“No what?”
“This sucks,” Dime says to Billy.
Albert gives them a big smile. “Always, guys, always, it’s just a question of degree. Be thankful it’s not rectal bleeding.”
“What happens to the rest of it if we say no? His big production company, all the movies he wants to make.”
Albert drops the smile. “I think he’s planning to go forward with that. He seems committed.”
“Are you going to be involved?”
Albert’s mouth forms a tidy little purse. “Well, I’d be foolish not to consider every opportunity.”
“Albert, you’re an asshole.”
The producer doesn’t bat an eye. “Dave, I got you an offer. If you think you can do better, let’s go in there and talk to the man.”
“Okay, fuck it. Let’s go in there and talk.”
Billy says he’ll be fine waiting in the hall, but Dime gives him such a blistering look that he’s shamed into coming. Mr. Jones is standing just inside the door, which he shuts and locks behind them. They descend a couple of steps into a dim, cramped, low-ceilinged space furnished along the ad hoc lines of a waiting room at a car wash. It’s a super-private adjunct to the official owner’s suite next door, a man place, ripe with the muzzy smells of sweat, burnt coffee, vestigial cigarette smoke, plus a percolating flatulence that might be stale lunch meat. Everyone turns and smiles for the Bravos. “Gentlemen! Welcome to the war room!” someone cries, and they are urged forward, offered chairs and refreshments. TVs mounted on wall brackets are tuned to the game, the announcers nattering like parrots in a cage. A bare wet bar occupies one corner of the room. Norm and his sons are seated at a counter that runs the length of the plate-glass front. Scattered about the countertop are laptops, spreadsheets, loose-leaf notebooks, bottles of water and sports drinks; as his eyes adjust to the bad light Billy sees not a drop of alcohol in sight. Two Cowboys executives are moving about, big, burly guys with the trouser-hitching swagger of management who started out on the loading dock. Mr. Jones perches on a stool by the wet bar, still with his suit coat buttoned. Everyone else is down to loose ties and rolled sleeves, except for Josh, who’s doing his mannequin thing at the back of the room.
Dime asks for coffee. Billy says he’ll have the same. Norm has swung his Aeron chair around to face them, and now he rubs his eyes and tips the chair back, giving the scoreboard a last glance as the quarter expires.
“Sorry about the lights,” he says, nodding at the ceiling. “We keep them off during games, otherwise it’s like a fishbowl in here. Damn irritating to look over at the TV and see yourself staring at yourself on the tube.”
“Or dropping the f-bomb,” says one of the execs. “Not that that’s ever happened here.”
Norm shakes his head as the others laugh. “We try to keep at least an R rating up here.”
“Not many people ever see the inside of this room,” says the second executive, who has introduced himself as Jim. “This is the inner sanctum, boys. A lot of folks would give their left arm to be sitting where you are.”
“You should charge admission,” Dime says, and everyone laughs but him.
“I’m not sure we could get it today,” says Norm. “Not our most stellar effort, I’m sorry to say. I was really hoping we’d put on a show for you fellas. But maybe we’ll turn it around in the fourth.”
“Some pass blocking from Stennhauser would be nice,” says f-bomb, to sour laughs. Norm turns to one of his sons.
“Skip, how many carries does Riddick have?”
Skip consults his laptop. “Nineteen. For thirty-four yards.”
Groans rise from several sectors of the room. “He’s done, coach,” says Jim. “Let’s give Buckner a go, at least he’s got fresh legs.”
“He don’t have any holes to hit, what does it matter,” says f-bomb. “We need to be pushing some bodies around up front.”
Norm frowns and takes a sip of Fiji water. Skip hands him a sheet of paper he’s just printed out, from which Norm proceeds to read aloud third-quarter statistics. A waiter enters through a side door, showing a momentary slice of the main suite. Over there it’s a pretty good party; over here, a long day at the office. Billy accepts his coffee and takes some sips. He likes it here. The close quarters evoke a sense of primal security, a kind of hunkered-down campfire intimacy that seems specifically masculine. It’s that long-sought place of ultimate safety, all the better for its cave-like feel, its air of chummy exclusivity. He would love to wipe the war from his brain, if only for a moment, and indulge in the luxury of pretending that he’s permanent here.
“This defense is as tough as any we’ve faced all year,” Norm says, perhaps rehearsing for the post-game press conference. He sets the printout aside and speaks past the Bravos to Albert, who’s chosen to sit where the soldiers can’t see his face.
“Albert, did you tell our young friends about our plans for their film?”
“Sure did!” Albert answers, spreading the pep a bit thick.
“Congratulations on your movie company, sir,” says Dime. “Sounds epic.”
“Thank you, Sergeant, thank you very much. It’s something we’ve been kicking around for a while, and we’re excited to get it going, incredibly excited. It’s definitely going to be a challenge, but with Albert on the team I like our chances. And I’m especially excited about bringing your story to the screen, and let me pledge to you right now, and I can’t emphasize this enough, we’re going all-out on this. Anyone here will tell you, when I decide to do something, I don’t go halfway.”
“Norm loves his work,” says f-bomb.
Everyone laughs, and Norm joins in with a boyish chuckle, he doesn’t mind this sly poke at his workaholic rep. Billy is struck by the depths he finds in Norm’s watery blue eyes, the sincerity, the evident eagerness to concur and connect. Watching him at close range, it’s hard to believe he’s as mean as people say.
“I believe in your story,” Norm tells the Bravos, with only the briefest glance at the field, “and I believe in the good it can do for our country. It’s a story of courage, hope, optimism, love of freedom, all the convictions that motivated you young men to do what you did, and I think this film will go a long way toward reinvigorating our commitment to the war. Let’s face it, a lot of people are discouraged. The insurgency gets some traction, casualties mount, the price tag keeps going up, it’s only natural some people are going to lose their nerve. They forget why we went there in the first place — why are we fighting? They forget some things are actually worth fighting for, and that’s where your story comes in, the Bravo story. And if the Hollywood crowd won’t step up to the plate, well, I’m happy to pinch-hit, more than happy. This is an obligation I willingly assume.”
Son Skip is absorbed in his computer screen. Norm’s other son — Todd? Trey? — has swung his chair around to listen to his father, though at the moment he’s tapping out a text on his cell. Jim is pouring himself a soda at the bar. F-bomb executive is leaning against the wall, munching a sandwich and nodding his head to the beat of his boss’s speech.
“I have my doubts about Hollywood anyway,” Norm is saying, “their politics, the whole cultural attitude out there. And some of the concepts they’ve been throwing around? This whole thing with Hilary Swank — look, I know she’s a great actress, I’m sure she’d do a great job. But having a woman in the lead just sends the wrong message, in my view. This is a story about men, men defending their country, and I’m sorry, that’s just what it is.”
“But Hilary’s still a prospect,” Albert pipes up, and everybody laughs.
“She is, she is,” Norm concedes, grinning, “I didn’t say she isn’t. And if casting her turns out to be the best thing for our movie, that’s what we’ll do. I’m not interested in making a good movie, I want something great, something people will be watching a hundred years from now. I want a movie that’s going to rank right up there with the best American films of all time.”