s back is a peat bog of sweat. Does Dime plan these things or just wing it? Wings it, he decides with a fierce burst of pride. He’d follow his sergeant through forty hells.

“I’ve been told it’ll take a budget of around eighty million dollars to get our movie made — am I correct on that, Albert?”

“Ideally,” Albert intones from somewhere south of the Bravos. “Sixty to eighty million to make a first-class war picture.”

“That’s a lot of scratch,” Dime says, turning back to Norm.

“It is,” Norm agrees.

“So where’s it coming from?”

“Ah.” Norm chuckles, looks to his son. “Skip, remind me again, where does the money come from?”

“Capital markets,” Skip says briskly, only slightly condescending as he turns to Dime. “Banks, insurance companies, hedge funds, pension plans, there’s always plenty of money out there looking for deals. Assuming the economy cooperates, we think we can get Legends fully funded in the three-, three-hundred-fifty-million range with a series of private offerings, roll them out over a period of, say, eighteen months. Then with additional funding to come as needed, maybe on a per-project basis.”

“GE Capital’s been begging to put some money with us,” says Todd.

“That’s right. And that’s not counting individual investors. Just with our friends next door”—Skip nods toward the main suite—“I bet Dad could step over there and have commitments for twenty, thirty million by the end of the game.”

“We have access,” Norm says patiently to Dime. “We have ample experience raising capital. I think you could even call us”—he pauses and smiles—“players.”

“Yes sir, I sure hear you on that, sir. Those are some stout numbers you’re talking about, but with all due respect, sir, fifty-five hundred for each of my Bravos just seems kind of… small.”

“Albert, they understand how we need to structure this deal?”

“I explained,” Albert answers in a studiously neutral voice.

“So you know”—Norm turns back to the Bravos—“your fifty-five hundred is just an advance, correct? We could buy you out with a big lump sum, sure, but that makes it harder for us to get your movie made. We need maximum flexibility to put this package together, and what we’re asking from you, what we need from you, is in the nature of an in-kind equity contribution. In exchange for the rights to your story you’ll have a vested interest in the project, which means you share with us in the upside—”

“And the downside,” says Dime.

“Sure, sure, and the downside. There’s going to be risk, just like with any investment. But it won’t be any greater for you than it is for any other investor, myself included.”

“Mr. Oglesby sir, with all due respect, sir. We’re soldiers. We feel like we’ve already got enough risk in our lives.”

“And I’m certainly sensitive to that, but we’re talking about an entirely separate arena here. If we’re going to sell this project to potential investors, we’ve got to show them a solid package. We can’t afford to be cutting sweetheart deals here.”

Norm swivels his chair for a look at the field, and Billy realizes that their host was hoping to close the deal before the fourth quarter began. Too late; the players are taking the field. “You do understand, I trust,” Norm says, turning back to the Bravos, “this is about a lot more than just money. Our country needs this movie, needs it badly. I really don’t think you want to be the guys who keep this movie from being made, not with so much at stake. I sure wouldn’t want to be that guy.”

“We understand, sir. And I can assure you sir, if anything terrible happens, Bravo is ready to take full responsibility.”

Norm cuts a glance at his execs. He’s almost smiling, Billy sees. He’s enjoying this. There is a vast asymmetry in the dynamic here that Billy can’t quite put his finger on, even though it’s the elephant shitting all over the room.

“Sergeant,” Norm says, “that’s our offer. Based on what I’m hearing, it’s the only offer you’ve got, and now, well, you’re going back to Iraq. Wouldn’t you like to have something before you go? Something to show for all your hard work and sacrifice, the magnificent service you’ve given the country? Maybe it’s not as much as you were hoping for, but I think most people would agree, something is better than nothing.”

“Something would be nice,” Dime says. “Something would be great. But it’s”—he breaks off with a choking gasp—“it’s just, I don’t know, it’s just so sad, sir. We thought you kind of liked us.”

“But I do!” Norm cries, lurching upright in his chair. “I do like you! I think the world of you fine young men!”

Dime clasps his hands to his heart. “See?” he gushes to Billy. “He does like us! He likes us so much he’s going to fuck us in the face!”

In a second Albert is on his feet, chousing the Bravos out of their chairs with a bright furious smile and asking Norm for a place where he can talk to his “boys,” and though the Oglesby team takes it all more or less in stride, Dime has offended, clearly. He has crossed the bounds of couth. A very curt Mr. Jones leads them down the hall to a small, windowless room with a half bath attached, a kind of massage and decompression chamber, Billy gathers, furnished with a heavily pillowed daybed he would describe as “French,” a couple of leather and steel-tube chairs, a massage table, and a deep-pile Persian rug. The ubiquitous TV is mounted high in a corner, the first they’ve seen today that’s not switched on. Mr. Jones ducks into the bathroom and has a look, then walks a circle around the massage table. He seems to be doing some sort of security sweep.

“Hey, Mr. Jones, is this place bugged?” Dime asks. “It’s okay if it is, I’m just asking. Do you think it’s bugged?” he continues, turning to Billy and Albert as Mr. Jones leaves without saying a word. “I bet it is, hell, I bet it’s wired for video. I bet this is where Norm does his day-shift hookers—”

“David, chill.”

“—um umph, check this action out.” He’s feeling up the daybed, then testing its bounce with his rump. “I could definitely jam some high-dollar ass on this. I betcha anything he’s got it fixed for video—”

“Settle down, Dave, please—”

“—it’s always the billionaires who’re the biggest pervs—”

“—would you shut up, Dave, please, please just shut the fuck up? Please? Can you? Yes? Thank you!”

Dime sits on the edge of the daybed and primly crosses his legs, looks over at Billy, and laughs. Albert looks to Billy and rolls his eyes. Billy has taken the leather chair by the bathroom door, as far out of the line of fire as possible.

“You’re on his team?” Dime snarls.

Albert seems to rear, grizzly-like. “Hell yes, if that’s what it takes to get your picture made.”

“He’s an asshole.”

“And that’s supposed to mean anything? This is business, there’s an asshole every time you pick up the phone. Stop thinking like a twerp and get your head in the game.”

“Oh gee Albert, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry if we’re messing up your brand-new partnership.”

“Tell me this, David, do you think you’re a player? You wanna be a player, you better learn to keep a civil tongue in your head. What you said in there — look, you cannot let emotion escalate into drama, not if you want a deal. You can whine and bitch and argue and everything else, but you cannot blow it up just because you’re pissed off.”

“Like we haven’t heard some rank stuff out of your mouth.”

“That’s different, I know how far I can push. And some of these studio guys, they like the abuse, but you’re punching way above your weight here. Norm doesn’t have to take that kind of shit from you.”

“Norm can lick every pimple on my pretty pink ass.”

“Oh, lovely. Wonderful. I can see how well you’re listening. You know what, maybe Billy should represent the squad in there. How about if you stay here, David, stay here and grow some brains. Billy and I’ll go represent the squad in there.”

“I’m not going back in there,” Billy says, not that anyone’s listening. Dime holds up his hand.

“All right, all right, okay, truce. Okay.” He takes a breath. “Albert, just tell me this — is Norm just fucking with us? Does he really need to bust us down like this, or is he being a corporate dick just because he can?”

Albert leans against the massage table and sucks his lip, considering. “Both, probably. I think he could do a lot better by you guys, no question. Fifty-five hundred is pretty thin. But you’ll have equity.”

“He’ll wanna screw us on that too, that’s the vibe I get from this guy. If he’s doing us on the front end he’ll do us on the back, it’s a matter of principle with this guy.”

“He’s a pretty tough nut, I’ll grant you that. You get in a fight with Norm, you better be wearing a cup, but listen, bottom line? He wants this deal as much as we do. So we just keep him at the table for as long as it takes, when he gets tired enough he’ll come around.”

“Not if he runs out the clock on us. You heard him, he knows what we’re up against. We don’t have unlimited time here.”

“Well, I’ve always viewed your departure as a somewhat artificial deadline anyway. Signatures can be faxed. They can be e-mailed.”

“Not if we’re dead.”

Albert folds his arms and stares glumly at his shoes. A brief, startling vision comes to Billy of big old Albert standing in a rainy field somewhere, head down, shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets, weeping. It has never occurred to him that their producer might be capable of actual tears.

“How about this,” Dime offers, “how about if we hold a gun to his head?”

“Oh David, don’t even talk like that.”

“Hell yeah, vets on the edge, baby! Everybody’s got their breaking point.”

“He’s just kidding,” Billy tells Albert, looking to Dime to make sure.

“Everybody supports the troops,” Dime woofs, “support the troops, support the troops, hell yeah we’re so fucking PROUD of our troops, but when it comes to actual money? Like somebody might have to come out of pocket for the troops? Then all the sudden we’re on everybody’s tight-ass budget. Talk is cheap, I got that, but gimme a break. Talk is cheap but money screams, this is our country, guys. And I fear for it. I think we should all fear for it.”

Albert blinks, unsure how seriously he should take that last part. “Dave, all I can tell you is the only way we’re going to get a deal is to keep talking to this guy. He made his offer, if you don’t like it we’ll make a counter and see what comes back, that’s how it works. But you keep your emotions out of it and focus on the deal, okay? That’s the only way you’re going to get some money for your guys.”

“I need to call them,” Dime says, pulling out his cell.

“So call. I gotta take a leak.”

As soon as Albert’s in the bathroom Billy moves to the other chair, so that he doesn’t have to listen to the movie producer pee. Dime calls Day, and at certain points in the conversation Billy can hear Day’s side as plainly as Dime’s. What the fuck? comes through quite clearly, in addition to fuck that, fuck that shit, and fuck that motherfucking shit. Dime asks Day to poll the rest of the squad, and their answers boom through like the bellowing of cows in a slaughter chute. Billy pulls out his own cell and clicks on. He’s missed calls from Kathryn and the unknown number, and there’s a text from Kathryn as well—

Sending car 4 u tx stadium

CALL HIM 4 meet.

JUST GET IN THE CAR.

Dime clicks off. “They said no.”

“I heard.”

Dime pockets the cell. “Your thoughts, Billy. What do you think we should do.”

Billy shuts his eyes and tries to have coherent thoughts about everything that has happened today. Into the still of his concentration sails the crash of a flushing toilet.

“He’s wrong.”

“Who’s wrong?”

Billy opens his eyes. “Norm. Remember what he said in there, he was like, you guys oughta take the deal because it’s all you’ve got, and something’s better than nothing? But I don’t think so. I think sometimes nothing is better than something. I mean, I’d rather have nothing than let this guy use me like his bitch. Plus”—Billy glances around and lowers his voice, as though the room in fact is bugged—“I just sort of hate the son of a bitch.”

For some reason this is suddenly hilarious to them. Albert emerges from the bathroom to find the two Bravos laughing like baboons.

“Sorry, guy,” Dime tells him, “but fitty-five hundred don’t cut it. And Bravo speaks as one on this.”

Albert pulls a poker face. “Okay, so what cuts it?”

“Hundred thousand up front, then we’re out of Norm’s hair. And he can keep all that wonderful equity for himself.”

“Guys, I think you’re going to have to bend a little bit. What if we — hang on.” His cell is buzzing. “Speak of the devil. Lemme just… Yes, Norm.”

Billy remains in the chair, Dime on the daybed. They listen.

“You’re kidding me.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Can you even do that? On what grounds…” Albert laughs, but he’s not happy. “National what? Are you serious? I’ve never heard of… Jesus, Norm, at least give us a chance. The least you could do is wait to hear what we come back with.”

“Five minutes?” He turns to the Bravos. “You guys know of a General Ruthven?” But before the soldiers can answer, he’s back to the phone.

“Norm, I really don’t think you have to do this. If you’d just…”

“Of course I know it’s not just about the money. Tell me about it, tell my guys. They put their lives on the line every…”

“All right. I guess so. I guess we’ll see.”

Albert clicks off and slips the cell into his blazer side pocket. He turns to the Bravos, and the way he looks down at them, it’s as if they’re in their coffins and he’s having a last look before the lid comes down.

“Whut,” Dime says.

Albert squints; he seems surprised to hear Dime speak. “It’s pretty incredible,” he says. “They’ve gotten your chain of command involved. Apparently Norm’s good buddies with the deputy-deputy secretary of defense or some such crap, he had that guy call your superiors at Fort Hood. He says he talked to a General Ruthven? And the general’s supposed to call here in a couple of minutes, to talk to you.” Albert shakes his head; his voice wavers. “I think they’re going to make you do the deal.” He looks at them. “Can they even do that?”

The Bravos know full well the Army does whatever it wants, and any rights they claim will be shunted into the catch-all category known as “collateral,” i.e., things to be administered after it’s too late. Mr. Jones comes to lead them back to the bunker, where the Bravos are greeted civilly, almost warmly. They’re offered refreshments. They’re shown to the same two seats. “The wheels came off,” Todd says, indicating the scoreboard, which shows 17–7 in favor of the Bears. “Interception and fumble, ten points in two minutes.”

F-bomb executive snorts. “We’re gonna send out a search party after the game, help Vinny find his ass.”

This raises a bitter laugh.

“Why the hell does George keep sticking Brandt in the slot? Like he thinks he’s gonna block?”

“I haven’t seen him throw a block since spring training.”

“Of ’01.”

More yuks. Norm sets his headset to the side and swings around to the Bravos. “Not our day,” he says with a weary smile.

“No sir,” Dime says stiffly.

“I hate to lose, hate it about as much as anything. My wife says I’m addicted to winning, and I guess it’s true, thirty-eight years she’s been trying to calm me down. But I can’t, I need that rush. I’d rather cut off my little finger than lose.”

“We figured back in June it was going to be a tough season,” Jim says. “With Emmit gone, Moose, Jay, they left some mighty big shoes to fill. When you lose your core like that…” He trails off when he realizes no one is listening.

“I expect you fellas are kind of cross with me right now,” Norm says, and by way of response Dime and Billy say nothing. Norm regards them a long moment; nods. He seems impressed by their wall of silence.

“I don’t blame you,” he goes on. “I know I’m being kind of heavy-handed here, but my instinct tells me to get it done. This is a movie that needs to be made, now, for all the reasons we talked about. And if it works out the way I think it’s going to, you fellas are set to do very well. Someday before too long I think you’ll be thanking me—”

Somewhere in the room a phone rings. Mr. Jones answers, speaks briefly, and brings the phone over to Norm. It is the general. Dime stares straight ahead, into the far distance, it seems. Billy can hear him pulling in deep, measured breaths that he holds for several moments, then releases in finely calibrated jets through his nose. Meanwhile Norm is doing big-guy banter with the general, thanking him for his time, wishing him happy Thanksgiving, inviting him to some future unspecified game. You bet, ha ha, we’ll do our best to arrange a win for you. Dime rises, as if the general has actually entered the room. Norm looks up, registering the weirdness of the move, and indeed Billy fears that his sergeant is contemplating something extreme, but Dime just stands there exuding waves of soldierly discipline until Norm extends the phone his way.

“Sergeant Dime.” Norm’s smile is jacked a couple of clicks beyond mere courtesy. It is triumphant, one might say. Imperial. Magnanimous. “General Ruthven will speak to you now.”

Dime takes the phone and makes his way to the shadowy back of the room. Josh sidles away to give Dime some space. After a moment Billy leaves his seat and also moves to the back of the room, simply to be near his sergeant and for no other reason. He takes up position near Josh, who shoots him looks of feverish sympathy. The entire room can’t help but listen.

“Yes sir,” Dime says crisply.

“Yes sir.”

“No sir.”

“I understand, sir.”

For a full minute Dime says nothing, during which time the Bears score again. Skip and Todd toss their pens, but in deference to the general no one says a word.

“Yes sir,” Dime says presently. “I didn’t know that, sir.”

“Yes sir.”

“I think I do sir, yes sir.”

“Thank you sir. I will, sir. Out.”

Dime pivots and lofts the phone in a high, soft arc toward Mr. Jones. “Come on Billy,” he says, and without another word he’s exited the room and goes booming down the corridor at a brisk pace. Billy has to jog to catch up.

“Sergeant, where we going?”

“Back to our seats.”

“What happened? I mean, shouldn’t we…”

“It’s okay, Billy. It’s cool.”

“It is?”

Dime nods.

“He said we didn’t… ?”

“Not in so many words.” For several paces Dime is silent. “Billy, did you know General Ruthven is from Youngstown, Ohio?”

“Uh, no, actually.”

“I didn’t either, till just now.” For a moment Dime seems lost in thought. “It’s just over the state line from Pennsylvania.”

Billy begins to think maybe his sergeant has lost it. “Near Pittsburgh,” Dime continues. “He’s a big Steelers fan. The Steelers, Billy, yo? Which just by definition means he hates the Cowboys’ guts.”

“Hey guys!” someone calls, and they turn. It’s Josh, trotting after them. “Where’re you going?”

“Back to our seats,” Billy answers.

Josh slows for a moment, glances over his shoulder, then gathers speed. “Wait up, I’ll come with you.” He has a sheaf of manila packets under one arm, and with the other he’s reaching into his coat pocket. Something white flashes in his palm.

“Billy,” he calls, holding out a small plastic bottle. “I got your Advil.”