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.He was staring at the glass office doors.Marmelstein nodded."That old fart's sold us a bill of goods," he said."This thing is a bomb waiting to go off.""Why didn't we see it before?" Bindle wailed."We wasted our money on the rights.I mean, come on.An honest cop fighting the system alone? Snore, snore, snore.""We should have seen it wasn't workable.""Workable? We'll be lucky if we're not severanced off with a big fat check and a pile of stock.""Golden parachute?" Marmelstein asked."It's happened to all the biggies at one time or another," Bindle moaned."Ovitz, Katzenberg.Remember Tartikoff? Most of them never recovered.The worst day of my life will be the day they give me that hundred-million-dollar check."Marmelstein shuddered."Don't worry.It'll probably never come to that."Bindle sighed.Leaning an elbow on his gleaming desk, he looked over at his partner."So what's the story on our little mini-sneak preview?""No one's made the connection yet.I think it might be because of the chaos on the set.No one's seen the reports.""Hell, if it goes on much longer, I'll go down and tell them," Bindle said, slouching in his chair."That wouldn't be smart.We really shouldn't link ourselves to it.If it goes on another day, I'll leak it by e-mail to Entertainment Tonight from one of the dummy accounts.""I don't know how one little blown-up building in New York is going to pull this turkey out of the oven," Bindle grumbled, "let alone bring it back to life.""It probably won't," Bruce Marmelstein explained."We take it in steps.New York first, then the really big one.With the interest we'll generate, we could have a box-office hit yet.""Or the biggest bomb in history."Bruce Marmelstein laughed."That's what's going to give us the box office."Hank Bindle nodded, bracing his forehead against his palm."Movie promotion can be so demanding," he sighed.Chapter 10Pink plastic lawn flamingos lined the wall behind the hideous paisley sofa.The living-room rug sported images of cavorting blue Smurfs.The thick glass sheet that was the coffee table was held aloft by a single faux elephant foot.Page 37ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlA substance resembling clear gelatin filled a thirty-gallon fish tank on the shelf near the kitchenette.Suspended at various points in the tank were severed doll limbs.Posters from films such as Surf Nazis Must Die, A Bucket of Blood and Frankenhooker adorned the walls, held in place by cheery multicolored thumbtacks.It was a lot to take in all at once.Remo wasn't sure if he wanted to throw up or run screaming into the hallway.Settling reluctantly on a third option, he followed Quintly Tortilli inside his Seattle apartment."You like it?" the famous director asked as he dropped his keys near a plastic Fred Flintstone bank on the table near the door."Blind whores have better taste," Remo said.Frowning, he flicked at the grass skirt on a tiny hula dancer attached to a table lamp."Yeah," agreed Tortilli."They always know, like, the best yard sales.My book's in the bedroom."Leaving Remo, he danced down a short hallway.Every inch of space in the living room was crammed with forced kitsch.From Felix the Cat wall clocks whose eyes moved back and forth with each tick of their tails to upright ashtrays fashioned to look like cowboy boots to a closet from which spilled clothes made of fabrics that had been to the moon.Anyone unfortunate enough to enter the apartment was pummeled by Quintly Tortilli's obnoxious personality.On an oil-stained desk, which looked as if Tortilli had rescued it from an abandoned factory, lay a dozen scripts.When Remo opened one, he found that the margins were filled with notes.The others he checked were in the same condition: all loaded with crazy pencil marks.He was about to turn from the desk when one of the script covers caught his eye.Surprised, he picked it up.He was skimming through it when Tortilli returned."We're in business now," the director enthused, waving a mint-condition 1970s Josie and the Pussycats binder."What the hell is this?" Remo asked, holding up the script."Huh? Oh, I do script-doctor work sometimes.Blood Water, The Lockup.Strictly uncredited.Million bucks for a week's work.Those are the latest.I get 'em all the time."Remo looked at the cover of the script in his hand [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.He was staring at the glass office doors.Marmelstein nodded."That old fart's sold us a bill of goods," he said."This thing is a bomb waiting to go off.""Why didn't we see it before?" Bindle wailed."We wasted our money on the rights.I mean, come on.An honest cop fighting the system alone? Snore, snore, snore.""We should have seen it wasn't workable.""Workable? We'll be lucky if we're not severanced off with a big fat check and a pile of stock.""Golden parachute?" Marmelstein asked."It's happened to all the biggies at one time or another," Bindle moaned."Ovitz, Katzenberg.Remember Tartikoff? Most of them never recovered.The worst day of my life will be the day they give me that hundred-million-dollar check."Marmelstein shuddered."Don't worry.It'll probably never come to that."Bindle sighed.Leaning an elbow on his gleaming desk, he looked over at his partner."So what's the story on our little mini-sneak preview?""No one's made the connection yet.I think it might be because of the chaos on the set.No one's seen the reports.""Hell, if it goes on much longer, I'll go down and tell them," Bindle said, slouching in his chair."That wouldn't be smart.We really shouldn't link ourselves to it.If it goes on another day, I'll leak it by e-mail to Entertainment Tonight from one of the dummy accounts.""I don't know how one little blown-up building in New York is going to pull this turkey out of the oven," Bindle grumbled, "let alone bring it back to life.""It probably won't," Bruce Marmelstein explained."We take it in steps.New York first, then the really big one.With the interest we'll generate, we could have a box-office hit yet.""Or the biggest bomb in history."Bruce Marmelstein laughed."That's what's going to give us the box office."Hank Bindle nodded, bracing his forehead against his palm."Movie promotion can be so demanding," he sighed.Chapter 10Pink plastic lawn flamingos lined the wall behind the hideous paisley sofa.The living-room rug sported images of cavorting blue Smurfs.The thick glass sheet that was the coffee table was held aloft by a single faux elephant foot.Page 37ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlA substance resembling clear gelatin filled a thirty-gallon fish tank on the shelf near the kitchenette.Suspended at various points in the tank were severed doll limbs.Posters from films such as Surf Nazis Must Die, A Bucket of Blood and Frankenhooker adorned the walls, held in place by cheery multicolored thumbtacks.It was a lot to take in all at once.Remo wasn't sure if he wanted to throw up or run screaming into the hallway.Settling reluctantly on a third option, he followed Quintly Tortilli inside his Seattle apartment."You like it?" the famous director asked as he dropped his keys near a plastic Fred Flintstone bank on the table near the door."Blind whores have better taste," Remo said.Frowning, he flicked at the grass skirt on a tiny hula dancer attached to a table lamp."Yeah," agreed Tortilli."They always know, like, the best yard sales.My book's in the bedroom."Leaving Remo, he danced down a short hallway.Every inch of space in the living room was crammed with forced kitsch.From Felix the Cat wall clocks whose eyes moved back and forth with each tick of their tails to upright ashtrays fashioned to look like cowboy boots to a closet from which spilled clothes made of fabrics that had been to the moon.Anyone unfortunate enough to enter the apartment was pummeled by Quintly Tortilli's obnoxious personality.On an oil-stained desk, which looked as if Tortilli had rescued it from an abandoned factory, lay a dozen scripts.When Remo opened one, he found that the margins were filled with notes.The others he checked were in the same condition: all loaded with crazy pencil marks.He was about to turn from the desk when one of the script covers caught his eye.Surprised, he picked it up.He was skimming through it when Tortilli returned."We're in business now," the director enthused, waving a mint-condition 1970s Josie and the Pussycats binder."What the hell is this?" Remo asked, holding up the script."Huh? Oh, I do script-doctor work sometimes.Blood Water, The Lockup.Strictly uncredited.Million bucks for a week's work.Those are the latest.I get 'em all the time."Remo looked at the cover of the script in his hand [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]