The Smoking Gun

by Doug Richardson

  While the Christmas holiday proved to be a more than welcome distraction, I couldn’t help but count the days until we cleared the last development hurdle. But why worry? Every pass of the pilot’s script had been met with resounding praise.

  Then just days after ringing in the new year, I was met with news that added even more helium to my confidence bubble. The network had decided to shoot either our ground-breaking event show or some procedural snoozer. Of course, the boss would choose mine. Since Johnny Brylcreem jumped ship we’d been riding a tidal wave of affection.

  I know. You’re way ahead of me. So lemme jump to the twist of irony.

  “Just heard from the network,” said David Zucker over the phone. I could already tell from the inflection radiating from the back of his throat that the news wasn’t so good. “Though he loved the script, (the network president) decided it was too expensive.”

  Too expensive? Seriously? After months of outlines, meetings, calls, and development, the reason we couldn’t cross the finish line came down to the exact concern David and I had shared only moments after I’d concocted the damned show. And hadn’t I said as much when that comely tv studio exec had called me in Ireland?

  After a few moments of lamenting our network fate, I asked, “So what’s next?”

  “Nothing’s next,” said David. “We’re done.”

  “I know we’re done with the network. But there’s three other broadcast buyers.”

  “tv’s not like the movie business,” said David. “Rarely does a dead pilot get a resurrection.”

  I’d spent a career in features where no screenplay is ever “deceased.” I presently have screenplays older than my teenage son that are still in play.

  “Not to say it doesn’t happen,” continued David. “But hardly ever. When a pilot’s dead it usually stays dead. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

  Never had I experienced such mourning over one of my invented progeny. Sure, many had already passed away. But they were slow deaths, usually fading from my memory before the actual expiration date. Here was a circumstance in which I found myself staring at my dead pilot, the victim of a summary execution, a wisp of smoke spiraling from the bullet hole at the back of its head.

  But I’m a pro, right? So while the brutal death of my pilot lingered like nitrogen bubbles beneath my skin, I moved back to my work in film.

  Months later, while attending a small party in a Laker game luxury suite, I bumped into an acquaintance who is a production executive at the network. He showed mild curiosity over my feature biz, then asked if I’d ever considered working in television. So I told him the sad tale about my most recent experience at his place of business. Before I could get to punch line, he interrupted.

  “I know that script,” said the exec. “I told (the boss) it was waaaaaay too expensive and that he should kill it before it killed us.”

  “Oh, so it was you,” I said. “You’re the one who murdered my pilot.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me who made the final decision,” he stammered. “I just—”

  “It’s okay,” I said, letting the executive off the hook. After all. It was a party. “All you did was confirm what

  concerned me from the very start. Wish I woulda listened to me.”

  If I recall correctly, the Lakers also lost that night. Oh, well.

  For those of you wondering what ever happened to the unscrupulous Johnny Brylcreem, check this out. The packaged pilot script he betrayed us for was actually picked up by the network. No doubt because the network president still believed Johnny B. could be the next Kiefer Sutherland. But when searching for a director to take the reins, Johnny Brylcreem showed his big brass balls—or in my opinion, utter and complete stupidity—by actually phoning Ridley Scott to see if either he or his brother would want to direct.

  I’m told dear Ridley nearly laughed himself out of his desk chair.

  Eventually, some tv journeyman got the job. Though I never saw the finished product, I’m told the pilot sucked so bad that it wiped the luster from the star, finally turning the network president cold on Johnny Brylcreem.

  In the past few years, I’ve nearly bumped into Johnny on a few occasions. Once in a restaurant where I was grateful he didn’t seem to recognize me. And again at my neighborhood cigar shop. (My guess is between the hovering smoke and the deep tint of his sunglasses, Johnny Brylcreem couldn’t see me seated ten feet to his left.) Both times worked out in my favor, considering I had no kind words for the Judas bastard.

  Then came the day I was waiting for my car at the Sony Studios valet stand. That’s when I heard Johnny Brylcreem’s distinctive voice coming up from behind me. My back was to the man so I didn’t feel the impulse to turn around. Maybe this third post-pilot run-in would be equally charmed.

  No such luck.

  “Hey,” said Johnny Brylcreem. “Is that Doug?”

  I turned around and was instantly hit with that million-watt smile framed by Johnny’s Proctor and Gamble dimples.

  “Hey, man,” I said, reluctantly prepared to shake the actor’s hand. Instead, before I could recoil, he wrapped me up in a bro-hug.

  “How ya been, dude?” Johnny asked, as if bygones were bygones. Or maybe he’d just plain forgotten how he screwed me and his other “partner,” David Zucker. “Workin’ on any good tv stuff?”

  “Always,” I said, forcing a warm smile.

  “We should get together then,” he said. “Come up with something killer cool like that last thing.”

  My car arrived not a moment too soon. I tipped the valet then reminded Johnny that he still had my number, fully expecting never to hear from him.

  And I was right.

  Hard Promises

  I’ve written screenplays for all kinds of reasons. For love. For money. I’ve written them as favors. I’ve written them in order to get attention from the right people. Because I thought a particular script might get me to the next level. Because I had something to prove. I’ve written some screenplays because nobody else was available.

  But this one was different. This was a deal I took just because I fancied the idea of it.

  This project had the tentative title of Hard Promises. Great title, huh? Not that it was exactly mine. I’d cribbed it from a favorite Tom Petty record of the same name. It fit well with the story I wanted to pen, based loosely on some of the real life experiences of actor William Petersen. Back then, Billy was in his movie star phase. Hot off pictures like Manhunter and To Live and Die in L.A., Billy and his business partner-slash-manager, Cindy Chvatal, were looking to up their business game by producing some vehicles for the actor to star in. We’d batted around a few ideas, but nothing had clicked.

  One frozen weekend in Billy’s hometown of Chicago, somewhere between a night at his Remains Theater Group and closing a few bars, Billy told me a story he had about a former football star turned wandering lothario who discovered that his first love—and now ex-wife—is about to remarry. Comedy and tragedy ensue when the local legend decides to return home to steal her back in a win-at-all-costs throw-down with the groom to be. I loved the idea. It was full of dirty tricks and family drama while maintaining a light touch. The character Billy described was so competitive that he was willing to use his own daughter as a foil.

  Back in l.a., we worked up a presentable tale and took it out on the road. We flogged that pitch in and out of studio gates all over Lala Land. Despite what we thought was a marketable story, not to mention Billy’s charm in the room, we batted a fat .000, striking out everywhere.

  One afternoon, while hanging out with Forest Gump producer Steve Tisch, he happened to ask me what I was working on. I told him about my project with Billy and Cindy.

  “I love Billy Petersen,” said Steve. “And I think I’ve met Cindy. She seems really sharp. What’s the take?”

  Batter up.

  I pitched the story to Steve and he flipped. Flat-out loved it from beginning to end.

  “Tisch wants in,” I said to Cindy
over one of our regular lunches at Junior’s Deli. Cindy, a former actress, had kept her model looks despite the appetite of a normal human. That was one of the many character qualities I adored about her. She was pure Chi-town and couldn’t understand Hollywood’s female obsession with consuming a thimble full of greens when restaurants served hot, open-faced sandwiches with gravy and mash.

  “Great,” said Cindy at the Tisch news. “But what’s he gonna bring to the party?”

  “Money, connections,” I said. “Plus he’s much more established than us as producers. Might make buyers take a bit more notice.”

  “Great. Let him have at it.”

  Steve Tisch, a man made of equal parts good humor and full intentions, may or may not have nosed around for a deal. I don’t recall much happening with Hard Promises once he’d stepped aboard. At least not until one day when I stopped by to visit him at his Warner Brothers office.

  “Don’t stand around out there. Come on in!” shouted Steve once he’d heard my voice in the reception area.

  When I entered the very plain, utilitarian production suite, I discovered that Steve was in the middle of an interview with a writer from Premiere magazine. I was introduced.

  “Sit. Hang out,” said Steve. As you might’ve already gathered, Steve’s style was relaxed and oh-so-very social.

  “You’re in the middle of an interview,” I told him. “I’ll call you later.”

  “Why call when you’re right here?” he said. “Maya doesn’t mind. Right?”

  In the interest of truth, I don’t really remember the writer’s name. She was young and pretty and wore fashionable frames. So why not call her Maya?

  “No,” said the writer. “I’m here to see how Steve works.”

  “Does Steve work?” I joked.

  Tisch laughed openly. He came from a big pile of family money and made zero apologies for it. Everybody in showbiz pretty much knew Steve came from the lucky sperm club. And though it didn’t matter a lick as long as he got the job done as producer, he was pretty accustomed to some friendly ribbing.

  “Ever get tired of people asking why you even work?” I asked him.

  “I can’t,” he said. “Not when I ask myself the same thing every day.”

  “If you had a dime for every time you or somebody else asked you why you work…”

  “I’d be even richer!” Steve laughed loudly before switching gears. “So Doug and I are working on a project together. It’s a sharp little comedy called Hard Promises.”

  “Great title,” said Maya.

  “I stole it from Tom Petty,” I admitted.

  “Oh, I love that record,” she said.

  “It’s based on a true story from Billy Petersen,” Steve added. “You know him. From To Live and Die in L.A.”

  “Love him,” said Maya. I was beginning to believe she “loved” a lot of things.

  “But nobody wants to buy it,” I blurted.

  “At least not yet,” said Steve. “We’re still figuring out how to sell it.”

  The interview carried on for I don’t recall how long. We joked around a lot. All while Maya furiously scribbled on her notepad. Somewhere, somehow the subject of Steve’s vintage 1966 Corvette bubbled to the surface.

  “How’s it runnin’?” I asked.

  “It hums,” he said. “But I probably should take better care of it.”

  “What do you mean you don’t take care of it?” I asked with a slight note of incredulity.

  Maybe you’re wondering why would I be so bloody concerned over one of Steve’s many cars. Keep reading.

  “I should keep it parked in the garage. But I keep forgetting to put it in the garage.”

  “You don’t deserve that car,” I said.

  “What’s the big deal about the car?” asked Maya.

  “Because I knew the car before Steve did,” I said possessively. “See, my attorney and pal, Alan Wertheimer­—aka The Werth—is a closet grease monkey. Which means he restores muscle cars as a hobby. Specializes in old Corvettes. Fixes ’em up, shows ’em, wins lotsa ribbons, then sells ’em.”

  “So you know this car?” asked Maya.

  “Pretty much watched him rebuild it,” I said. Then I continued, only slightly serious, “Sky blue metallic. Work of art. And it shouldn’t be left outside in the rain and crappy l.a. air.”

  “If you knew it before I did,” said Steve, “Then you shoulda bought it.”

  “I should’ve. And I regret it to this day.”

  “I should sell it to you.”

  “You don’t need the money. You should give it to me.”

  “I’m not gonna give it to you.”

  “Okay, then,” I said. “How’s this? I’ll write Hard Promises for it.”

  “You’ll write the script?” asked Steve. “For my Corvette?”

  “Why not?” I queried. “We’re not making a deal for it anywhere. And I wanna write it.”

  Sure. I was in the moment. As was Steve. And we were partly performing for the pretty young writer from Premiere magazine. But there was truth in the sword play. We’d been trying to sell Hard Promises as a pitch for months. I was deeply invested. And there comes a certain point when I just want to write the damned movie. So I might as well do it for an hot-ass antique muscle car.

  “I’m seriously considering the offer,” said Steve.

  “Say yes and it’s a deal,” I pressed.

  “I’m saying yes.”

  “Done.”

  This is when Maya busted out with a huge case of the giggles.

  “I can’t believe this just happened,” she said when she finally collected herself. “You’re really gonna write a script for Steve’s car?”

  “Not just Steve’s car,” I said. “A 1966 Corvette Stingray.”

  I was giddy. Not only had I finally pulled the trigger on a car I’d always wanted to own. But I was green-lit to write fade in on a story I’d been jonesing to get on paper.

  When I called my attorney, I thought he’d be thrilled. He was only half-so.

  “The car’s not worth a quarter of your quote,” Werth told me.

  “What’s a quote really?” I said. “I wanna write the damn picture.”

  “Better clean out your garage, then,” warned Werth. “Not gonna let you park it in your driveway. Somebody’s sure to steal it in that shitty neighborhood.”

  For the record, I don’t live in a lousy neighborhood. Werth just enjoyed tweaking me about the night his precious El Camino was parked in front of my house and stolen by a couple of joyriding teens.

  The news wasn’t so chipper when I informed my agent of my agreement with Steve Tisch.

  “How the hell am I gonna commission ten percent of a fuckin’ car?” he barked. “Gonna give me all the chrome?”

  “We’ll figure it out,” I laughed.

  Sadly, we never got that far. While Steve and I both charged fully and fearlessly into the deal, the fly in the ointment turned out to be my partners Billy and Cindy. They couldn’t seem to come to an agreeable arrangement on a producing partnership. Steve, who was more than happy to part with one of his cars in exchange for a finished screenplay, wasn’t going to relinquish half of his hard-earned producer’s fee to the star and his comely manager.

  Damn.

  Over their inability to play ball, I parted ways with Billy and Cindy. They were eventually able to parlay Billy’s cache and a little Sissy Spacek star power into a movie. Not quite the picture I planned to pen. But one that was called Hard Promises. So good on them.

  As for me? Let’s just say my garage remains empty.

  Operation Dumb-Ass Drop

  It’s said that hindsight is 20/20. Not sure about that as an absolute. This one still eats at me.

  I’d just wrapped Bad Boys after spending a sweaty summer in Miami. Now, don’t get me wrong. I hardly want to start off by complaining about the weather. I’d nearly become as accustomed to three shirt changes a day as I had to Michael Bay finding another car or building
he wanted to attach pyrotechnics to just so he could hit the detonate button. But I’m a seventh generation Southern Californian. Before the revolution, my family used to own a big chunk of Baja California. Seriously. I dare you to stick a strand of my dna under a microscope. If you look hard enough you can make out a one-man taco stand at the southwest corner of Dry Heat and Desert Highway.

  I’d barely slipped back into my Los Angeles lifestyle when my caa agent called with a golden offer. Another production rewrite. This one was from the good folks at Disney. The movie was called Operation Dumbo Drop.

  Disney? Dumbo? Really?

  “I know it sounds like a cartoon,” my agent said. “But it takes place in Vietnam. Based on a true story. Director is another client. Australian guy. Simon Wincer. You know him?”

  “Quigley Down Under, right?”

  “And Free Willy. But yeah. That’s our guy. Danny Glover and Ray Liotta are both pay-or-play.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Send it over. I’ll read it.”

  “Read it tonight. This is a firm offer. They need to know yes or no first thing in the morning.”

  “What’s the offer?” I asked, curious how truly firm Disney was.

  “Thirteen weeks. I got ’em to agree to a hundred grand per. That’s one point three million dollars. Guaranteed.”

  Gulp. That was a fat stack of green being dangled in front of me. I’d hopped onto Bad Boys for the paycheck. I had been halfway through my first novel and was looking for some padding to get me through to the end. For the kind of dough Disney was serving up, I could buy a warehouse of cushion.

  The script arrived within the hour. I read it once, made my initial notes, then read it again before turning the light out. I woke, revisited my scrawls, and felt pretty sanguine about what the movie needed.

  I phoned my agent.

  “Read it twice,” I began. “I see why they need help.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Vietnam,” I said. “The story, if it really happened, is wonderfully absurd.”

  The true tale of Operation Dumbo Drop involved a pair of Green Berets who were tasked with delivering an elephant to a remote Vietnamese village. The inhabitants would monitor the enemy activity of the Viet Cong in return.