“Still looking for one.”
“You got a book deal without one?”
“Contacts from journalism.”
“Who’s your editor?”
I made up a name.
He nodded. “Well, get yourself an agent or talk to me directly, and we just might work something out. Let’s say an eighteen-month option with first rights to renew.”
“What kind of option money are we talking about?”
“Hey,” he said, grinning. “Maybe you don’t need an agent. What kind of money? The usual. Assuming we get a network interested. But I’ve got to have everything tied up before I go to them. Nowadays, they’re more cautious than a virgin on horseback—you weren’t thinking big screen, were you?”
“Actually—”
“Forget it, Sammy. TV’s the only way to go. They’re taking chances the studios won’t, and even though syndication’s not the honeymoon it used to be, it’s still a serious game. Think you can write me up a treatment—one or two pages? Let’s say by next Tuesday?”
“Sure,” I said, “but I want to discuss some story elements with you first, make sure we’re talking the same language.”
“Story,” he said dismissively. “You’re the writer. Give me good and evil, some conflict, resolution—maybe some martial arts. Networks are ripe for martial arts, nothing decent since Kung Fu. Musicians and nudists and evil. ’Course they couldn’t be shown nude, but you’ll find some way to let everyone know they’re buck naked. Like a sly wink, know what I mean? But respectful of the human body. Something women can get behind. Good and evil. The characters arc, but they maintain their basic good-bad nature. The more I think about it, the better I like it.”
He rubbed his hands together and stood. “You got thirteen fucking minutes for the price of five, Sam.”
“You see Mellors as the evil lead?” I said.
“If you make him white.”
“Can you tell me anything more about him that would flesh out the character?”
“Nasty piece of work. Like I said, he hated women, called them manipulative bitches. I took him in, after Sanctum closed. Gave him a job because I felt sorry for him. He was working on a book, couldn’t finish it.”
“Writer’s block?”
“Money block. Writer’s block was Lowell’s game. Talk about big talk, no action. Anyway, Denny came to me begging because he knew I was a soft touch. Broke—he’d depended on Lowell. He was writing this novel, gonna be the greatest thing since Moby Dick if he could only finish it. Being a liberal do-gooder, I gave him a job with my company in return for first refusal on the manuscript.”
“What kind of job?”
“Idiot work. Business Affairs office. Writing memos, filing contracts, xeroxing. The idea was to free him up to write. Then one day he waltzes in, announces no more book, it’s a screenplay now. The story lends itself to that form. Fine, makes my life that much easier. I wait six months, then six more.”
He walked to the bookcase. Eyeing the shelves for a second, he pulled a thin unmarked volume out of the middle, opened it, put it back, and removed another one, even thinner.
“This is what he gives me.”
I took the folder. Bound in brown, marbled cardboard. The title page said:
THE BRIDE
A Screenplay by Denton W. Mellors
“Take it home,” said App. “I like you, but you’re outa here. Got a meeting.”
I folded my notes and put them away. App tossed the script I’d used for a writing board back into the trash. We walked to the door.
“I haven’t been able to locate Mellors,” I said. “Any idea what happened to him?”
“Who the fuck knows? After I told him I couldn’t use that piece of shit you’re holding, he cursed me out, threw a chair—broke some pre-Columbian pieces—and left. Last I saw of him, thank God. Scared the shit out of me. First time I hired a bodyguard.”
We left the office and walked down the postered hall past the empty reception desk. He opened a glass door and held it.
“Nice meeting you, Sammy—what makes you run, ha ha. Let’s both of us do some serious thinking about what we want out of this, write something up, and then we can break some bread. Let’s say Wednesdayish. Lunch?”