by Paul Slatter
And he heard Rann say, “Why, you sent her round to look for the front tooth I just found stuck inside my foot when I went to the bathroom a minute ago.”
“How’s your hair, you fucking cocksucker,” Archall snapped back.
Wanting to say, ‘It’s your girlfriend who likes sucking dick my friend,’ Rann said instead, “So I suppose we’re even. You took my hair and I’ve got your tooth—you want to make a deal or what? And I tell you what, since I’ve got it here, I’ll throw your front tooth in the mix for free.”
And still staring at his dick, Archall Diamond said, “Sure.”
Rann put down the phone. “I’ll make a trade with you,” Nina said as she walked to the front door and pulled out a packet of his pills from her pocket and gently squeezed them into his hand and wishing as she did she’d got it on with Rann the moment he’d set foot in town instead of listening to Archall going on about how much of a loser the man was—and believing him, when deep down she knew it was Archall flying that flag, but hiding well, living in the shadow of Rasheed.
“I’ve left all he stole from you with you, so promise me that when I’m gone, you’ll call the cops on him as soon as you’ve got your money and tell them what he’s done with Paawan. I’m going to do the same, it’s the least I can do for the man. If they hear it from two different sources, then maybe they’ll listen.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Patrick sat in the bar of the Sutton with Rupert Mikes listening to him ask him if he was a realtor and Patrick coming back at him as cool as a cucumber saying, “You’re not up here to buy a house, Rupert, you’re here to make a movie, and that’s what we’re going to do. But we’re not going to make any movie—we’re making your movie and it’s going to be fantastic.”
“Not according to the guy you’re recommending as the lead. He just told me it was shit.”
He did, Patrick couldn’t deny that, he was right there when he said it. He said, “He’s young, he’s got spunk. That’s what we’re after, look at James Dean. What do you want, a yes man who gives you lip service and then delivers nothing? Or do you want a man in your movie who’s not afraid to speak his mind, like Bruce Willis or Russel Crowe?”
And Rupert Mikes looked up from his beer and said, “I’d love them!”
To which Patrick replied, “And I’d like to cruise about in a Rolls Royce but I can’t, so we need to start understanding that fresh talent is better than old talent when old talent isn’t achievable.”
The fact that Patrick could afford a Roller and in fact used to own one until it made him feel old was beside the point. It was a simple persuasive tact he’d used countless times before when he needed to move a condo and the buyer was more interested in the penthouse. Carrying on he said, “The kid’s bright and intelligent. He’s talent, it’s that simple. Use him now, harness his talent, and trust me on the next one Bruce, Russell and Daniel will be knocking on your door.”
“Yeah but like you said—he’s a kid.”
“A young man.”
“How can a kid know how to fly a spaceship?”
Having enough of the guy’s sulking because someone gave him a wakeup call, and wanting to get on with his day, Patrick decided to lay it all on the line, and exchanging the word Property for Project, he repeated an ultimatum he’d thrown down many times throughout the years to clinch a deal, “But if you’re no longer interested in the project, the phone’s ringing off the hook with people who are—so please let me know,” and standing, shook Rupert’s hand, then the hands of two others at the bar who he didn’t know, but who looked important, and said for effect, “Hey good to see you, we still on for Saturday? Dan’s really excited about meeting you.”
And left.
Hitting the lobby, he looked around for any actors then, noticing the large breasts on the receptionist, he stopped, looked away, and then once she got busy again, looked back as they jumbled about beneath her blouse. Fuck they were nice, he thought, and wondered if he should pop over to see a new high-end hooker he’d found who was happy to work him.
He stepped through the door, trying to remember the woman’s name. Damn it, he thought, thinking back to Alla and how not long ago he’d been able to make a call 24/7 and go straight over. He took a deep breath, trying to contain the urges that were starting to develop inside his underwear, and remembered he had someone else staying at the hotel. Just as his smile began to take him in the direction his dick was pointing, he saw a limo pull up; and when he saw who was getting out, he knew he had to have her in his movie. Walking straight up to her, he had her in his arms before her bodyguard could get close and said, “Adalia darling, how on earth are you? I can’t believe it.”
Adalia Seychan looked at Patrick, knowing his face well, but without a clue as to who he was—completely forgetting he was the realtor who’d sold her the waterfront property over in the salubrious part of town for five million some seven years back. It was during a period in her life she was going through, her leave-me-be phase with her third husband. They’d picked Dundarave in West Vancouver because of its wealth and quaint little shops and restaurants and for the fact that no one cared about who you were or what you did. And when no one cared about who she was or what she’d done, just as she had hoped for, she’d seen Patrick’s smiling face roll by on the back of the number 250 bus one Sunday morning and called him up to sell the place again only two months to the day after she’d moved in—because after all, she hadn’t just been in a movie or two, she had three Oscars lined up along her mantelpiece and deserved some recognition.
Then as she stood there outside the Sutton looking to its big wooden doors flanked by ushers in top hats, Patrick’s name came popping out of the people-I-really-couldn’t-give-a-fuck-about box in her head and she said, “Patrick, I was just thinking about you. Oh my God, you look fantastic!”
And Patrick said, “That’s because I’ve bought Slave.”
Adalia stared at Patrick for a moment, taking in what he’d said and with a gasp said, “Slave Media? Sebastian String’s Slave Media?”
Patrick nodded, letting go a glimpse of his pearly whites and steering her away from the main road as a bus passed, and said, “The one and the same. Sebastian’s retiring soon. Now listen, before you go anywhere, it’s a sin for me to not let you come and meet Rupert Mikes. He’s an incredible talent, Sebastian and I have been watching him grow since he was a kid and we’re making his next movie. I’ve just been with him talking about you for the lead!”
******
Rupert Mikes sat in the bar and was still staring at his beer when he heard Patrick coming along the corridor and watched as he entered the bar again. This time he had Adalia Seychan on his arm and shook hands with almost everyone in the room before pulling a chair back and seating the three-time Oscar winner down in front of him and saying, “Adalia, I’d like you to meet Rupert Mikes. He’s just here in town working on a project we’ve been developing about time travel, it’s incredible. We’ve got the youth of Marshaa, who just signed with Slave—she’s making her screen debut along with an unbelievable male actor by the name of Dan Treedle. He’s the sensation fronting the ‘BlueBoy’ campaign you may have seen. But we were struggling to find a lead who is more beautiful than Marshaa and who can play her as a grown woman, and quite frankly the answer is there’s only one person and we all agreed it’s you—we had a meeting about it with Sebastian this morning in fact. He’s about to call your agent.”
Adalia stared at Patrick and smiled. She liked this. There was no doubt Marshaa was a beautiful woman and to be compared to her beauty even later in life was a wonderful compliment—and if it came from Sebastian String, then it was an endorsement worth its weight in gold. She said with an air of mystery in her voice, “Time travel?”
Which was exactly what Rupert Mikes had been thinking all along, but before he could utter a word, Patrick said, “Exactly—it’s an incredible script. Dan Treedle loves it, he’s so excited.”
Adalia Seychan stared
at Patrick, wondering how a man of his age could still have such perfect teeth. She’d seen this kid out there in his underwear looking so frightened and, putting aside his looks and the incredible body, she only had to look into the young man’s eyes to see he could act. He had it, God Sebastian String was good, how the hell did he find that kind of talent, she thought?
“Him! That guy in the silver undies, this Dan Treedle—he’s the lead? You’re telling me Slave’s behind that campaign?” she said.
And Patrick smiled and said, “Oh yes, we’re so proud, ‘BlueBoy’ was a year in development—the guy’s such a talent. Rupert here’s been spending all his time with him—only this morning he was saying the guy’s the next James Dean—and you know the best part about the movie? The next James Dean is the time traveler and he’s only ever loved you and will be known throughout time as only ever loving you. In fact, that’s the name of the movie.”
What? Rupert Mikes thought, that isn’t the name of his film! Then just as he was about to speak up in protest, Patrick stood and, holding up his hands and taking the perfect moment, said, “Trust me!”
And then carried straight on straight after saying, “It’s a wonderful script, we had a read through this morning and Dan went crazy; told us exactly how he felt. I thought Rupert here was going to cry.”
Not knowing what to think, Adalia Seychan was in a spin. Usually projects got weeded out by her people, but this one, it sounded good. Her being on the same screen with Marshaa could be risky, but Sebastian String was involved and the man’s reputation was second to none. She said, “Patrick—I’d love to read it, and I’m sure Campbell Ewes would love to direct—he did such a great job with Jumping Fire, my third Oscar’s down to him.”
And with those words, Patrick, Adalia, and especially Rupert all knew that ‘Rupert Mikes,’ the new up-and-coming sensation writer/director had, without saying a single word, just lost his job.
******
“Adalia Seychan’s a has been,” were the first words out of Mazzi Hegan as he sat down on the sofa in the boardroom and listened to Patrick telling Sebastian about how Adalia’s all over herself to be in a project he was involved in. Mazzi was especially interested now that he was realizing the whole thing was about time travel, as one of his greatest fantasies was to travel through time and fuck cavemen and gladiators. And with that in mind, he was also thinking it was about time he read the script. Then just as the vision of some Neanderthal hunk with a club evaporated from his mind, he piped up another reality, “And we can’t afford her, or this Campbell Ewes, who I must say I’ve heard is in the closet and a prick.”
And that’s when Sebastian looked over to him and said, “You stick to the photography darling.”
As Patrick said back, “Trust me!—You can’t afford not to.”
And he wasn’t wrong. Sebastian knew that if Adalia Seychan’s name was attached, it was money in the bank. How the hell Patrick had gotten close enough to her to pitch the project was beyond him. He walked over to Fluffy, picked him up, and sat the dog down on the sofa a little too close to Mazzi’s new suede trousers for his liking. Sebastian said, “Now Patrick, it seems your make over here’s going great, but I didn’t ever imagine this. And I may be mistaken, but I don’t remember reading anything about time travel in the script or seeing a position for an older female lead?”
And without missing a beat, Patrick said, “Oh that’s not a problem, it’s all sorted—I sent Mikes back to L.A. to cry in his soup. Megan’s doing it, she’s making the changes.”
“Megan?” replied both Sebastian and Mazzi Hegan at exactly the same time.
Patrick said it again, “Megan’s making the changes—I popped up to see her straight after the meeting with Adalia and talked to her about what was needed. It’s another reason we signed her—she’s not only an incredible actor, singer and model, she’s a phenomenal writer too.”
And she was—she’d told him so, right when he was on all fours with the hotel’s complimentary apple in his mouth, while she was naked next to him, her right hand covered in body lotion from the bathroom and on his dick, stretching it down towards the bed so she could watch him cum all over the nice clean white sheets. Tugging it with every mention of her qualities, she’d said, “And you know I’m a writer too as well, Patrick. In fact, I’m an incredible singer… Actor… Model… Dancer… Writer…”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Rann Singh stood in the bathroom looking at himself in the mirror and wondered if he would be able to go out into the world with a bald head. Fuck, he looked odd with his big ears sticking out. He took a wash cloth, ran it under the cold tap, and placed it across both his swollen eyes. Archall Diamond would be back over soon, probably with his two goons who wore fighter clothes but couldn’t fight and if anyone drew a Taser, he’d break their arm clean—same for a gun, he thought.
He walked back to the living room still holding the towel to his eye and sat down looking to the box that he’d wrapped so carefully with the Kiwi and so very nearly lost. It was still mostly full, bar a couple of packets that Archall Diamond must have snagged or his girlfriend had for that matter, not that she’d need them, he thought. Any guy who was having trouble around her already knew it and had been to the doctor.
He picked up the phone and dialed the estate agent in Kenya without a worry for the bill he knew he’d never pay. It would be early in the morning there now, but what the fuck—the guy either wanted to sell the ranch or he didn’t. When he answered, Rann said in the tongue his family had elected to call their own but wasn’t theirs, “You up, it’s Rann Singh. You still want to sell that ranch?”
The guy did, very much so, so much so that Rann could hear the man’s voice go from sleepy to wide awake in the matter of seconds it had taken him to say his first words.
“I am selling the house, yes.” He heard the man reply.
Then, this time in English, he asked, “How much you want for it?”
And the voice on the other end said, “Everything is yours sir, home, land village, tractor, everything. The furniture too and you can keep on the staff sir, everything is the same, sir. My client will sell for $750,000 for the title.”
Rann thought about it, remembering the name his grandfather had used as a curse word for so many years after the man who bought the property off him low-balled him in the deal at the last minute. He asked, “The guy selling the place, his name ain’t Blou, is it?”
The estate agent, silent for a second, then answered, “Yes, I believe Mr. Blou is the current title holder of the aforementioned property.”
Rann wondering why the man had to dress it up with fancy words when all he had to do was say ‘yes’. The man Blou, the South African selling it now after low-balling his grandfather, dropping his bid to only two hundred thousand dollars just as they were about to sell, knowing Rann’s grandfather had just lost his son and had to go look after Rann.
Fuck him, Rann thought, he’d low-ball him and if the guy was hungry enough, he’d take it and if the deal went through, there’d be enough in change to live off once he’d flown his grandfather and grandmother back first class. He said, “What about the zebra?”
“Zebra died sir.”
Fuck, he wanted that. He remembered it as a kid when he’d visited and loved the stories his grandfather used to tell of being chased for no reason by the animal they’d saved after they’d watched its mother become lunch one afternoon out on the Mara. Then he heard the guy say, “But we can have one here for you—you’ll have the zebra. I’ll supply it myself if necessary.”
Then Rann said, chancing his hand, “I’m going to turn up two days’ time with two hundred thousand and one Canadian dollars. Call the guy now and wake him up—ask him if he’ll take it or not.” Then Rann followed it up with a slogan he’d read on a bench not long ago, put there by a guy with whom he’d lately had some dealings, “Tell him ‘He can’t afford not to’.”
Then there was a silence that went on for so long that f
or a moment Rann thought the line had gone dead, then the estate agent came back on the line and said, “Well I’m very surprised, but my client wants to move to the coast. You see, he has another place there, so I suppose your slogan worked. The answer’s ‘yes’. Wire me a twenty percent deposit please to seal the deal and we’ll see you in a couple of days.”
And as he hung up the phone, the entry phone buzzer rang for the second time that day and this time it was Nina’s ex.
******
Archall Diamond came in the front door and the first thing he asked for was his tooth. Rann answered, “You’ll get it as soon as you’ve got the tablets and I’ve got my money. Then you can leave and I’ll stick it in the post for you.”
“Na,” Archall Diamond said back and looked to both his goons, who were in worse shape than Rann.
“I heard, you see, if you lose a tooth and stick it back in quick enough, it latches on and grows back in.”
How can it grow back in? Rann thought, feeling Archall’s tooth in his pocket as they spoke and wondering if it was somehow attaching itself to his jeans or had been trying to attach itself to his foot, where he’d found it in the bathroom. He said, “Well we better be quick then ain’t we, and when we’re done, stand down by the road and I’ll drop your tooth out the window.” Then Archall saw the box sitting on the coffee table.
“Hey, these the same ones?” he said.
And Rann said, “How can that be when you got them?” Archall Diamond thought it through. Rann was right, how was he to know the ones he stole were missing, unless Nina had been over and given them to him. But why would she when he was such a moron. He said, “Well these ones better be from that Swedish scientist guy.”
What the fuck was this idiot going on about now, coming in here all tough with two thugs he’d just beaten up so bad they’d had to Taser him to win. He said, “What Swedish guy?”
