In Development Page 9

CHAPTER EIGHT

  Blood And Guts

  Stan walked into his enormous office and stared down its length at the sight of Danny standing over, and apparently trying to console, a man sitting on Stan's black crocodile couch.

  I can't believe I actually paid $250,000.00 for a couch. Worth every penny though-look at it. I have to have one made in alligator just to say I have both.

  "Danny, why is there a guy covered in blood and what looks like brain matter sitting on my couch, crying?" Stan asked calmly.

  "Why did I do it? I loved her!" sobbed the man covered in blood and brain matter on Stan's black crocodile couch. "Why? Why? Why?"

  Danny cleared his throat. "Boss, you remember Warren? He used to work in our mailroom a long time ago. He's been the head of distribution over at the studio for almost a year now."

  Warren continued to sob.

  Stan had thought he looked familiar. "Yeah, I remember now. Sorry Warren, the blood threw me. How's that hot little wife of yours?"

  "Dead! She's fucking dead!" Warren screamed.

  "That's terrible." Stan thought back warmly to the time he slept with her. "When did this happen?" he felt obligated to ask.

  "About half an hour ago," Warren gasped between sobs.

  "What?" Stan hadn't expected this.

  "I killed her!" Warren felt compelled to confess. "I killed her!" More sobs followed.

  Stan turned to Danny. "Well that explains the blood and the brain matter."

  "What a shame," Danny offered morosely.

  Warren pulled his hands from his face and looked up at Danny. "What a shame? I killed my wife! That's all you have to say?"

  "No, I meant what a shame that you ruined that nice suit." Danny's appreciation for fine apparel was second only to his boss's.

  "Armani?" Stan asked. Danny had read his mind.

  Warren being no slouch himself, answered between sobs, " Zegna. Fuck, look at it. You're right-they'll never get this shit out."

  "Did you get that at the Rodeo Drive store?" Stan was curious because he thought he had bought every suit the Rodeo store offered. Yet, he didn't have this particular suit, which he did, in fact, like very much.

  "No, I actually picked it up at Barney's," Warren said calmly and then began to sob again for no reason Stan and Danny could understand until he continued, "The same day I met Sally."

  "Sally, that's her name," Stan said as he snapped his fingers together.

  "Yeah, she worked at Barney's. That's why I bought the fucking suit in the first place."

  Danny looked down thoughtfully and rubbed his chin. "I don't get it."

  "I was trying to impress the cheating bitch," Warren growled.

  Stan decided to sit in the black crocodile chair opposite the couch. He was finding this interesting now. "Kind of weird that you wore that particular suit on the same day that you planned on killing her?"

  Warren shook his head. "I didn't plan on killing her. I came home to take her to lunch. It was supposed to be a surprise-and she was upstairs in our bed fucking our gay decorator."

  Stan tried not to laugh. "What made you think he was gay?"

  "When Sally was out of town visiting her parents, Jackie, that's his name, and I went out to have some drinks. He asked me if he could suck my dick," Warren explained.

  Danny sat down in the black crocodile chair opposite the couch next to Stan's. "Given the fact he was fucking your wife, he might have just been telling you that to throw you off the trail."

  A cloud of despair hung over Warren. "No, I let him. He sucked a mean cock; he's definitely a fag."

  "Was definitely a fag, past tense," Stan observed, raising his right eyebrow. Then continued, "Since I'm guessing you couldn't mess up a suit that bad by just killing your cheating bitch of a wife?"

  Warren nodded his confirmation of Stan's astute observation. "After I blew Sally's face off, I stuck the twelve-gauge up his ass and got off four rounds before I came to my senses."

  Stan glanced at his watch, a gold Piaget Polo. "Warren, I've liked you since your days in the mailroom. But I'm really on a tight schedule today. I mean, you really couldn't have picked a worse time to commit a double homicide."

  "Stan, I didn't know where else to go. You have to help me," he pleaded.

  For the first time Stan was puzzled. "Help you? What do you need help with? You have a great job, you got rid of your fag fucking bitch of a wife without having to pay alimony and you got what sounds like one hell of a blow job from what turned out to be your not as gay as you thought decorator. I mean, other than having to replace a hell of a nice suit, things don't seem to be going that badly for you."

  "They're going to put me in prison for the rest of my life," Warren sounded profoundly dejected.

  Danny waived his right index finger in the negative. "Warren we would never let them do that to you." Danny turned to Stan. "Would we?" he asked, not exactly sure.

  "Of course not," Stan confirmed. "Who said anything about prison? You didn't tell anyone else about this, did you?"

  Warren shook his head. "No. I killed them and called Danny straight away."

  Stan clapped his hands together. "Good. Then this unfortunate incident should be pretty simple to straighten out and still leave me plenty of time to prepare for my new investor meeting. First things first. Warren, you have to go back to your house and wait for the cops."

  "You want me to call the cops?" Warren questioned.

  Stan tried to be patient. "Only if you want your next wife to be a big black man named Leroy. Of course I don't want you to call the cops-let us take care of that. I just want you to wait for them. Now, when they get there, the story is simple. You came in and found the crime scene just the way it is. You were so panicked, you came right to us and we called the cops."

  "Who do I say killed them?" Warren asked, completely unable to think for himself anymore. Not because he had just committed a double homicide. But a year as a studio executive had taken its toll. "The husband is always the primary suspect."

  Stan held up two fingers. "Two words?murder, suicide."

  Danny pointed a finger and shook it at Stan. "Oh, that's good."

  Warren nodded his approval. "I like it, keep going."

  The whole scene unfolded in Stan's mind as he spoke. "Sally found out he was a switch hitter, stuck the shotgun up the fag's ass and let him have four rounds. Then, she blew her own face off."

  Danny closed his eyes picturing the scene. "Yeah, I see it. But why did she kill herself? Why not just kill the queer?"

  "Good question." Stan paused. "Because?she couldn't stand the thought of going to prison and being raped by women with coke bottles and broomsticks. No, she would have liked that? She killed him because she found out that he was not only gay-he was Republican. If I recall, she was a real Hollywood liberal bitch. Finding out that a gay Republican had fucked her and decorated the house was too much; it drove her over the edge."

  Warren looked at Danny. "Brilliant, if this wasn't a real life tragedy, the studio would greenlight it in a second."

  Danny pulled a small pad of paper from his jacket pocket and began writing down some potential budget numbers. "You know, if we change the names we might really be onto something here." His voice was enthusiastic as he continued to write the all- important numbers.

  Stan couldn't believe their good fortune. He had been desirous of shooting a murder-mystery-thriller for some time. "Danny, make a note to put this in development, working title "Blood In The Bedroom"".

  Warren could really see the vision now. "What about "Death and the Decorator"?" he suggested.

  Danny thought about Warren's input for a moment. "I don't know if we want to give that away in the title."

  Stan was beaming. "You know, I think this is a win, win for all of us. I can see the cast." He glanced at his Piaget. "Shit, I don't have time for this right now." He looked Warren straight in the face. "You're lucky you killed them both or I'd really have my work cut out here." Stan turned to Danny. "
Have Warren follow you back to your house. Get him cleaned up and let him borrow a suit." He turned back to Warren. "Then you go back to your house and wait. You got it?"

  "Got it," Warren responded, transformed into a man with a purpose.

  Stan hit the speakerphone button on the phone that sat on the round sterling silver Buccellati table between Danny and himself. "Marle?"

  "Yeah, what's up?" Her words were choked and her tone was even more ungracious than usual.

  Stan frowned. "'Yeah, what's up?' That's the way you answer the phone now?"

  "Do I fuck you whenever you want?" she inquired, clearly angry about something.

  Stan sighed. It was just that kind of day. "I really can't get into this right now."

  "Well then why did you bring it up?" she asked bitchily.

  "I just think you could give better phone."

  "Do you think I could give better head? Like the head I gave you in the car all the way down to Palm Springs last weekend!"

  Stan had had enough, although it was a great hour and half-long blowjob that made the drive go much faster. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

  "Nothing. I'm thrilled for you and Brianna!"

  Stan looked at Danny. Danny shrugged. "Who?" asked Stan, really having no idea what Marle was talking about.

  "Brianna, your other assistant-the one that you asked to marry you." Marle's voice trembled. She was obviously crying.

  Stan looked at Danny and mouthed the words "Unfuckin believable." "Oh come on, I was lying to get her to do what I wanted. I mean, what are you, stupid?"

  Marle's voice was defensive but overall sounded back to normal. "So what, you're getting mad at me and calling me names now? What are we, back in high school?"

  "Marle you're really starting to piss me off!" Stan said, raising his voice.

  "Well call me back when you're sane," she suggested and hung up the phone.

  Danny stared at Stan for a few seconds. "Did she really give you head all the way down to Palm Springs?"

  "Yeah." Stan smiled, recalling the pleasurable ride and several mini-vans filled with amused kids and horrified parents that they encountered along the way.

  "You know what you call a girl who can suck a dick all the way from Los Angeles to Palm Springs?" asked Danny.

  Stan laughed. "Marle!"

  Danny and Warren laughed along.

  "What, are you sane now?"

  Stan looked to see Marle standing in his office. "No, I wasn't calling you; it was a joke."

  "That's nice. So are you really not marrying Brianna?"

  "Of course not. Listen, while you're here, get the name and number of that homicide detective who pitched us that terrible script. I think it was called...shit what was it called?

  ""Murder In Tinseltown". I could never forget that piece of shit," Danny said, filling in the blank.

  "Well we haven't got much of a choice." Stan gave Danny a subtle look that Marle couldn't see that said, "We are trying to cover up a murder here." Stan looked back to Marle. "Call the detective and tell him that I just finally got around to reading it and I think it's the greatest thing since sliced bread. Tell him that I have one opening on my slate that I have to fill right now so if he wants to see this thing get made, he has to be in my office within?lets say?the next hour."

  No longer blind with jealousy, Marle noticed Warren for the first time. "Why is there a guy with blood all over his suit sitting on your couch?"

  "He's part of the promotion for this new "Murder In Tinseltown" project," Stan answered, making it sound so obvious that he almost believed it himself.

  "Got it," Marle said, not so sure. Then she turned around and walked out, happy that Stan was lying to Brianna about marrying her. She couldn't wait to get back to the break room and tell everybody.

  Warren looked at Stan. "Do you think you can get this cop to believe my story?"

  Stan held his hands out, palms up, and began balancing them like a scale. "Let's see-I'm a cop that wants to get my movie made. Who killed the fag and the cheating bitch wife?" His left hand went down an inch. "Movie made." His right hand went down a foot. "You'll be back at work tomorrow. Now, get out of here. I have some serious shit to take care of."

  Ray and Iren were drinking lattes in the hallway outside of Iren's office.

  Ray took a sip and savored the hot foam for a moment before speaking, "Listen, I don't think we need to rewrite the whole fucking script. All we have to do is substitute shoot everywhere it says shit. Everywhere it says fuckin we put in freakin and so on."

  "Great idea shmuck lips," Iren said shaking his head. "We're gonna have Tom Cruise saying shoot and freakin every other word. Nice."

  They both paused as a hot chick walked by.

  "Hey, come here for a second," Ray shouted out after her.

  The hot girl turned around and walked their way. Iren couldn't take his eyes off of her feet.

  "Yes, sir. Is everything alright?" she asked innocently.

  Ray shook his head. "No, everything is not alright. I watched you walk by, shaking that little ass of yours. It doesn't look to me like you're wearing any underwear. Am I right? And don't be fucking lying to me because I'll check if I have to."

  Her face turned crimson. "I'm not. I don't know?they're just really restrictive. I know I should, but..."

  Ray had heard enough. "No buts; that's a section five code violation of office policy."

  "Am I going to get fired?" she asked, her voice quivering.

  "That's not up to me. But you can bet your tattooed little ass you're going to go straight to the boss' office and explain to him why you're the only one around here who can walk around with no underwear on."

  Her knees bent towards each other like she might pee right there on the carpet. Ray had made a few of them pee themselves. "Am I excused," she asked.

  "Yeah, you're fucking excused," Ray snarled. " Now get the fuck out of here! Go show the boss what you've done!"

  She burst into tears, held her hand over her mouth, turned, and ran off.

  Iren looked at Ray. "A section five violation? Where do you get this mishigas from?"

  Ray shrugged. "Hey fuck it, Stan's having a rough day. Let him have some fun."

  Stan sat in his office in the same chair as before but now found himself opposite Ellie, the scummiest Middle Easterner in the entertainment business. Ellie was a tall, good-looking guy who had hustled his way into the industry via a dry-cleaning business.

  "Ellie, I really can't do this right now. I have a new investor meeting to prepare for," Stan said convincingly, as it was actually the truth.

  Ellie hadn't heard a word. "Stan, we have a whole slate of great new scripts. We really need you to back us up."

  "Ellie, how the fuck would you know if they're great scripts? Did you actually read them?"

  "Stan, c'mon. You know I can't read. I can feel these things."

  "Ellie, you've lost six hundred million dollars on your last six movies. Maybe a little less feeling and a little more reading would be a good idea."

  "It wasn't my money; I got it all from people trying to evade taxes in Germany. And besides, you know I phonied up the budgets so I could steal half the money for myself. By my count, I only lost three hundred million dollars of other people's money," Ellie declared proudly.

  "Well as impressive as that may be to yourself, I'm really only interested in movies that make money. So I have to pass." Stan stood, hoping Ellie would do the same so he could see him out.

  Ellie looked up at Stan. His expression made it clear he would not be taking the hint. Stan sat back down and Ellie continued. "Stan, all I need is for you to guarantee that you will put my crappy movies on one of your screens in one of your theatres somewhere-in the middle of nowhere if you want. And I can trigger one billion dollars in new financing from the Germans based on having domestic distribution."

  "Sorry Ellie, I can't do it. The state of California got sued for cruel and unusual punishment just for showing one of your
movies to inmates at San Quentin. Think about that for a second. Charles Manson would rather be locked up in a ten by ten cement room for the rest of his life than watch one of your piece of shit movies."

  "Who's Charles Manson?" Ellie asked, confused.

  Stan tried to imagine how the guy had ever even made it cleaning clothes. "The answer is no. Never. Not going to happen."

  Ellie still wasn't listening. "I'll pay you five?no make it ten million dollars a movie to show them on one screen, let's say for two weeks."

  "Fifteen million for one week," Stan countered, all business."

  "It's a deal!" Ellie held his hand across the coffee table made from actual gold stolen from King Tutankhamen's tomb. "Let's drink some Arrack!"

  "I can't right now," Stan said, trying to shake his hand loose from Ellie's tight grasp. "I really have to get into my next meeting," Stan insisted. Then noticing a strange look on Ellie's face. He followed his stare to the hot young girl now standing in his office. She had pulled up her mini-skirt to reveal that she had no underwear on.

  "What's going to happen to me?" she asked anxiously.

  "I'd like to get into your next meeting," said Ellie without breaking eye contact with the girl's naked crotch.

  Stan looked at the girl. " Could you hold on a second? I'll be right with you." He looked back across the priceless gold table at Ellie. "Bring me a check tomorrow. Now get out of my office and close the door." Stan waited a minute for Ellie to depart, unescorted. He looked at the girl's crotch, which was French waxed nicely, then forced himself to look up at her face. "Listen, whatever your name happens to be. If you walk into my office, pull up your mini-skirt, and reveal that you have no panties on, what do you think is going to happen to you?"

  "Well, Ray made it sound like I'm going to get screwed for violating section five of the company's dress code."

  Stan pointed at himself. "Get screwed by me? I like it."

  "He said you were the only one with the authority," she added.

  "Oh, I got you." Stan appreciated Ray's concern for relieving his stress level. "Do me a favor and pull down your skirt. The whole vertical smile thing is throwing me off." She obliged and he continued, "The company doesn't have a dress code and there is no such thing as a section five. Ray was just messing with you."

  "So I'm not fired."

  "No, but walking in here like that could still get you screwed. So, I suggest you skamper."

  She pulled her skirt back up and took a step towards Stan. "What code would I be violating if I sat on your lap right now?"

  Stan looked down at the bulge in his pants. "I haven't measured since I was a kid. But I'd say a code ten."

  She immediately straddled him, sat on his bulge and started unbuttoning his shirt. "Well you'd better write me up then."