Page 48 of All That Glitters
“Yeah. That’s me.”
“Tony. Eli Bernstein. Starving Artists Agency.”
Tony froze, a slice of pizza halfway to his mouth. Oh crap, he thought, his mind racing through every worst-case scenario for why they would call him — the pissed-off director whose shoot he barged in on, Universal suing them for damages their ‘client’ caused, and on and on.
“Uh… hi,” he stammered, sitting up straighter. Debbie watched him, a curious look on her face.
“Listen, kid, I’m not gonna waste your time,” the voice on the phone barreled on. “I read your script. The Frat. It’s… something. It’s got vampires, it’s got jokes, it’s got babes, and it’s actually really clever. But that’s not the point. The point is, I have a buyer.”
Tony’s mind went completely blank. He couldn’t form a thought. The sounds of the ocean and seagulls and cars, it all faded into a dull, distant hum.
“A buyer?” he repeated, the word feeling foreign and strange in his mouth.
“That’s what I said, kid. A production company. They want to make your movie. They’re ready to go. Green light. Cash on the table. Are you hearing what I’m saying?”
Debbie was leaning forward now, her eyes wide, trying to understand the one-sided conversation that was clearly causing Tony’s face to drain of all color.
“I think so,” Tony managed to say.
“Good,” Eli’s voice snapped back. “Because they want to meet. With you. Tomorrow. Can you be there?”
“Oh, yeah,” Tony said, nodding so hard he nearly gave himself whiplash. “I’ll be there.”
“That’s what I like to hear, kid,” came Eli’s voice. “I’ll text you the address.”
And with that, they hung up. Tony looked across the table at Debbie, whose eyes were wide with curiosity.
“And...” she said, waiting for him to fill in the blanks.
“Someone wants to buy my script.”
For a moment, they just stared at each other in stunned silence. Then Debbie let out a shriek of joy that probably scared every seagull within a five-mile radius.
“I KNEW IT!” she yelled, jumping up on the picnic table. “I KNEW you could do it!”
She launched herself at him in a hug so enthusiastic it knocked them both off the table and onto the grass along with the pizza. But neither of them cared.
“So who’s buying it?” she asked, releasing him from the hug just enough to give him room to breathe.
He did a double-take, realizing only then that he forgot to even ask. “I probably should have asked, shouldn’t I?” he chuckled. “I guess I’ll find out tomorrow.”
Chapter twenty
Rif Raf Produkshuns
The graffiti-splattered industrial neighborhood looked like a forgotten warzone. Skeletons of abandoned factories overlooked rows of boarded-up buildings, their walls marred in layers of spray paint. The air was thick with the smell of dust and exhaust. It was the last place you’d expect to find a film production company. And yet, a shiny silver BMW was speeding down the derelict street on its way to a meeting with one.
“Tell her I can’t talk now,” Eli snapped into his wireless headset, one hand navigating the potholed street, the other flipping through Tony’s screenplay, which was propped up against the dash. “But tell her I’ve got her next film. And tell her it involves vampires. She likes vampires.”
He weaved through the sparse traffic, his eyes darting between the road and the script. He’d read the whole thing twice now. It was a horror-comedy that was ridiculous, amateurish, and outrageously fun. The character work alone promised this writer a future in the business.
“I’m meeting with the writer and the producers right now,” he continued into his headset, feeling the rush of adrenaline that came with every new deal. He lived for this. The deal. The discovery. He paused, listening. “No, they’re called Rif… Raf… Productions.” He sounded the name out. “I don’t know. It might be misspelled.” He listened again. “Never heard of them either. But their bank verified the funds, and that’s the only language I need to speak. It’s a go picture, Amy. A go picture.”
The BMW pulled to a stop outside a run-down, red-brick warehouse. A row of Harley-Davidsons sat out front like guard dogs. A crudely hand-painted sign hung above the door, its letters already peeling. It read: RIF RAF PRODUKSHUNS. Definitely misspelled.
Tony was already waiting for him on the cracked sidewalk out front, a thoroughly confused look on his face. It had taken him several reads of the sign to realize what it said. Eli hopped out of his car with an energy that seemed totally foreign on the sleepy, dilapidated street. He was a shark in a wading pool.
“Tony Harding?” Eli asked, already extending a hand.
