by Stan Lerner
CHAPTER NINE
Show Me The Money
In the Peters Entertainment conference room, a large group of Hasidic Jews sat around the table waiting not so patiently. Marle stood at the counter behind the conference table. Frustrated, she pushed the intercom extension to Stan's office for the sixth time.
Marle did her best to fake a sweet and caring voice. "Stan, all the guys from Hebrew National Bank are here waiting for you."
Back in Stan's office, the hot girl had taken her top off and was riding Stan's code ten violator like a mechanical bull.
Marle smiled at the Hasidic Jews. They glared back, angry that she had yet to get a response from Stan's office.
"Stan, I know you're there. Everybody is waiting," she said still faking her pleasant tone.
Stan's voice finally answered back. "I'm cumming, I'm cumming. Oh, I'm cumming. Yeah baby!"
Marle hastily pressed the speakerphone button disconnecting the call. "Fucker," she said under her breath. Then turned to face the Jews. "He should be coming any second."
The wise old Rabbi nodded his approval. "Yes, he sounded very enthusiastic."
Marle's eyes twinkled as she flashed her phony Jersey Jew smile. "Yes, he certainly did."
"Is he always so involved with his work?" asked the Rabbi.
Marle kept the bullshit grin glued to her face. "I would call him the hands-on type."
"So he gets deeply involved," the Rabbi probed further.
Marle kept smiling but realized she was clenching her fingers into a fist so tightly that her nails might be drawing her own blood. "Very deeply, whenever he possibly can, Rabbi."
"Good, this is very good!" exclaimed the Rabbi to the whole group of Hasidim.
"Would you guys like a snack?" Marle asked, trying to get her mind off of what Stan might have just eaten.
They stared at her blankly.
"Would you guys like a nosh? Stan picked some chazarai up on the way into the office this morning," she said drawing on her not so extensive Yiddish vocabulary.
Smiles broke out around the table the way they always do when Jews realize there's food.
"Well, maybe a little nosh while we wait," said the Rabbi his face glowing like a jack o' lantern.
Marle pressed the button on the counter next to the phone, which caused the presentation wall to retract revealing five contiguous Sub Zero refrigerators. She opened the door on the far left. "I think he said it was in here." She began pulling out platter after platter of food. Every time she put one down on the table the men in the black hats made a very happy grumbling sound.
She began to point out the selection. "Lox, bagels, cream cheese, herring, gefeltifish, horseradish, matzo ball soup, challah, hamentashen?then reaching back into the fridge?oh and here's some of that Manischewitz wine you guys all like so much." The grumbling filled the room loudly. Marle held up her hand. "And some music." She hit the button on the built in Bang and Olufsen, which immediately began playing Hava Nagilah and the party was on.
Stan walked in on cue dressed like a Hasidic Jew, fake beard and all. "Rabbi!" he shouted.
"Shmulie!" the Rabbi's face was on fire.
Stan interlocked the crook of his right arm with the crook of the Rabbi's right arm and started to dance the Kazzazki. Everyone else stood and joined in. A bunch of Jews whirling each other around like a Chabad Telethon. Marle, freaked out, could only stand and watch the bizarre spectacle. After a minute of hard dancing, Stan grabbed a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label from the wet bar and held it up. The Rabbi nodded his approval and the whole group proceeded to do shot after shot as they danced.
The Rabbi pulled Stan to a stop and clasped his face between both of his sizable Hasidic hands. "Shmulie, you look great!"
Stan was nervous about his beard being pulled off but thankfully he had used the fast drying glue. "So do you Rabbi!"
"What type of deal have you got for us Shmulie?" asked the Rabbi in a deep serious manner.
"How does a twenty percent annual return on your money sound?"
The Rabbi looked at the Bang and Olufsen and the music stopped magically. The Hasidim stopped dancing and crowded around to listen.
"Shmulie, twenty percent sounds good. But this business you're in-well it just doesn't seem that kosher. The people you deal with seem less than honest."
Stan was prepared for this hurdle. "No, Rabbi they're nice people. Honest, decent, wholesome people. Would you like to meet a couple of my associates?"
"It's not necessary, I trust you Shmulie," said the Rabbi, which meant he absolutely wanted to meet them.
"I insist." Stan looked over at Marle, who was cowering in some type of shock in the corner. "Marle, call Ray and Iren. See if they can stop in and say hello for a second."
Marle hit the speakerphone button. "Iren, Ray, Stan wants to know if you can come say hi to all the Rabbi guys?"
"Tell him we're praying but we're just about finished," Iren said sounding like the messiah.
The Rabbi nodded his approval. "Shmulie, how much money are you looking for?"
Stan glanced down, pretending to be embarrassed and shy about the whole matter. "Five hundred million or a billion would be nice."
The Rabbi shook his head and put his hand on Stan's shoulder, which he squeezed tightly. "Shmulie, you can't run a business if you're under capitalized. You mustn't be timid. How much do you really need?" His eyes burned into Stan's often-misunderstood soul.
"I don't want to seem..." Stan hesitated, thinking that things were going very well.
"Shmulie, we're family. How much?" the Rabbi demanded.
"A billion five," Stan said just as Iren and Ray walked in dressed as Hasidic Jews, glued on beards and all.
"Shalom, shalom, everybody!" they both shouted in unison.
The Rabbi stared at them in amazement for a moment. "These are your associates?" he asked, obviously impressed.
Stan tightened and tucked his lips towards his own teeth and nodded. The combination of the two gestures signaled great pride and truth in what was being acknowledged. He had learned this fact from watching the Discovery Channel one night. "I think of them more like brothers."
It worked. The Rabbi, moved by Stan's obviously deep feelings, hugged Iren and Ray. Once released, Iren whipped out a bottle of Shlivovitz from under his long black coat and held it up for all to see.
"Shlivovitz!" he shouted.
Ray grabbed a glass from the table, which Iren filled up. "Le Chaim!" shouted Ray.
"Le Chaim!" They all shouted back, downing their shots.
Marle, thinking someone must have slipped something into her mochachino when she was in the break room, hit the button on the Bang and Olufsen and the music filled the room; the dancing resumed more feverish than before.
The Rabbi was spinning Stan around at a dizzying speed. "Shmulie, I say we give it a try! But keep our money out of the T & A stuff."
Stan thought he felt his blood platelets separating from the centrifugal force. " Not a worry Rabbi, the Pope will crucify me if I cut anyone else in on that market."
"It figures, that's what happens when you haven't had a woman in eighty years!" The Rabbi stopped whirling suddenly. "Speaking of which young man, isn't it time that you settle down?" The Rabbi looked across the room at Marle who looked back nervously and waved.
Stan tried to focus his eyes but the room was still moving even though he wasn't. "I'm only forty," Stan said, feigning wonderment at the question, then peered over the Rabbi's broad shoulders, he noticed Marle had picked up an incoming call.
The Rabbi moved slightly, blocking Stan's view. "I had twelve children by the time I was your age, Shmulie?Shmulie, I like that girl." The Rabbi pointed his thumb back Marle's direction.
"Yeah I'll tell him," Marle said, hanging up the phone and wondering why the Rabbi was pointing at her.
"I don't know Rabbi, she's so?" Stan shrugged, struggling to find the right word. "I don't know?opinionated."
The Rabbi pinched Stan's chee
k then gave it a pat. "Shmulie, forget about such trivial concerns. If a woman is a good cook and hot in bed, that's all that matters. And of course we would feel much more comfortable with your financing proposal if you were married."
Marle walked over to where they stood. She hadn't wanted to, but she needed to tell Stan that his next appointment had arrived.
Stan realized that the Rabbi was going to have to be appeased. "If I'm married I'll probably need a little more money."
"How much?" asked the Rabbi, intent on making sure Stan would be getting married soon no matter how much it cost.
Stan felt nauseous but managed to think of a number that it would be worth ruining his life for. "Two billion on a revolving line for the next five years."
The Rabbi smiled from ear to ear. "Okay. But I want you two married by the end of the month."
"They'll do it!" yelled out Iren and Ray simultaneously before Stan could answer himself.
Marle's face filled with consternation. Her eyes became slits. "You told me you weren't marrying her."
"Marrying who?" asked the Rabbi.
Stan gave Marle a life-threatening look, then smiled. "You. I'm marrying you!"
"Mazel tov!" yelled the Rabbi, followed by a chorus of "Mazel tov's!"
Everybody began hugging everybody else as Marle stood looking on, dumbfounded.
Thirty minutes later, Stan sat behind his desk. He had put his handmade Zegna suit back on and picked what he hoped was the last piece of quick drying beard glue off his face. The homicide detective, a balding, middle-aged man with a sturdy build, who had written the terrible script "Murder in Tinseltown", sat on the other side of the desk. Marle stood next to him, ignoring his presence altogether, and screamed at Stan.
"Married! Are you crazy? Are you completely out of your mind? There's something wrong with you. I am married!"
Stan gave the detective a "Bear with me" look and then looked up toward Marle. "You're legally separated."
She rested her right hand on her hip. "Translation: still married."
"It's just a matter of some paperwork," Stan said casually.
Marle glared. "That he has to be served. And do I need to remind you that nobody knows where he went after he sold the house and split with all the money?"
The homicide detective looked at Stan. "You know, if this is a bad time, I could come back later."
Stan answered the detective while not breaking eye contact with Marle. "No, this is a great time for you to be here. I might have a homicide for you to investigate in the next couple of minutes."
Marle was up to the task. Her parents had set a good example. "Seriously, I'd rather be dead than married to you."
"He's in Miami," Stan said plainly. "I can have him served tomorrow if you want. And then we can get married."
Marle's hand fell from her hip. "You know where he is?" she asked in disbelief. But then, she believed it. Of course he wouldn't have told her unless he had to. "How long have you known?"
"For a while." Stan shrugged. Even he felt a little guilty about not telling her this critical information. But the money from the house would have given her financial independence; he really had no choice but to keep it from her.
"How long?" she demanded.
"Eleven months," he fessed up.
"You've known where he's been all along and didn't tell me?" she asked, still trying to get her mind around his treachery.
"Yeah, that's pretty much the case. But it was for your own good." Stan felt better that there was some basis for this statement.
"For my own good? Why don't you just admit that you kept this from me because you were afraid we'd get back together? I bet you can't stand the thought of me in his arms?"
"Her arms," Stan corrected. "He had a sex change operation with the money he got from the house and shacked up with a guy named Nathan."
Marle put the palm of her right hand to her forehead. "Nathan Gubitz, that fat, bald, little bastard. He sat at my table and ate my food every Friday night."
"Well now it seems like he's eating your husband more often than that." Stan felt a tingle in his face. It was a laugh tremor.
Don't do it old boy. If you laugh now, she'll flip. For two billion dollars you have to refrain.
Her eyes teared up for a split second then became cold as steel. "You know what, I should marry you just to get even with him."
This was just the breakthrough Stan had been hoping for. "See, now you're thinking clearly."
"Serve him tomorrow," she commanded. "Oh, and don't even think of getting me a ring under ten-carats or I'll tell the Rabbis what type of Hasidic Jew you really are." With that, she turned and walked out of the room, seemingly happy.
The detective's face filled with confusion. "You're a Hasidic Jew? You don't look like any of the Hasidic Jews I know."
"Don't be ridiculous, I'm not a Hasidic Jew. I was just pretending to be one to raise two billion dollars in new financing. But things got a little out of hand while we were dancing the Hora and now it looks like I'm going to have to marry Marle to get the money."
The detective pressed the tips of the fingers of both of his hands together. "And I thought my job was dangerous!"
"Do you mind if I call you Ed?" asked Stan.
"If we're here to talk about you making my script into a movie, you can call me Shirley and I won't care."
"Surely you jest?" Stan said in jest.
Marle walked back through the doorway with Brides Magazine in hand. She was glowing. "Did he just call you Shirley?" she asked Ed.
The detective looked at the completely transformed girl. His many years of studying human character had led him to the conclusion that very large diamonds could pretty much help any woman get over anything very quickly. "Yes, he did. But I'm alright with it."
"Ellie' s on the phone. He says he just needs to talk to you for a minute."
"Tell him it better be important. And is there some reason that you're not using the intercom?"
She came around his side of the desk and laid the magazine down in front of him. "Yeah, I want you to take a look at some dresses."
"Brides Magazine?" Stan questioned.
"I put stick-its on the ones I like," Marle bubbled.
Stan hit the speakerphone button ignoring the magazine and Marle's stare. "Ellie, I'm in a meeting on a murder mystery script. What the fuck is so important?"
"Murder mystery? I love it!" said the distinctly Middle Eastern voice. I'll come in with you. I'll be your co-executive producer."
"Ellie, what did I tell you about reading a script before you actually make a movie?"
"Details, details, I'm a big-picture guy. I can't be bothered with trivial nonsense. Count me in!"
"Ellie, what do you want?"
"The Germans are getting tough. They've asked me to present a trailer for each movie I want to make."
"So what's the problem?" Stan asked, thinking back to the time he cut a trailer while getting a lap dance-just to prove to himself that he could multitask.
"I don't know what a trailer is."
Stan couldn't help himself. "It's the thing you tow behind your car until you find a park filled with people who are married to their cousins to park it in." Stan hit the speakerphone button and turned his attention back to the homicide detective named Ed that he called Shirley. "It's idiots like him that give the rest of us a bad name. I'm sorry for the interruptions."
"That's okay-I'm starting to feel like a real Hollywood insider."
Stan looked across the desk and tilted his head down slightly. "Give me a few more minutes and trust me, when I'm done, you're going to feel like family."
Marle's voice came back over the intercom, which struck Stan funny because he hadn't noticed that she had left the room. "Ellie's on the phone again," she said in the nagging intercom voice that turned him on to the point of wanting to do her on the desk just to shut her up.
Stan hit the speakerphone button. "What now?"
"The Germans
said they don't need trailers for their cars. They need them for my movies."
Stan decided there was no more time for fun and games with Ellie and the Germans. And since he hadn't completely forgiven them for World War II, he kind of enjoyed watching Ellie lose their money. "They want you to make a mini-movie of each movie you're going to make before you make it."
"So they want to see the trailer first?" Ellie questioned still more remarkably.
"Yes, that's how it usually works," Stan answered, pulling his gold Mont Blanc from his coat pocket and rotating it across his fingers?Anything to not lose it in front of Ed.
"I asked my assistant to look it up in the dictionary and he says that a trailer is something that comes after something else. So how could a trailer be what comes before a movie?"
Stan dropped the pen. "Because, normally you have to make the movie first to have the footage you need to make a trailer to show before the movie."
"But, they want me to make the trailer first? I don't understand."
"Ellie remember the camels you played with as a kid?"
"Like it was yesterday."
"The oats go in the mouth and the shit comes out the ass. Shoot a couple scenes from the scripts you don't read and they'll give you the money."
"So the oats are the scenes, the Germans are the camel, and the money is the shit." Ellie finally managed to put together.
"Now you've got it," answered Stan.
Ellie's voice had the spark of enlightenment. "You could be a college professor?"
Stan hit the speakerphone button, cutting him off. He looked at Ed but thought for a moment about all the young chicks he could get if he were a college professor. "Ed, here's the deal. I'll make "Murder in Tinseltown" and pay you a million dollars for the rights. You can hang around the set all you want and I'll throw in a producer title."
Ed smiled nervously. "Stan, I don't know what to say."
Stan gave him the famous Stan deal-closing smile. "Ed, I'm having a crazy day so just say yes."
"Yes, of course yes. This is the dream of a lifetime just coming true like that. Stan, if you ever need anything and I mean anything?I mean what could I ever do to possibly repay you?"
Stan leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk. "You know Ed, it's funny you should ask."
Marle sat at her desk filing her nails and perusing exotic honeymoon destination websites. She thought she was homing in on just the right spot when the phone rang.
"Hey Marle, is Stan in?" it was Brianna.
"Hey Brianna, how's it going over at the studio?"
"Piece of cake, I'll be done here in no time."
"Well that's great, then you can get started on your wedding plans." Marle had to put her hand over the mouthpiece to keep Brianna from hearing her malicious snicker.
Brianna's voice filled with the pride and confidence of being the winner. "I know. I can't wait. And Marle, I understand this isn't easy for you. But don't worry, I have a feeling that you'll be hearing wedding bells of your own really soon."
"Oh, Brianna that's so sweet of you to say. Do you want to talk to the future husband?" Marle had to cover the mouthpiece again as she snickered at her own cleverness.
"Yeah, he asked me to call when things were set."
"I'll put you through." Marle hit the intercom button for Stan's office. "Hey Stan, your ex-future wife is on the phone."
Stan looked at the phone and wondered why everything always happened at once. "I'm sorry Ed, just a little blackmail thing I'm working on." Ed gave him an understanding nod as he hit the speakerphone button. "Brianna my love, I want to hear some good news right now."
Her voice was excited like a high school girl. "I got the job! And Brad is taking me to dinner tonight. He told me that we're going to be working very closely together and he thought it would be a good idea if we took some time to get to know each other."
Stan rubbed his hands together with greedy anticipation. "Get him back to your place; Danny will have it all wired up by tonight. Tell him it's a big turn on for you if he puts on your lingerie."
"If you can, get him to use some anal beads," Ed suggested loudly toward the phone. "It's always a nice touch."
"Did you hear that?" Stan asked wanting to make sure-he loved the idea.
"Anal beads, got it," Brianna assured. "Oh sweetie, I hear someone coming, better get off the phone. See you later. I love you."
"I love you too?" Stan said and hit the speakerphone button. "Not?So Ed, about that one little thing you could do for me."
"Name it Stan, whatever you need."
Stan leaned forward again and put his elbows on the desk. This time he was going to finish the deal. "Well, a former employee and good friend of mine just discovered that his wife fucked their gay decorator, then killed him and herself with a twelve-gauge shotgun."
"Murder suicide," Ed observed raising his brow and wrinkling his forehead. The look of acknowledged but unspoken complicity. "Normally something like this would be a big deal-but what the hell! No reason for a good friend of yours to be put through the ringer."
Stan nodded his approval. "Go to the house, take his statement, send for the meat wagon, and meet me later for drinks at Trader Vic's."
"Sounds great," Ed exclaimed picturing a director's chair with his name on it.
