The bartender set the scotch and soda in front of Morey Rochester. The small-framed man hefted the glass to his lips. L.A. ... The city where dreams go to die, he thought, sipping his drink. It had been a sure thing; except, like all sure things, it wasn't. The investors had gotten cold feet and backed out. The option on the movie script would expire in – he glanced at his watch – two hours and fifteen minutes. He had depleted his savings and the rent on his studio apartment was coming due. There would be no Academy Award, no star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, no celebrity and fortune ... Only a plane ticket back to Boise, Idaho.
"Morey Rochester?" The man in the Brooks Brothers suit posed the question in such a manner that it appeared more rhetorical than inquisitive.
Morey turned to face him. "That depends. Do I owe you money?"
"My name is Philip Dunleavy. I work for an investment banking firm in New York and represent a consortium of doctors who have invested in a limited partnership."
Morey took a swig from his drink. "You're barking up the wrong tree, pal. Even if it's not a con, I couldn't afford to invest in much more than a plane ticket out of this burg. Tell whoever gave you my name to scratch it off the sucker list."
"You misunderstand, Mr. Rochester. I'm not looking for any more investors. What I need, is someone to produce a movie for Five Star Films Limited Partnership. You came highly recommended."
Morey arched an eyebrow. "I did?"
"Time is of the essence, however. I need to show our investors some evidence of tangible progress on the film. I realize it's difficult for a man of your stature to make an immediate commitment to a project, but I have been authorized to offer you an advance as an incentive." Dunleavy pulled a thick white envelope from his interior jacket pocket. "A cash advance." He passed the bulging envelope to Morey, who peered inside and flipped through the hundred-dollar bills. "No need to count it; there are a hundred bills."
Morey gaped. "Ten thousand dollars? In cash?"
"I realize you'll need more for expenses once we hire the crew and begin filming. If you draw up a budget, I can make arrangements for subsequent funds. Unless of course, you feel you must decline my offer due to concurrent commitments." Dunleavy reached for the envelope but Morey drew it toward him.
"You've caught me at a rare moment when I'm in between projects." He tightened his grip on the envelope. "When would you like to start?"
"Tomorrow morning. I'll pick you up at your apartment at nine. I'll give you a synopsis of the script over brunch and a copy to take home and read." Dunleavy reached out to shake hands. "I look forward to working with you, Mr. Rochester."
"Please, call me Morey."
"I'll leave you to finish your drink in peace. I'll see you first thing in the morning." Dunleavy turned and left as unobtrusively as he had arrived.
Morey blinked and his gaze fell on the envelope in his hand. He flipped through the bills again, this time mentally counting each one. Ninety-nine, one hundred. He shook off the alcoholic buzz and looked around for Philip Dunleavy but saw no sign of him. He never asked for my address. Morey glanced inside the envelope. He didn't leave his business card either. Morey pondered his predicament. "I suppose I'll come out ahead whether or not I ever see Dunleavy again." He stuffed the envelope into his pocket and finished his scotch and soda.
On the street outside, Philip Dunleavy punched a phone number into his mobile phone and entered an access code. "He bought it... hook, line, and sinker. He doesn't suspect a thing. Operation Hollywood is a go."
***** ***** ***** *****
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Cops and Robbers
Ficción General* A Quirky Crime Drama * A pair of FBI agents set up a bogus movie production as part of an unlikely sting operation to snare a mob kingpin. They buy the worst script in Hollywood and hire a failed movie producer whose career is on the skids; a...
