“Maybe something like Tales from the Crypt. Classy, but not taking itself too seriously. Something that can be sexy, funny and gory, all in one.”
“Creepshow,” said the Boy. “Remember that? Leslie Nielsen?”
“Did you know Ted Danson was in that?”
“And Adrienne Barbeau.”
“Jesus,” said Pierre. “What ever happened to her?”
“Hunger commercials with Sally Struthers.”
“She had some very serious tits,” said Fred the Attorney.
“Well, they’re in Ethiopia now.”
“Sally and Adrienne? Or the tits?”
“The tits stayed here. They just signed with Gersh.”
“I think it’s important to come up with a franchise-type narrator,” Pierre said. “Someone like the Cryptkeeper to tie it all together — he’d be our link, our tentpole.”
Bernie nodded. He’d seen Tales a few times and thought it was cute. “Okay,” he said. “I got it. I got it. That’s fun.”
“Now, Bernie,” said Pierre. “I want to ask you something pointblank. You don’t even have to respond.”
“I’m seventy-two years old.”
“I was not going to ask your age,” said a smiling Pierre.
“You look fucking great,” said Fred. “Doesn’t he?”
“I would never have guessed you to be seventy-two,” said the Boy.
“I’ll tell you my secret: I like to fuck. I don’t fuck too well — but I fuck every day!”
The men laughed.
“Bernie—” Pierre began, “—and remember, you don’t have to answer this now.” He inhaled deeply. “Do you think you could make our little movie — at least submit a budget — for four hundred thousand? With a ten-day shoot? I mean, down and dirty.”
How could he deliver a budget without a script? They used to shoot ’em in a week and a half, but that was thirty years ago — without unions or permits. If the movie took place in one location, maybe…
“I don’t know what four hundred thousand gets you, Pierre. And it depends on the script, we don’t have a script! I need to do some investigations.” He turned to Fred the Attorney and smiled cockily. “Four hundred thousand. Does that rent you a honey wagon these days?”
“Here’s a hypothetical,” said Pierre. “If you can do this show — because this is the way your two and a half million would be guaranteed up front—if you can do this show for a hundred thousand dollars, a three-day shoot, no frills, no bullshit, bam bam bam—”
“You’re kidding. Are you kidding?”
“I’m not fucking kidding, Bernie. You would not be in this room if I was kidding.”
“You mean like a video thing—”
“Feature film.”
“It’s just that—”
“A hundred thousand dollars, Bernie. Three days.”
“Yes!” cried the Boy. “I love it. Come on, Bernie. They made Clerks for twenty-nine thousand and change. El Mariachi was made for seven!”
“I have to go,” said Fred, ill at ease. Again he shook Bernie’s hand. “I have an appointment.”
The room shrank precipitously when he left. Bernie felt woozy and reprimanded himself for taking the Halcion. “Three days!” He rocked in his chair, sweating and grinning like a hooked grouper.
“It’s definitely do-able,” said the Boy. “We’ll get you great people. Some killer kids. We’ll get you the kids from Kids.”
Pierre retreated to his desk. “If you put your mind to it, Bernie, if you work out the logistics, I’m convinced you can shoot this with a Steadicam in forty-eight hours.”
“A one-day shoot would be the ultimate,” added the Boy. “I’d like to make a string of these — a series — each shot in one day. Film-school style.”
“Think about it. Any way you slice it, we have a deal. Congratulations! Cups of borscht and crackers all around. I’ll have business affairs draw the papers and get you half your advance — one-point-two-five, you can buy a lotta kippers with that, Bernie — soon as I see a budget. Cut a check the same day. If you don’t think you can do this, be honest, huh? Because I’m committed to this project and we’ll have to find another way.”
“I know it’s rough,” said the Boy, patting the producer’s shoulder. “But every picture we do is like this. It’s always a nightmare.”
The old man stood and made his way to the door.
“Think it over, you scary old cocksucker,” said Pierre, embracing him. “Mr. Piece of Shit Roadkill.”
“A one-day shoot!” said the Boy, jumping around like the circus had come. “I love it!”
Chet Stoddard
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He sat in the outer office, scanning a ViatiCorps brochure. Horvitz appeared behind the girl at the desk, waving him back.
“I’m sorry you’re leaving us, but I understand. It’s not for everyone.”
“And I thought show business was depressing.”
“Thinking of giving the talkers another shot?”
“Too many out there right now.”
“Every time I pick up TV Guide, there’s a new one. Where do they find these people?” He took an envelope from a drawer, handing it to Chet. “Your paycheck and…a partial commission from the ‘dentist’ deal.”
“I appreciate that, Stu.”
“Not at all. Keep in touch. If you change your mind, the door is open.”
“I’ll call you.”
“By the way, Phil Dagrom just died. The costume designer.”
“I’m not surprised. I thought he was going to die while we were there.”
“No, he got much better — after we gave him the money. Happens all the time: the pressure eases, spirits rise. They get better. And Ryan — the roommate?”
“What about him?”
Horvitz smiled like a maître d’ with no more tables. “He ran off with the money.”
“You’re kidding.”
“With a lover. They get on a plane to Paris.”
“Oh Jesus.”
“And poor Philip dies forty-eight hours later.”
“Did you tell the dentist that?”
He closed his eyes and gently shook his head. Did Chet think he had no finesse? “I told the dentist Mr. Dagrom died in Crete, in his roommate’s arms, while the sun went down on a ruin. Hey! Isn’t that what Jackie O called it when she gave Onassis a blow job? Going down on a ruin?”