Page 49 of All That Glitters
“Yeah.”
Eli grabbed his hand and shook it with the force of a man who lived for the deal. “Eli Bernstein. Starving Artists Agency. Love the script, kid. A real page-turner. So, you ready to sell this thing?”
“Oh, yeah,” Tony said with a big nod. He looked back at the building and the misspelled sign. “Did you find out who these guys are?”
“Nope,” Eli said cheerfully, popping the trunk of his BMW to retrieve a sleek leather briefcase. “But their bank verified funds. It’s a go picture. And that makes them Scorsese and Spielberg as far as I’m concerned. So let’s go say hi to our new best friends.”
Eli strode to the heavy warehouse door and pushed it open. It creaked on its hinges, revealing an interior that wasunmistakably a biker hangout. A long, beer-ring-stained bar lined one wall, backed by rows of booze bottles and tapped kegs. In the corner, a stripper pole stood beneath a bare lightbulb. The whole place smelled faintly of stale beer, old leather, and testosterone.
And there, sitting around a row of rickety picnic tables and passing around a bottle of whiskey, were the executives of Rif Raf Produkshuns. It was Craig, Roy, Carl, Todd, and the rest of the gang from the county jail.
Roy was diligently reading a copy of Tony’s script, his brow furrowed in concentration. He held the pages close to his face, his lips moving as he sounded out the words. “What’s this here word mean?” he asked the table at large. “Dee-ca-pi-tay-ted.”
Carl took a swig of whiskey and considered it. “Think that’s where they don’t put no caffeine in yer coffee. It’s a health thing.”
Just then, a happy-go-lucky Labrador retriever named Elvis bounded over to the table, snatched Roy’s script right out of his hands, and raced off with it, his tail wagging furiously.
“Hey! Get back here with that, ya dang mutt!” Roy yelled, scrambling from his seat and chasing the dog around the clubhouse.
Across the room, the door creaked open wider. Tony and Eli looked in, their faces a perfect portrait of confusion and apprehension.
Craig looked up from the whiskey bottle, and his face broke into a huge, gap-toothed grin. “Hey, boys! Look who’s here! It’s our cellmate pal Tony and his agent!”
The entire gang rose and headed over to greet them. Under any other circumstances, watching this group of large, tattooed bikers approach would have been intimidating; but one look at the goofy, excited grins on their faces, and it was impossible to be scared. Only confused.
Tony stared at his former cellmates, his mind struggling to connect the dots. The guys who had given him advice on his love life were now his producers. It didn’t seem real. “You guys are Rif Raf?”
“Sure are,” Craig said proudly, slapping Tony on the back so hard he stumbled forward. “What’d ya all think of the name? Took us a while to come up with it. We wanted somethin’ that sounded professional.”
Eli’s eyes darted around the room, taking in the kegs, the stripper pole, and the dog currently using his client’s screenplay as a chew toy.
“Can’t think of a better one,” he said, his voice perfectly deadpan. He opened his briefcase on the bar, all business. “So, we ready to get down to business?”
“Never been readier,” said Craig.
“That’s what I like to hear,” Eli said, fishing a business card from his coat pocket and setting it on the table. “Meet me at my office tomorrow at ten, and I’ll get you set up with your lead actress.”
“You guys are producers?” Carrie asked skeptically, her arms crossed tightly as she stared at the collection of oddballs that made up the Rif Raf team.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Craig. “Plus, I’ll be directin’.”
Eli’s office, usually a pristine temple of deal-making, had been invaded. The guys from Rif Raf Produkshuns, along with Elvis the dog, had packed themselves into the space, making the sleek, minimalist furniture look ridiculous and fragile. Craig sat with his worn leather boots casually propped up on the corner of Eli’s expensive mahogany desk. Roy was examining a piece of modern art on the wall with deep suspicion.
“Where’d you get the money?” Carrie said, sounding more like a prosecutor cross-examining a witness than an actress who just landed a gig.
“On advice of counsel,” Craig said, shifting uneasily, “it probably ain’t such a good idea for us to talk about how we come up with the money.”
Carrie frowned and stepped closer to Eli, who remained seated at his desk, praying to the film gods that his idiot client didn’t blow this deal.
“We wasn’t always the respectable-lookin’ fellas ya sees here today,” Roy added with a grin that showed more gum than teeth.
Meanwhile, Elvis, bored with the business talk, was sniffing curiously at a large, decorative plant in the corner.
Eli forced a bright, professional smile. “Hey. Their check cleared,” he said to Carrie, waving off her concerns. “That’s all that matters, right?”
Just as he said it, Elvis lifted his leg and relieved himself in a long, steady stream against the base of the plant.
“Elvis!” Craig boomed, his voice echoing in the small office. “What in blazes ya doin’, peein’ on these here people’s plant!”
