So we went back to my home in the hills above West Hollywood, and I ran him through more variations of questions he might get asked – where he'd gotten the idea, what actors would be good in the roles, who he thought could direct the material, that sort of thing. At the start of a project, producers pay a lot of attention to a screenwriter, and they promise to keep consulting him the way they're consulting him now. It's all guff, of course. As soon as a director and a name actor are attached to a project, the producers suddenly get amnesia about the original screenwriter. But at the start, he's king, and I wanted Ric to be ready to answer any kind of question about the screenplay so he could be convincing that he'd actually written it.
Ric was a fast study. At eight, when I couldn't think of any more questions he might have to answer, we took a drive to dinner at a fish place near the Santa Monica pier. Afterward, we strolled to the end of the pier and watched the sunset.
"So this is what it's all about," Ric said.
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"The action. I can feel the action."
"Don't get fooled by Linda's optimism. Nothing might come of this."
Ric shook his head. "I'm close."
"I've got some pages I want to do tomorrow, but if you'll come around at four with your own new pages, I'll go over them for you. I'm curious to see how you're revising that script you showed me."
Ric kept staring out at the sunset and didn't answer for quite a while. "Yeah, my script."
As things turned out, I didn't get much work done the next day. I had just managed to solve a problem in a scene that was running too long when my phone rang. That was around ten o'clock, and rather than be interrupted, I let my answering machine take it. But when I heard Ric's excited voice, I picked up the phone.
"Slow down," I said. "Take it easy. What are you so worked up about?"
"They want the script!"
I wasn't prepared. "Warners?"
"Can you believe that this is happening so fast?"
"Ballard's actually taking it? How did you find this out?"
"Linda just phoned me!"
"Linda?" I frowned. "But why didn't Linda…?" I was about to say "Why didn't Linda phone me?" Then I realized my mistake. There wasn't any reason for Linda to phone me, except maybe to tell me the good news about my friend. But she definitely had to phone Ric. After all, he was supposedly the author of the screenplay.
Ric kept talking excitedly. "Linda says Ballard wants to have lunch with me."
"Great." The truth is, I was vaguely jealous. "When?"
"Today."
I was stunned. Any executive with power was always booked several weeks in advance. For Ballard to decide to have lunch with Ric this soon, he would have had to cancel lunch with someone else. It definitely wouldn't have been the other way around. No one cancels lunch with Ballard.
"Amazing," I said.
"Apparently he's got big plans for me. By the way, he likes the script as is. No changes. At least for now. Linda says when they sign a director, the director always asks for changes."
"Linda's right," I said. "And then the director'll insist that the changes aren't good enough and ask to bring in a friend to do the rewrite."
"No fucking way," Ric said.
"A screenwriter doesn't have any clout against a director. You've still got a lot to learn about industry politics. School isn't finished yet."
"Sure." Ric hurried on. "Linda got Ballard up to a million and a quarter for the script!"
For a moment, I had trouble breathing.
"Great." And this time I meant it.
Ric phoned again in thirty minutes. He was nervous about the meeting and needed reassurance.
Ric phoned thirty minutes after that, saying that he didn't feel comfortable going to a power lunch in the sneakers, jeans, and pullover that I had told him were necessary for the role he was playing.
"You have to," I said. "You've got to look like you don't belong to the Establishment or whatever the hell it is they call it these days. If you look like every other writer trying to make an impression, Ballard will treat you like every other writer. We're selling nonconformity. We're selling youth."
"I still say I'd feel more comfortable in a jacket by…" Ric mentioned the name of the latest trendy designer.
"Even assuming that's a good idea, which it isn't, how on earth are you going to pay for it? A jacket by that designer costs fifteen-hundred dollars."
"I'll use my credit card," Ric said.
"But a month from now, you'll still have to pay the bill. You know the whopping interest rates those credit card companies charge."
"Hey, I can afford it. I just made a million and a quarter bucks."
"No, Ric. You're getting confused."
"All right, I know Linda has to take her ten percent commission."
"You're still confused. You don't get the bulk of that money. I do. What you get is fifteen percent of it."
"That's still a lot of cash. Almost two hundred thousand dollars."
"But remember, you probably won't get it for at least six months."
"What?"
"On a spec script, they don't simply agree to buy it and hand you a check. The fine points on the negotiation have to be completed. Then the contracts have to be drawn up and reviewed and amended. Then their business office drags its feet before issuing the check. I once waited a year to get paid for a spec script."
"But I can't wait that long. I've got.
"Yes?"
"Responsibilities. Look, Mort, I have to go. I need to get ready for this meeting."
"And I need to get back to my pages."
"With all this excitement, you mean you're actually writing today?"
"Every day."
"No shit."
But I was too preoccupied to get much work done.
Ric finally phoned around five. "Lunch was fabulous."
I hadn't expected to feel so relieved. "Ballard didn't ask you any tricky questions? He's still convinced you wrote the script?"
"Not only that. He says I'm just the talent he's been looking for. A fresh imagination. Someone in tune with today's generation. He asked me to do a last-minute rewrite on an action picture he's starting next week."
"The Warlords?"
"That's the one."
"I've been hearing bad things about it," I said.
"Well, you won't hear anything bad anymore."
"Wait a…Are you telling me you accepted the job?"
"Damned right."
"Without talking to me about it first?" I straightened in shock. "What in God's name did you think you were doing?"
"Why would I need to talk to you? You're not my agent. Ballard called Linda from our table at the restaurant. The two of them settled the deal while I was sitting there. Man, when things happen, they happen. All those years of trying, and now, wham, pow, all of a sudden I'm there. And the best part is, since I'm a writer for hire on this job, they have to pay some of the money the minute I sit down to work, even if the contracts aren't ready."
"That's correct," I said. "On work for hire, you have to get paid on a schedule. The Writers Guild insists on that. You're learning fast. But Ric, before you accepted the job, don't you think it would have been smart to read the script first – to see if it can be fixed?"
"How bad can it be?" Ric chuckled.
"You'd be surprised."
"It doesn't matter how bad. The fee's a hundred thousand dollars. I need the money."