15

Monty called.  “You didn’t fuck up the meeting did you?”

“No,” I said.

“You’re sure?”

“As sure as I can be.”

“All right, his office should call me Monday and we’ll work it out.  We’re going for big money here, Tommy.  We’re going to grab what we can just in case nothing ever materializes.  You know how this is–”

“I know how it is.”

Monty spouted off a few figures.  They were only about half of what Schreiber had mentioned.  Monty had no way of understanding big money any more than I did.  He was going to undervalue us.  It didn’t matter.  Schreiber would still have to go with the original offer because he’d said it to my face and wouldn’t want to look cheap on paper, even if it did save him a load of cash.

“For all the promises, for all the action, movies can get the thumbs up and still not be made.  They have articles in Variety and they talk about it on Entertainment Tonight and it still doesn’t happen.  You can’t take it personally.”

“I won’t take it personally, Monty.”

“Especially if they pay you long green for the rights.”

“I know that, Monty.”

“So how come you’re still not happy?”

It was a fair question.  I didn’t know how to answer.  I wasn’t sure there was an answer.  I was getting my shot at the brass ring and it worried me more than anything.  Maybe I’d grown too comfortable being a failure.  There were some men too afraid to win.  I wondered if I’d somehow become one of them without even realizing it.

“Your hotel okay?” he asked.

“Beautiful.”

“Good.  Crack open the cans of peanuts.  Don’t feel bad.  You’re not paying.  Enjoy the high life there for as long as this lasts.  It might be your only shot at it.”

“You always know exactly the right thing to say to me, Monty.”

“I live and breathe, my friend.”