Lassiter

47 So You Wanna Be a Gangbanger

The man was simply too large for the chair, Ziegler thought.

Nestor Tejada’s rhino shoulders spilled over the backrest. He propped his feet on the asymmetrical glass table, playing the big macher. Just like his late and unlamented boss.

Tejada had barged into the Reelz TV headquarters without an appointment, and Ziegler didn’t know what he wanted.

“So your bottom line is looking up,” Tejada said.

“Meaning what?” Ziegler didn’t like the way it was starting.

“You don’t have to pay Mr. P that fifteen percent anymore.”

Jesus. Perlow afraid of what I’d tell Melody and he’s shooting his mouth off to this frigging gangbanger.

“So you’ve got extra capital to put into the business,” Tejada continued. “Or extra cash to pull out, depending whether you’re thinking short term or long.”

“Who are you, Warren Buffet?”

“I studied Business Organization.”

“Bullshit.”

“At Okeechobee Correctional. But I learned more from Mr. P than any course.”

Sure you did. Perlow had a PhD in extortion.

Ziegler telling himself to be careful. He’d learned a long time ago not to judge a person’s intelligence based on appearances or upbringing. He’d known a couple of scary-smart porn stars in his time.

“I’m just wondering how you’re planning to use that extra dough,” Tejada said.

“Are you shaking me down?”

“I’m here to help you.”

“Screw that. You’re running a protection racket. Jesus, I thought you were out of the Latin Kings.”

“Ain’t like the Rotary Club, Ziegler. It’s blood in, blood out. You cut a throat to get in the door, and you don’t leave till you’re six feet under.”

“Lovely. Just lovely.”

“But I don’t need your money. Mr. P gave me a piece of his gaming business.”

“A piece?”

“My guys service the slots in Indian casinos. I got the company in Mr. P’s will.”

Un-fucking-believable. Max Perlow feeling all fatherly to Alex Castiel was one thing, but adopting this jailbird?

“Now, you wanna hear my idea for a new show?” Tejada said.

Ziegler immediately felt better. He leaned back and exhaled. The guy wanted to pitch him, not strong-arm him.

“Ideas, my friend, are the trash of the business,” he said. “Everyone has an idea for a show. The question is, who can take the little feathery notions that make up an idea and spin them into gold?” Repeating what he’d heard some legitimate producer say at a seminar. Stephen J. Cannell. Or Dick Wolf. Or Stephen Bochco. One of the big-timers.

“It’s called, ‘So You Wanna Be a Gangbanger,’ ” Tejada said, unperturbed.

He took a few minutes describing the show. Start with a dozen ghetto teens. They spray graffiti on expressway overpasses, then move on to shoplifting, purse snatching, car theft, maybe dealing some crank on street corners. Drive-by shootings with paintball guns, extra credit if you nail a cop. Real gang members decide who goes to the next level. In the season finale, there’d be an initiation ceremony, laced with sex and violence.

“Not a bad idea,” Ziegler said, when the spiel was over.

Thinking, great fucking idea. The next generation of reality shows. Edgy, urban, street-wise, it punched all the buttons. Ziegler imagined a franchise of inner-city spinoffs, starting with Carjack! which would reward the guy who stole the hottest wheels.

“Not bad?” Tejada said. “That’s it?”

Ziegler felt in command. He loved being pitched because it gave him a chance to bust men’s balls and break women’s hearts. “It’s okay. Like it, don’t love it. Either way, it’s really generic, not specific at all.”

“You shitting me, cabron?” Tejada said.

“Problem is, I don’t see where you fit in.”

“I’d be the whadayacallit, the executive producer,” Tejada said.

Ziegler wondered if the bastard read Variety at Okeechobee Correctional. “You gotta be kidding. You want to be the showrunner?”

“The top dude, yeah.”

“You need experience. Credits in the biz.”

“I got credits on the street.”

“Thing is, I could hire any ex-con as a consultant for five hundred bucks a week and all the Colt 45 he can drink.”

Tejada straightened in his chair, deltoids flexing. “You’re a bigger asshole than Mr. P thought.”

Ziegler placed his thumb on a red button below his desk. “I got a guy in the next office named Ray Decker. He’s an ex-cop and he’s licensed to carry a concealed firearm. If you try any shit, he’ll come in here and put a bullet in your thick fucking skull.”

Feeling unbeatable.

“Mr. P taught me that violence is only a last resort,” Tejada said, placidly. “Instead of hitting a man, just find his weakest spot and press gently. If he doesn’t respond, press a little harder.”

Ziegler knew he was leaping at the bait, but he didn’t care. Perlow was dead and he was in charge. “So, Nestor, what’s my weakest spot?”

“I saw you kill Mr. P.”

The words spoken softly, almost apologetically.

Ziegler tried not to blink, failed. Felt something thud inside his skull, hoped he wasn’t having a stroke. “The fuck you talking about?”

“I was sitting in Mr. P’s Bentley, windows down, when I heard the gunshot. I ran around the back of the house and saw you through the glass stomping on the old man’s chest.”

Ziegler remembered the moment, the blood pumping, Max wheezing. Now he felt as if his own aorta might burst. “Why didn’t you stop me?”

“I thought about it. Almost did it. That old Jew was good to me.”

“Screw that! You wanted the slots business! You wanted him to die!”

“Yeah, maybe. But I’m not the one who killed him. You are.”

Ziegler swallowed hard. “About the show …”

“Yeah?”

“A man of your experience, I could see as co-exec producer. It’s one notch from the top. Let someone else do the heavy lifting.”

Tejada nodded. “As long as it pays, I don’t give a shit about the title.”

“Smart,” Ziegler agreed.

“How does fifty grand an episode sound?”

Like highway robbery, Ziegler thought.

“Like a good deal, all around,” he said.