Hollywood Tough

Chapter 36

Universal was a big-time film company located on hundreds of acres with thirty or more soundstages and a huge back lot. You could fit all of Hollywood General Studios onto half of the east parking lot. Nicky docked the maroon Bentley in a space near the commissary. Shane got out and was gawking at ten scantily clad women dressed as space aliens, walking away from the kiosk eating candy bars.

Nicky joined him, pointing. "Probably extras on Space Mission Earth, the new Gene Roddenberry TV series spinoff."

"I thought Gene Roddenberry was dead."

"Death is relative in show business. In Roddenberry's case, he died physically but not professionally. Commercial viability transcends mortality. A confusing but meaningful concept. Okay, boychik, lemme do the talking."

"When you talk, are you gonna actually say anything this time?"

"I had a cough drop stuck in my throat at CAA. I'm fine now."

They entered the main commissary, where the hostess took their names and led them to the rear of the large dining room, which had been designed with curved walls. The tables were arranged in clusters.

"There's no east wall," Shane said to Nicky as they followed the attractive blond hostess through the crowded roomful of studio employees. "You said the room was a rectangle and the tables were in rows. That people tried to sit near Lew Wasserman by the east wall."

"The dumbass things you pick to worry about," Nicky said, brushing this useless remark aside. "After Seagram's bought the studio, they redesigned it, put in the S-curves and the seating clusters. Happy now? Try and focus on business, not bullshit."

They were led through a door into a private dining room that was very tastefully decorated with antiques. A man in a white coat stood at the far end of a twelve-seat rectangular table and smiled at them as they entered.

"Take any chair you like," the waiter said. "My name is Arthur."

"Thanks." Nicky picked the seat at the head of the table. "I should have said, except that one," Arthur amended. "That's Mr. Bergman's place."

Nicky got up quickly, then picked a seat at the center of the table, while Shane took the chair beside him. Nicky smiled at Arthur. "How many people are attending this luncheon?"

"Mr. Bergman, Ms. Smart, Mr. Feltheim, Ms. Ansara, and Ms. Freeman."

Nicky was doing the math on his fingers as Arthur went back into the kitchen. "Five. Shane, move over there, take that one across from me." "Why?"

"We're gonna get flanked if we sit like this. Emotionally, this room is his territory. He's also got the power chair at the head of the table. We don't want to be sitting side by side like a couple of schmucks on a park bench. Whatever you do, don't get pushed to the weak zone down there at the far end of the table."

Shane got up and moved around to the other side, but he was smiling. "The dumbass things you pick to worry about."

"This isn't lunch, it's war. You'd never catch Schwarzkopf with his battle groups side by side. Everything in a negotiation has intense subtextural meaning."

The doors opened and a Napoleonic curly-haired man wearing a Hawaiian shirt topped by a fancy leather vest with silver conchos walked into the room. He was followed by a group of Hollywood-chic executives. They were ethnically mixed but similarly dressed. Some wore T-shirts and jeans with plain leather vests, others short-sleeved shirts, jeans, and plain leather vests. The vests seemed to be the preferred uniform on this side of the hill, but only Bergman got the one with cool silver conchos.

"I'm Stevie Bergman," the man said, smiling. He took off a pair of Nikon darks and hung them on the top button of his Hawaiian shirt.

Nicky stood and began moving his mouth like a beached flounder. This time Shane was ready and leaped forward. "I'm Shane Scully. May I present my associate and partner at Cine-Roma, Nicholas Marcella."

They both shook Stevie Bergman's hand; he had a soft but firm grip. Then he turned to the crowd behind him.

"These are my D's," he said. "This is Tammy Ansara and Bobby Feitheim."

Shane shook hands with them. Tammy was a strikingly beautiful woman in her late twenties with auburn hair. Feltheim was the same age, blond, and had aqua babyblues-probably contacts. "Everybody calls me 'the Felt,' " he offered warmly as Arthur returned from the kitchen.

Bergman turned and introduced the African-Americans. Ms. Freeman was Denise; Ms. Smart was Sondra. They were trim, beautiful, and still professionally safe at under thirty.

They all shook hands, then found their favorite seats up by Bergman at the north end of the table, slickly moving Shane and Nicky out of their prepicked, strategic positions, forcing them into the weak zone at the far end of the table.

Nicky was so shell-shocked, he led the retreat.

"Bueno," Bergman said, surveying the seating. "This is perfect, excellent-o. Unfortunately, boys and girls, I only have twenty or thirty minutes, so I asked Arturo to serve us immediament-o. I have a nice lunch planned. I hope you like Cordon Bleu."

"Isn't that chicken in cream sauce?" Shane asked.

`This is Bleu a la Bergman. It's been marinated for six hours and then basted in my mother's special recipe. She makes it in her own kitchen. And except for an odd case of botulism now and then, people seem to love it." He beat a rim shot on the tabletop with his hands. "Joke, boys and girls, just kidding." Everybody smiled.

Nicky nodded. He was still moving his lips, but no sound had yet come out.

"Okay, we talk while we eat. Arturo, sling the hash." Arthur took off for the kitchen again.

"Neural Surfer.." Stevie Bergman said. "Brilliant. The Felt read an early draft and he's amped. Right, Bobby?"

"I didn't read the actual script, only coverage," the Felt confessed. "And I must admit, the coverage was a tad confusing, but the kids who write these synopses are just outta college." He grinned. "They want Britney Spears to star in everything. By the way, we have a first-look deal with her. She might be good casting as the slave master's concubine."

Shane didn't even know there was a role for a slave master's concubine, and if there was, he certainly didn't think the hip, teen bombshell would be right for it. But Shane was a cop. As far as he was concerned, good casting was something you did when you went trout fishing.

"I'd love to get the latest draft of the script," the Felt said.

"It's loaded with ferae naturae," Shane assured him.

"It's not so much the untamed nature that excites us," Bergman chimed in. "Because, frankly, we expect to get that from Paul and Michael. Right now, to be honest, we're more interested in your completion and delivery dates."

"Our completion dates?" Shane was puzzled.

"Shall we let our hair down, boys and girls?" Stevie was looking around the table with an impish grin. The D people, whoever or whatever they were, all nodded.

"We just had a huge Christmas movie fall out on us. Tom and Julia, with Francis helming. Leaves us with a gigantic hole-o-rama in our December release schedule, and I don't have to tell you what that means."

He did, but Shane was determined not to show his ignorance.

"What makes your project so tantalizing, aside from the beaucoup package, is it has blockbuster size, which is what we need to tent-pole our Christmas release schedule. The fact that you might be able to get it in the can and drop it into our empty release date makes it irresistible," Bergman said.

"At this point, you can see why it's not so much about the screenplay as the timing," Felt said. "I mean, we love what we're hearing, and the elements attached are certainly primo, but we've got five thousand screens reserved for the tenth of December, and if we don't have a big Christmas film to release, we're pretty much fucked."

"In the ass-o-rama," Bergman added.

"Well, gee, uh, Christmas… I don't see why not. Sounds good, doesn't it, Nick?" Shane was desperate to get this monster off the LAPD's budget.

Nothing from Nicky. He was locked up tighter than a pawnbroker's safe.

"What d'ya think, Nicky? Christmas sound doable?" Shane asked again.

More mouth movement, maybe some spittle.

Shane didn't have a clue whether they could get it done by then, especially with Lubick directing. "Christmas sounds makeable, right, Nick?" he repeated.

Then his vapor-locked partner opened his mouth. "Christmas," Nicky finally sputtered.

"Yeah, Christmas." Shane was getting pissed. "Christmas," Nicky repeated impotently.

Shane gave up and smiled at Stevie. "No problem on Christmas."

"Okay, good." Bergman leaned forward. "A word of caution. We love Paul Lubick, but we've found, over the years, that working with him can be challenging. He's going to have to sign on for this delivery date. No fucking around like he did last year on Adam's Apple. That picture missed two marketing and distribution slots while he played with himself in the editing room."

"And even then," the Felt added, "it was longer than a summer harvest. People grew old and died watching that thing. Took three hours and forty minutes to unspool."

"Good point. It's gotta have a running time of less than two hours," Bergman demanded.

"Paul is… he' s-"

"Yeah, we know," Stevie said, cutting Shane off. "Our financing will be subject to contract-defined running-time restrictions and a finite delivery date. We're willing to fund half the project in return for fifty percent of the profits. Our standard distribution fee of fifteen percent is off the top; we're in first position on our initial investment, plus an additional fifty percent against final computed production and P and A costs. Per industry standards, P and A is in last but recoups first. All recoupment after break is pari passu. We'll put our half of the money in escrow, and you can borrow against it to get financing. But in the event you don't deliver for our December third preview screening, we're going to freeze the escrow account, assume total ownership of the film, tie you two guys to a stake at the Tour Center, and sell tickets to tourists to watch you bum," Bergman warned.

"Christmas," Nicky said flatly. He seemed to be focused now, but at these meetings, you could never tell.

"That's how we make movies around here. No bullshit-o. Simple and straight," Stevie said. "Of course, we'll have standard approvals on all front title cast and approvals on key crew people: D. P., A. D., the UPM, and like that. Finally, we want to post everything here on this lot. Do the CGI, Foley, the ADR, all the sound design, dubbing, everything."

"Sounds great," Shane said, not knowing what half of those letters and phrases stood for.

"Okay, then, in principle, we'll consider this a done deal." He turned to the Felt. "Let's get Legal Affairs to paper it."

Shane looked at Nicky, who nodded and smiled at everybody.

They had the Cordon Bleu a la Bergman, which was basically chicken in cream sauce but with a strange, tinny aftertaste. Nobody got botulism. They talked about the Lakers and Democratic politics. Throughout it all, everybody kept looking at their watches.

In less than half an hour they were all on their feet again, shaking hands and smiling.

"We'll have our people get in touch with your people," Stevie said. "Who does your gunfighting?"

"My what?"

"Who's your liar for hire? Your attorney?"

Shane couldn't tell him the LAPD Legal Affairs Department was going to cut the deal, so he smiled. "We're just in the midst of changing gunfighters. Our new liar will get in touch with your-"

"Have him call the Felt. He'll be the picture exec on this project," Bergman interrupted. Then they all swept out of the room, leaving Shane and Nicky looking across the empty table at Arthur.

Shane got Nicky to the door, Then finally to the parking lot.

"Christmas. How we gonna get this done by Christmas?" Nicky was coming out of it.

"Shut up, Nicky. I could've used that criticism half an hour ago."

"But Christmas! Are you out of your fucking mind? We'll never make it," the little grifter wailed.