Chapter 3
Allen Perlmutter had slipped the hostess twenty dollars to seat him at the table directly in front of Lawrence Getzler’s. He waited until the waitress brought over Getzler’s breakfast order before jumping up and taking the seat across from Getzler. The studio executive at first looked startled by the intrusion, then his eyes narrowed and he told Perlmutter to leave immediately or he would ask his waitress to call the police.
“A two-minute pitch, that’s all I’m asking for,” Perlmutter said, his words tumbling fast out of his mouth.
Getzler’s expression had become as hard as stone. He signaled for his waitress.
“Come on, it will be worth your while, I promise.” Perlmutter tried to smile and exude confidence, but that was a tough thing to do when you were covered in flop sweat and your shirt was soaked through. Jesus, he hoped he didn’t smell as bad as he imagined he did. “You’ve got to admit, it takes chutzpah to do what I just did.”
Getzler lowered his hand. “Sixty seconds,” he said. He then looked away from Perlmutter so he could time him with a ridiculously expensive-looking watch.
“Thank you. I really appreciate it,” Perlmutter blabbered out. All at once his mouth felt as dry as if he’d swallowed a handful of sawdust. Even though every second was precious, he reached back for the glass of water that he had left on his table, but a waitress had already cleared it away. Damn it! He eyed Getzler’s water, but he knew it would be a fatal mistake if he asked if he could take a sip of it.
“Forty-five seconds,” Getzler said.
“A Planet of the Apes reboot, but instead of apes, androids,” Perlmutter croaked out, his voice now barely a rasp. From the way the film executive’s eyes glazed, Perlmutter knew that idea wasn’t going to fly. That was okay; he had treatments worked up for over a dozen ideas, all of them killers. Except now his mind was a blank. Nothing! The most important minute of his life and he couldn’t think!
“A movie about being married to the Skull Cracker Killer,” Perlmutter stumbled out.
That got Getzler’s attention. He looked up from his watch to ask whether Perlmutter had the wife’s permission for her story. “What’s her name again?”
“Sheila Proops. Not yet, but I’m negotiating with her,” Perlmutter lied. “I’ll be wrapping things up with her soon.”
From the way Getzler’s eyes glazed completely there was no mistaking that the film executive thought Perlmutter was full of it, which he was. But Perlmutter had definitely seen a glint in Getzler’s eyes. If he could make this deal happen, Getzler would be interested. Perlmutter was also aware enough to know that his time with Getzler was over. That it was time for him to get moving.
“Once I have her story rights under contract and a treatment written, I’ll contact you again.” Perlmutter winked at him. “I know where to find you.”
Without saying another word, he placed one of his business cards on Getzler’s table—a ritzy affair with raised gold lettering and calligraphy that he had spent big bucks on—and moved back to his table, somehow doing so without collapsing.
Perlmutter’s heart raced wildly in his chest as he sat and made sense of what had just happened. This had been the biggest moment of his life, and while he might not have hit it out of the park, he definitely stroked a solid single. That glint in Getzler’s eyes was real. No question about it. He wondered where he had pulled the idea from, because it wasn’t one of the film treatments he’d been working on. As far as he knew, it wasn’t even something he had thought about until that moment. Even the fact he had remembered that woman’s name was remarkable. But the subconscious was a funny thing. Somehow he came up with the perfect pitch when he absolutely needed to. Kismet, pure and simple.
He bit his tongue to keep from bursting out giggling. He was that giddy. This was bigger than big. Absolutely huge. The break he’d been dreaming of for years. A wide smile broke out as he thought about how he was going to rub this into Sammy Bloom’s face. Bloom had traded him Getzler’s Tuesday-morning breakfast routine for the name of the fitness studio where Faye Riverstone took private Pilates classes, a piece of knowledge Perlmutter had stumbled on a week ago. Bloom, the delusional putz, had it in his head that if he could get Riverstone to read his latest script she would not only want to star in it, but she’d help him arrange for the film’s financing. Fat chance! Bloom had showed Perlmutter the script, and it was a joke. Not only was it cliché-ridden, but there were no parallel narrative streams, no sudden reversals or surprises, no misdirection. Bloom was a hack who was wasting his time trying to make it in Hollywood, but he was too dumb to realize it. Of course, Bloom wouldn’t have traded his information if he had known Perlmutter would have the success he did with Getzler. Yeah, Bloom wasn’t going to be happy!
Perlmutter absently ran his hand through his hair, and as he felt the dampness of his hair as if he’d just come out of a sauna, he realized it would be a good idea to leave before Getzler had any more time to notice how sweaty he’d gotten. His legs felt rubbery as he got to his feet, but he forced himself to nod with all the confidence in the world as he passed Getzler, even though the film executive didn’t bother to look his way. It didn’t matter. He had seen the glint in Getzler’s eyes. As far as he was concerned that was as good as a handshake. All he needed was to arrange a deal with Sheila Proops for her life story, and this would happen.
As he walked out of the restaurant a stony resolve hardened Perlmutter’s round, doughy face. No matter what it took, he was going to make a deal with Sheila Proops.