Part 22 (1/2)

”One hundred seventy five thousand dollars,” Miranda said. ”According to her agent, who I just called.”

”Really,” I said. ”Do we know if she's making any gross points?”

”Of course she isn't,” Miranda said. ”Although she's apparently getting a point on the net.”

Net points are a promise of the percentage of profits the film makes, should it ever make it into the black; as opposed to gross points, which are a straight percentage of the film's haul at the box office. Since studio bookkeeping is such that even a film that makes a quarter of a billion dollars in domestic box office can run deeply into the red, net points are rarely if ever given -- they're what you're given if you're gullible, stupid, or the screenwriter.

”A whole point on the net,” I said, looking directly at Brad.

”That's right,” Miranda said. ”That'll be worth at least a case or two of Fresca.” I thanked her and signed her off.

”Wow, Brad, a hundred seventy five thousand dollars,” I said. ”Aren't you the generous one. That's nearly as much as you're going to pay for your second unit catering. Good thing I had Miranda listen in on the conversation and double-check that salary for us.”

”That was a dirty trick,” Brad said.

”It's not dirty, it's called looking out for my client's well-being.”

”Is it about your percentage?” Brad said. ”Because if it is, I'm willing to deal. What if I said you could keep your ten percent, clear? No questions.”

I rubbed my forehead. It was barely 1:30, and I was tired already.

”Look, Brad,” I said. ”What say we cut the s.h.i.+t, because I'm having a really bad day, and you're not making it any better.”

Brad blinked. ”All right.”

”Good,” I said. ”The fact of the matter is, you're not getting the twelve million back. The way I figure it, since you are the one who indirectly put her into the coma, it's the very least you can do. It's possible that if we took it to court, you might get that money back. But in the meantime you will have tanked your entire movie production. What is it budgeted at? 80 million? 90 million?”

”83 million, counting salaries.” Brad just about spat the word salaries.

”83 million against twelve million is a bad bet any day, Brad. And that's not counting the money you're going to throw down the lawyer hole. Our lawyers are on staff. We don't pay them any extra. And, of course, we're not even talking about the counter-suits we'll throw back at you for negligence and violation of contract. Not to mention the other suits that will be filed against you by the studio and your other investors if you close down production. Make no mistake, Brad, you're going to get f.u.c.ked. You won't be able to sit for a year.”

Brad bristled, which is exactly what I wanted him to do. I'd gotten into the sensitive area where males feel threatened and will make stupid, macho statements just so they'll feel their b.a.l.l.s are still attached. I was hoping that Brad would grope for his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es.

Sure enough, he did. ”Don't you threaten me, you little a.s.shole,” Brad said. ”If you want a court fight, I'll give it to you. You'll spend so much time giving depositions you'll forget what the sun looks like. Don't think I don't have what it takes to win this.”

”I don't doubt that you'd try, Brad. But let me scope out a scenario for you. You go to court to s.n.a.t.c.h money away from an actor who your own negligence has managed to put in a coma. You tank the film you're working on to do it. Let's say that somehow you manage to win. Fine. You get your twelve million back, and you go back to your offices to get ready to do another movie...and no one will work with you.”

Brad's eyebrows knitted. ”What do you mean?”

”I mean no one will ever work with you again. Actors won't want to work with you, because you've given the clear signal that you don't give a s.h.i.+t about them. Agents won't want to work with you, because they'll never be sure you won't try to d.i.c.k their clients around. Studios won't want to work with you because you'll have made it clear that you value your pride over their money. Which is not an att.i.tude they want to know about. You will never work in this town again. Never.”

Brad looked like he'd been kicked in the b.a.l.l.s. Which, in a way, he had. ”You don't know that for sure,” he said.

I leaned forward in my chair, over my desk, close to Brad's ear. ”Try me,” I whispered.

I sat back. Brad sat there, stunned, for a good minute. The he got up, spun out of his chair, stalked around the office a couple of times, sat back down, and started gnawing on his thumb.

”f.u.c.k!” he finally said.

It was over. I won.

Now was the time to get him back to our side. ”Brad,” I said. ”You don't want to have the money back. You think you do right now because you're cheap and you're in a panic. But it's penny wise and pound foolish. In the long run, you're going to look good by letting Mich.e.l.le keep it.”

Brad smirked. ”Somehow I doubt that,” he said.

”Such little faith,” I said. ”Try this one on: today, as you may or may not know, I was casually accused of setting up my client for her accident.”

”I watched that in the office, right before I called,” Brad said. ”What an a.s.shole.”

”You have no idea,” I said. ”What if we say that I set up this meeting in a panic, and begged you to take the twelve million back? That way, from my point of view, any suspicion would be off of me, because I'd have no financial reason to off my client.”

Brad looked at me strangely. ”This benefits you, but I'm waiting to see how it benefits me.”

”It benefits you, Brad, because you angrily refuse to accept the money back. How dare I a.s.sume that just because Mich.e.l.le is in a coma, that'd you'd s.n.a.t.c.h the money back. We can say that in addition to refusing the money, you demanded that if Mich.e.l.le didn't recover, that I donate the money to brain trauma research. Say, fund a professors.h.i.+p at UCLA Medical School or some such.”

”What were you going to do with the money, if you don't mind me asking?”

I gestured to the heavens with my hands. ”d.a.m.n it, Brad. I don't know that she left me her money. Even if she did, I sure as h.e.l.l don't want it. If it got given to me, that's probably what I'd do with it. Yes, that's what I would do. But my point here is -- this idea came from you. You look good because you took a stand for Mich.e.l.le.”

”And you throw the scent off of yourself.”

”There is that added benefit, yes.”

Brad thought about it. ”And you'll say that this is what happened?”

”No, Brad,” I said. ”This is what happened. At least, as I remember it.”

Brad smiled, even though I'm sure it hurt to do it. ”You sure are a piece of work, Tom. All right, keep the twelve.”

”And her gross points.”

”Oh, come on, Tom,” Brad said. ”Stop with the kicking.”

”Tell you what,” I said. ”I'll drop our twelve gross points if you give Charlene Mayfield six.”

”What do you care?” Brad said. ”She's not even your client.”

”Brad, you moron,” I said. ”They're not from me. They're from you. Remember the concept: Make Brad Look Good.”

”Oh. All right.”

”Great,” I said, leaned back and closed my eyes. I was getting a headache. When I opened them again, Brad was still sitting there, looking pensive.

”Something on your mind, Brad?” I asked.

”Hmmm? No, just thinking about the accident. It's a terrible thing, you know.”