Martin Amis. MONEY

‘No.’

‘Pookie Hits the Trail? Dynamite Dick?’

‘Of course not.’

‘He’ll do anything now. Space opera, road movies, good-ole-boy stuff, TV specials. His agent straps him on the horse and out he rides. This is the first real part that’s come his way for four—five years. He’s crazy for it.’

‘Then why do we want him?’

Trust me, Slick. With Guyland in, it respectabilizes the whole package. The bottom line is, no Lorne Guyland movie ever lost money. It ups the TV and cable and video sale by 50 per cent, means we clean up in Taiwan and Guadeloupe. I have a bunch of old farts with five hundred grand under the cot. They won’t haul it out for Christopher Meadowbrook or Spunk Davis or Butch Beausoleil. Never heard of them. But they’ll haul it out for Guyland. Lorne’s our man, Slick. Face it.’

‘He’s a maniac. How do I deal with him?’

‘Like this. Say you’ll do everything he wants and then when the time comes don’t do any of it. If he goes bananas, you shoot the scene then lose the take. You’ll have the final cut, John. That I swear.’

Well, this made pretty good sense to me. I said, ‘How’s the money?’

‘The money,’ said Fielding, ‘the money is beautiful. Ever take any exercise, Slick?’

‘Why? Yeah.’

‘What kind of stuff?’

‘Oh, you know. I swim sometimes. I play tennis.’

‘No kidding.’ He called for the check. I reached for the squashed notes I kept in my trouser pocket. With a strong left hand Fielding seized my wrist. As I stood up I saw him take a fifty, one of many, from his glowing clip.

——————

Fielding had the car waiting outside — a six-door Autocrat, half a block long, complete with zooty chauffeur and black bodyguard riding shotgun. He took me to an old gangster steakhouse in the Heights. It was brilliant. We talked money. Everything looked cool with Fielding’s quorum of investors. Fuck it, I thought: worst case, his dad will end up tabbing the whole deal. Fielding’s father is called Beryl Goodney and owns half of Virginia. Maybe his mum is called Beryl, too, and owns the other half. Fielding never talks about his own dough, but I’ve yet to meet a more spectacular have: he’s got a lot already and he wants a lot more… ‘In general terms, Slick, how much do you know about money?’ I said — very little. ‘Let me tell you about it,’ he began. And he was away, his voice full of passionate connoisseurship, with many parallels and precedents, Italian banking, liquidity preference, composition fallacy, hyperinflation, business confidence syndrome, booms and panics, US corporations, the sobriety of financial architecture, the Bust of ’29, the suicides on La Salle and Wall Street… And I found myself wondering whether Alec has seen the single dead flower in the jamjar beside Selina’s bed, or heard her peeing and humming in the quiet bathroom, the black pants like a wire connecting her calves. There seems to be a thing about girls and best friends. I always fancy their best friends too; come to think of it. I certainly fancy Debby and Mandy, and that Helle from the boutique whom Selina hobnobs with. Perhaps you fancy your girl’s best friends because your girl and her best friends have a lot in common. They’re very alike, except in one particular. You don’t go to bed with the best friends all the time. In the sack she can give you one thing your girl can’t give you: a change from your girl. Not even Selina can give you that. Is Alec fucking her? Well, what do you think ? Is she doing him all those nice favours ? Could be, no? Here’s my theory. I don’t think she is. I don’t think Selina Street is fucking Alec Llewellyn. Why? Because he hasn’t got any money. I have. Come on, why do you reckon Selina had soldiered it out with me? For my pot belly, my bad rug, my personality? She’s not in this for her health, now is she? … I tell you, these reflections really cheered me up. You know where you are with economic necessity. When I make all this money I’m going to make, my position will be even stronger. Then I can kick Selina out and get someone even better.