Omerta - Mario Puzo [88]
The meeting was with his favorite producer and best friend in the movie business, a man named Steve Brody, who never went over budget, had great instincts for dramatic stories, and often introduced Marcantonio to up-and-coming young actresses who needed a little help in their careers.
But this evening they were on opposite sides of the fence. Brody had come with one of the most powerful agents in the business, a man named Matt Glazier, who had a vehement loyalty to his clients. He was there pleading the case of a novelist whose latest book he had turned into an epic, eight-hour TV serial drama. Now Glazier wanted to sell the novelist’s three previous books.
“Marcantonio,” Glazier said, “the other three books are great but didn’t sell. You know how publishers are—they couldn’t sell a jar of caviar for a nickel. Brody here is ready to produce them. Now, you’ve made a shitload of money on his last book, so be generous and let’s make a deal.”
“I don’t see it,” Marcantonio said. “These are old books we’re talking about. They were never best-sellers. And now they’re out of print.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Glazier said with the eager confidence of all agents. “As soon as we make the deal, the publishers will reprint them.”
Marcantonio had heard this argument many times before. True, the publishers would reprint, but actually this was not much help to the TV presentation. The TV broadcast would help the publishers of the book more. It was essentially a bullshit argument.
“All that aside,” Marcantonio said, “I’ve read the books. They have nothing for us. They’re too literary. It’s the language that makes them work, not incident. I enjoyed them. I’m not saying they can’t work, I’m just saying it’s not worth the risk and the extraordinary effort.”
“Don’t bullshit me,” Glazier said. “You read a reader’s report. You’re the head of programming—you don’t have time to read.”
Marcantonio laughed. “You’re wrong. I love to read and I love those books. But they are not good TV.” His voice was warm and friendly. “I’m sorry, but for us it’s a pass. But keep us in mind. We’d love to work with you.”
After the two had gone, Marcantonio showered in his executive-suite bathroom and changed his clothes for his dinner date. He said good night to his secretary, who always stayed until he left, and took the elevator to the lobby of the building.
His date was at the Four Seasons, just a few blocks away, and he would walk. Unlike most top executives, he did not keep a car and driver exclusively for himself but just called one when necessary. He prided himself on his economy and knew he had learned it from his father, who had a strong prejudice against wasting money on foolishness.
When he stepped out onto the street, he felt a cold wind and shivered. A black limo pulled up, and the chauffeur got out of the car and opened the door for him to enter. Had his secretary ordered the car for him? The driver was tall, a sturdy man whose cap stood oddly on his head, a size too small. He bowed and said, “Mr. Aprile?”
“Yes,” Marcantonio said. “I won’t need you tonight.”
“Yes, you do,” the chauffeur said with a cheerful smile. “Get into the car or get shot.”
Suddenly Marcantonio was aware of three men at his back. He hesitated. The chauffeur said, “Don’t worry, a friend just wants to have a little chat with you.”
Marcantonio got into the backseat of the limo, and the three men crowded in beside him.
They drove a block or two, and then one of the men gave Marcantonio a pair of dark glasses and told him to put them on. Marcantonio did so—and seemed to go blind. The glasses were so dark they screened out all light. He thought that clever and made a mental note to use this in a story. It was a hopeful sign. If they did not want him to see where he was going, that meant they were not planning to kill him. And yet it all seemed as unreal as one of his TV dramas. Until he suddenly thought about his father. That