The partners managed not to roll their eyes at that. There was a second round of handshakes.
“Let’s get down to business, shall we?” Spiegelman said, gesturing at the two red leather chairs facing the desks.
Spiegelman was a fit fifty. Compact and thin with probing hazel eyes that looked through Elvis Costello glasses, an angular jawline, a sharp nose, and a crooked but ingratiating smile. He was dressed in a gray, light wool pinstripe suit and his accessories were all silk and gold. To Harry, Paul Spiegel-man smelled of Yale Law School and twenty years at a New York firm, a big New York firm. He was definitely a lawyer or a money man. In the business, they were sometimes one and the same. Mel Abbott, on the other hand, was a Hollywood hyena, all lean and hungry looks. Harry would have to keep an eye out for him.
“The part,” Harry said, unable to contain himself any longer. “What about the part? Where are my lines?”
“Lines?” Abbott asked, seemingly confused.
Spiegelman waved a calming hand at his partner. “I’m afraid you misunderstand, Harry. This isn’t that kind of part.”
“Christ, I knew it!” He jumped out of his chair. “What is this? Listen I—”
“Harry, Harry, please... sit down. Relax. Let me explain.” Spiegelman kept his voice even and reassuring. But what Harry found most reassuring were the two bundles of crisp, rubber-banded bills the older partner was pushing across the top of his desk. “That’s ten thousand dollars there, Harry.”
Now it was Marissa LaTerre’s eyes that got big. Harry’s weren’t exactly squinty either. It was all Harry Garson could do not to reach out and snatch the money. Instead, he sat back down and tried not drooling over the notions of what he could do with that much cash. Visions of cheese fries and hookers, a lot of hookers, danced in his head...
Marissa decided to take her role as agent to heart. “So what are you gentlemen speaking about here for my client?”
“It’s more theater than film work, though it’s a little bit of both, frankly,” Abbott said.
“We want Harry to play the part of an Indian,” Spiegelman added. “We need him and only him for the part, and this ten grand is only a down payment.”
Suddenly, the buzz all came back into Harry’s bones and he was rushing harder than a junkie who’d just gotten fixed with the purest skag on Earth. He was barely thinking of the money anymore. It was about the role. He was so juiced by the thought of being in front of the cameras again, he nearly broke into one of those stupid war dances he’d done in fifteen movies and on almost every episode of Crazy Cavalry.
“But I’m still not hearing what the role is exactly for Harry,” Marissa persisted.
“Harry, do you think you can stay in character for a long period of time?”
“No problem, Mr. Abbott. I worked for some directors who demanded we stay in character for the whole shoot. It was a pain in the balls, but I did it. I’m a professional.”
“See, Mel, I told you Harry was our man,” Spiegelman spoke up. He then launched into a long stroking session, naming several movie roles and commenting on just how well Harry Garson had done this or that. “And even in your comedic roles, you always stood out. My favorite was in the ‘Bismark Goes West’ episode on CC. Your timing was great when you did the line about the Goodyear blimp.”
Harry chuckled. “Yeah, the trooper asks Bearstein how his future will be and I say, ‘It will be a good year...’ Then I look up and yell, ‘Blimp!’ And there’s Bismark and his Siamese kitten Cleo flying overhead in a zeppelin.”
Now they were all laughing. All except Marissa. “I’ll ask this one more time. What’s the role?”
“Fair enough,” Spiegelman said. “Look, we’ve been hired to make training films for Native American tribes looking to set up gaming establishments on reservation lands. It’s about time the indigenous peoples of this country make some profits off the lands the government ceded to them. It’s a difficult and arcane process, as you might imagine, and it just makes sense to the lawyers who do this kind of work to have a tool they can use to train the tribes.”
“Okay,” Marissa said, “that’s better, but—”
Spiegelman held up his palms like traffic cop. “I understand your concerns. Here’s the deal. Harry will have to relocate to the Tucson, Arizona area and live as...” he looked down at a sheet of paper, “Ben Hart, the long-lost son of an elder of the Tohono O’odham tribe, they’re a Pima people. Actually, you’d be part of a subgroup of theirs, but we can discuss all that later. We will have film crews following you and have you miked whenever you leave your house. We will supply you with paperwork, references, etc., and we will walk you through the process of dealing with government agencies and the tribes themselves. But you absolutely must remain in character during this whole period. When you go out to a store or to a diner or go to the bathroom, you go as Ben Hart. Do you understand that, Harry?”
“Who’s Harry? I’m Ben Hart, the long-lost son of a tribal elder of the Tohono O’odham,” he said, perfectly mimicking Spiegelman’s pronunciation. “When do we get going?”
“Well...” Mel Abbott hesitated, “first you’re gonna have to go through some schooling while you’re in L.A. We need you to get very familiar with the role and then we’ll send you down to Tucson. It won’t be a cakewalk, this will be—”
“Stop being such a worrier, Mel. Harry — I mean, Ben Hart is up to it. Right, chief?”
“No problem.”
“Very well then,” Paul Spiegelman said, pushing one of the money piles toward Harry and pulling the other one back. “Here’s half as an advance. When you complete your education for the role up here, you’ll get the second half. I trust you, but our clients need some guarantees, you understand.”
“Well, I don’t!” Marissa stood up and walked over to Mel Abbott’s desk. She sensed he was the more easily intimidated of the two and, at 6’7”, she was pretty intimidating. “What about a little thing called a contract?”
Abbott’s mouth moved silently as he fumbled for an answer. The hyena was looking mighty scared. Harry was enjoying it all and thought Marissa LaTerre born to the role of agent. An image of Irv Rothenberg in fishnets, a miniskirt, and high heels flashed through his mind and Harry shuddered. One of Kitt followed quickly thereafter and Harry almost got hard. Almost.
“Contract. You want a contract?” Spiegelman asked. “You got one. We’ll have it drawn up, but first we had to see if Harry would take the part. It’s only reasonable, no?”
Harry said sure, sure. Marissa was still skeptical. Harry took the money and shoved it in his jacket pocket.
“Now, Harry,” Mel said, “don’t disappear on us with that five grand.”
Harry was really starting to dislike Mel. Most people, he guessed, would dislike Mel. “Listen, mister, I’m a professional. I was never late on set in 150-plus movies. I never called in sick or injured, ever. As hard up as I am, I’m not going anywhere.”
Spiegelman chided his partner. “Mel, I keep telling you, Harry Garson is a pro. Besides, he knows the five large is bubkes compared to what he’ll make for the whole shoot.”
“And speaking of that,” Marissa chimed in, “what are we talking about for the whole gig?”
“Minimum of fifty grand, less the ten up front. Depends how long the shoot goes. Anything over a month, Harry will receive five grand a week. The clock on the shoot starts ticking once he lands at the airport in Tucson. One month from that day, the five grand per kicks in. Once the shoot spills over into the next week, five grand will be prorated. How does that sound to everyone?”
“Wonderful,” Harry said. “When can we sign the papers and get started?”