The Big Bamboo (11 page)

Coleman took another big sip and wiped his mouth with his shirt. “But they seem so nice.”

“Right up until shit’s on,” said Serge. “I see an old person, I cross the street.”

“I haven’t had any problems,” said Coleman.

“That’s because they mostly just fuck with each other. There’s been such an explosion in gray-on-gray crime that Florida newspapers need special roundup boxes to fit it all in. Like this item from West Palm Beach: chairs flying again at a condo meeting. And Sarasota: Police had to clear the shuffleboard courts with tear gas. And Fort Lauderdale: the daily cafeteria meltdown…. Oooo, this was a big one. Forty people involved. Half the retirees ran screaming, the rest jumped in the pile. Broken hips, heart attacks. They triaged in the dining room and took them to five different hospitals…”

“How’d it start?”

“Cops say some guy in the cafeteria line couldn’t make up his mind and got a bowl of Jell-O cubes mashed in his face. Here are the names and conditions and…Oh, my God!” Serge dropped the newspaper and took off down the stairs.

Coleman chased after him. “What is it?”

They ran across the parking lot and jumped in the Buick.

“Serge, what’s going on?”

Serge was busy screeching back onto the causeway and grabbing a cell phone from the glove compartment. He called information, then other numbers. “Room 23? Are you sure?” He hung up and floored the gas.

Aknock at the door. Betty stuck her head inside. “Murray’s here.”

The brothers were finishing a late lunch. Ian chewed calamari. “Send him in.”

A balding, middle-aged man with a pencil over his ear approached their desks. He wore a brown tie and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He read from a computer printout with sprocket holes.

“Eight forty-two. White tiger escapes…”

“Tiger?”

“Morning rewrite,” said Murray. “New African scene. Zebras, too.”

The brothers were already feeling ill. The worst part of their day. Updates from the set of
All That Glitters
.

Everything would be right in the Vistamax garden if it wasn’t for that one film.

While the Glicks ground out chum the rest of the year, the publicity side of the business necessitated they belly up to the high-roller table and produce at least one flagship picture a year. The movie didn’t have to make much money. It could even lose a little money—a little. Just as long as it received half-decent reviews that kept Vistamax from slipping into the B-studio swamp militantly ignored by the entertainment press. It was a gray distinction, and one that was worth eight or nine figures.

This year’s outing had looked better than ever when Vistamax landed the services of Werner B. Potemkin, the director’s director, darling of the critics. It couldn’t miss, guaranteed to vault Vistamax into unfamiliar realms of respectability. While the other studios threw gobs of cash at Potemkin, Vistamax was able to snare the legendary filmmaker with something much more valuable. Total creative control. Just think of all the money they’d save!

That was twenty rewrites and even more missed deadlines ago. The Glicks wondered what they’d been thinking. So did the Vistamax board, when red ink began washing ashore on the other side of the Pacific. So did the Asian crime bosses, who were using the former electronics manufacturer as their leap into legitimacy.

When news of the deal first broke, Hollywood was atwitter. Marquee director. Epic film. And the star would be their town! Then shooting began, and Potemkin’s temperament turned the production into nothing less than kryptonite. Withered everything in range. Firings, resignations, rehab. The Japanese pressured the Glicks, who pressured Potemkin, who responded with tantrums in French and lawyers in Lamborghinis.

For a rare moment in their lives, the Glicks were helpless, forced to sit on their hands while an asshole flew their studio into the side of a mountain. All they could do was torture themselves with daily updates from the set, which meant Murray.

“…Eight fifty-seven. Central Casting midgets arrive…”

Ian got up and poured a stiff drink at the office wet bar.

“…Nine-sixteen. Delay from tiger escape causes stage lights to melt deadly iceberg…Nine thirty-six. Voice coaches arrive. The midgets are now singing midgets…”

Mel joined his brother at the bar.

“…Ten-eighteen. Water from iceberg shorts out all power…Ten thirty-nine. Search begins for missing midget.”

The Glicks brought bottles and glasses back to their desks.

“…Eleven twenty-one, emergency generators and standby ice sculptors arrive…Twelve twenty-eight, midgets written out of script…”

Mel began banging his forehead on his desk.

“…Twelve forty-five. Filming indefinitely suspended again when tiger and missing midget are found.” Murray lowered his clipboard. “I’ve already taken care of flowers.”

“Murray,” said Ian. “Just kill me.”

“You’re welcome.” Murray left.

The brothers pulled out coke drawers. Two extra-long lines in stereo. Then two more…

Knock-knock. Betty. “Ford Oelman to see you.”

A young man took a bashful step into the office. “You called for me?”

Two drawers closed.

“You must be Ford!” said Ian.

Mel made a big waving motion with his arm. “Come on in, kid!”

“Have a seat!”

“We’ve been dying to meet you,” said Mel.

“W-why?”

“Your screenplay, that’s why!”

“He’s so modest,” said Ian.

“You’re too modest,” said Mel. “Take credit when credit’s due!”

“We take credit,” said Ian. “Even when it’s not ours.”

“Never seen such writing!”

“So fresh! So now!”

“Reminded me of
The Grifters
,” said Mel. “Except you’ve done that whole new thing with it.”

Ford was stunned. “You read it?”

“Not a word,” said Mel.

“But we’ve heard great things.”

“That’s why we’re going to make an exception this time and not be mad at you.”

“Mad?” said Ford.

“Personal work on company time.”

“It’s a firing offense.”

“But we’ve grown to like you.”

“We just met,” said Ford.

“That’s right,” said Ian. “You don’t have any baggage.”

“It’s your most likable quality.”

“Why don’t you have a seat?” said Ian.

“He’s already sitting,” said Mel.

“Or you can stand,” said Ian. “You’re the writer.”

“Love how he’s dressed,” said Mel, “downplaying the writer look.”

“Got that whole props thing happening,” said Ian.

Ford’s eyes went back and forth.

“Writers can dress any way they want,” explained Mel.

“So they usually dress weird,” said Ian.

“The worst-dressed people in this town are directors.”

“Especially a female director if she’s attractive.”

“Wears baggy shit to show crew she’s not stuck-up.”

“But you’re the writer! You can dress any way you want.”

“And the fact that you didn’t says something.”

“I’ll bet my studio you have a lot to say.”

“Don’t know if you’ve heard,” said Mel. “But the writer can do no wrong here at Vistamax.”

“That’s why we wanted to lay down some rules so you don’t fuck up again.”

“We won’t fire you this time.”

“Nobody told you the rules.”

“What are you, a mind reader?”

“Of course not!” said Mel. “You’re the writer!”

Ford became dizzy.

“We understand the artistic process,” said Ian.

“Actually, we don’t, or we’d be artists,” said Mel.

“That’s why we’re going to cut you some slack this time.”

Mel opened a drawer and produced scraps of paper with handwritten notes.

“Where’d you get those?” said Ford.

“Your personal locker in props.”

“You worked on this during company time.”

“Which makes it our intellectual property.”

Ford jumped up from his chair. “But I’ve been working on that for years. Long before I got here. I only made a few notes at work.”

“Only a few notes?” said Mel. “You can’t pee in a pool and say, ‘I just went in this one spot.’ Fucks up the whole pool.”

“Children swim in pools!” said Ian. “Did you ever stop to consider them?”

“Besides, we’re not going to use the script anyway.”

“It isn’t that good.”

Ford looked at one brother, then the other. “You said you loved it.”

“We were trying to be encouraging,” said Ian.

“You’ve got initiative, kid.”

“Just leave it at home.”

“Hey!” said Mel. “We got a surprise for you! Tell him, Ian. He’s going to be tickled.”

“On the way out, see Betty. We’ve told her to hook you up with gift certificates for the studio store.”

“Just got in some great sweatshirts.”

“Probably do all your Christmas shopping.”

Mel stood and walked over to the door.

“But…” said Ford.

“He doesn’t know how to thank us,” Mel told his brother.

“Just keep doing that Ford magic,” said Ian.

Mel opened the door. “That’ll be thanks enough.”

Serge burst through the hospital entrance and ran past the front desk.

“Sir!” yelled a nurse, jumping up from her chair. “You have to sign in!”

Serge kept running, checking room numbers on the way. The hall had speckled green floor tiles, bright ceiling lights and a background odor medley of disinfectant and unwellness.

The nurse was coming out from behind the front desk when Coleman ran by.

“Sir!…”

By the time she caught up with them, Serge was frozen in the doorway of room 23. Two visitors were already inside.

“Serge!” said Chi-Chi. “Thank God you made it. We tried to reach you but didn’t know where—”

“Saw it in the paper.” Serge took an anxious step forward. “Is he…?”

“Just sleeping.”

“Sir…” said the nurse in the hallway, holding a pen tethered to a clipboard with an ad hoc chain of rubber bands.

Chi-Chi stepped outside. “Can it wait a minute?”

Serge slowly entered the room and sat down on the front edge of a chair next to the bed. An old man was hooked up to a matrix of monitors and IV tubes. Serge nervously rocked back and forth.

The old man opened his eyes. “You never could sit still.”

“Granddad!”

“Hi, Little Serge.”

“You had a heart attack!”

“Thanks. I almost forgot.”

“Are you okay?”

The old man looked around at all the wires and tubes. “No.”

Serge grabbed his granddad’s hand and leaned close. “You need anything? Name it.”

The old man eased his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes. “I need to rest.”

Serge rejoined the group in the doorway.

“Sorry about your granddad,” said Coltrane.

“Got here as fast as I could. I was afraid…” Serge’s voice trailed off as he signed his name on the visitors’ list, dispatching the nurse.

“Coltrane and I followed the ambulance from the cafeteria. We were worried we wouldn’t be able to get hold of you.”

Serge looked around. “Does Lou know? Is she coming?”

Coltrane grabbed him by the hand. “Serge…”

“Not Louisiana.”

“Nobody knows where you’ve been,” said Chi-Chi. “A lot’s happened. Lou went in her sleep four months ago. Her family plot is up in Orlando…”

“They were together forty-two years,” said Serge. “He must have been devastated.”

“He was,” said Chi-Chi. “After the funeral, he just stayed up there, going by her grave every day with flowers. We finally convinced him it wasn’t healthy and drove him back down. Great for a while. Even started working again. We thought it was going to be a whole new beginning.”

“
Thought?
”

“Been talking to the doctors. Minor heart attack, but it seriously weakened him, on top of all the emotional strain with Lou. You know what they say: Once one goes…He’s only alive because they’re keeping his blood pressure up with the medicine.”

“I…don’t…”

“This is it,” said Chi-Chi. “He’s not leaving the hospital.”

Serge stumbled back into the doorframe. “How long?”

“Nothing critical now, but the vitals will fade. A week or two.”

Serge’s face resolved. “I’m not leaving this room.”

Coltrane got out car keys. “You’ll change your mind.”

“You have to rest sometime,” said Chi-Chi, handing Serge a magnetic card. “We found a motel up the road to be close.”

“We’ve been staying here in shifts,” said Coltrane. “Sleep there whenever you want.”

“There’s something else,” said Chi-Chi. “Don’t be thrown if he starts talking nonsense. Alzheimer’s. The doctors said it probably started a few years ago, but who could tell with all the crazy shit that came out of him?”

Sergio opened his eyes again. “I can hear every word you’re saying.”

“Sorry,” said Chi-Chi.

“Just pretend I’m not here,” said Sergio. “Why don’t you tell him I have to wear diapers while you’re at it?”

“He’s had some accidents,” said Coltrane.

“That was sarcasm,” said Sergio. “Who’s got the dementia around here?”

Chi-Chi pulled up a chair. “I’ll take the next shift.”

Two men in dark suits and thin, dark ties sat in a dim office with the blinds closed.

“Zanesville turned out to be a dead end. They only beat us by a couple of days, but it might as well have been a year. Trail went cold as death.”

They were outranked by the older man on the other side of the desk. He folded his hands in thought. “No idea at all?”

A head shook. “They could be anywhere.”

“What about known associates?”

“Back to the airport?”

The older man nodded.

A gritty coral sun turned reddish-brown as it dipped into the horizon and fought its way through the Los Angeles atmosphere. The view was down Ivar Street, sloping toward the skyline.

On the corner sat a four-story Mediterranean apartment house with a vintage green-and-yellow sign out front. ALTO NIDO.