Suckers - Jack Kilborn [71]
There was a time when the roles would have been reversed. When schmucks would have been waiting for him. When he would have had the grand Vegas suite and some bimbo welding his beam. Back when Saddlesore was riding the top ten, and the network begged him for more. When studio heads would’ve shined his shoes with their tongues for the privilege of financing his next TV pilot.
But Saddlesore was ten years, two wives, six flop series, three production deals, and eight busted pilots ago. Back when he had a Palm Springs house and a Maui condo, three Cadillacs and a yacht, and bowels that moved so regularly he could set his Rolex, the Mercedes Benz of watches, by it. His lawyer was wearing the Rolex now, in lieu of fees. That sonofabitch was probably shitting like a bird. Planet had to borrow money against his Deputy Ghost residuals just to keep the Studio City house and the Seville. Which was, oddly enough, how he ended up here.
Eddie glanced out the window as the volcano burst, all lights and smoke and jets of water. Flames shot into the clear night sky. The funeral pyre of losers. Look close enough, he figured, you might see bits of charred polyester wafting up into the stars.
Suddenly the doors of the master suite banged open and out strode Daddy Crofoot in a white terrycloth Mirage bathrobe and leather slippers. His wet hair was combed, his skin was taut and tan, his eyes sparkled with youthful exuberance. Eddie was momentarily startled. In his mind, he had cast Charles Durning or Danny Aiello for the part. Something about the name Daddy Crofoot. But this guy was James Woods, maybe. Or that guy Marty Scorsese cast as Christ. Thin. Edgy. Dangerous.
Crofoot flashed a smile and offered Planet his hand. “You must be Eddie Planet. Thanks for waiting.”
His voice spread across the room like an oil slick. Planet forced his cringe into a smile. “It’s pronounced Plan-A. It’s French for hyphenate,” he chuckled, but all he got from Crofoot was a blank look. “As in writer hyphen producer.”
Crofoot knew how to pronounce the guy’s name. But he liked to needle people. Gave him an edge. Not that he needed one with this guy. “I see you’ve already helped yourself to a drink—is there anything else I can offer you?”
“No thanks, I’m fine, Mr. Crofoot,” he said, thankful the man didn’t ask him to call him Daddy. That would have been too much.
Darla came out of the bedroom in her backless evening gown that accentuated her large, authentic breasts. Crofoot watched Eddie drink her in like another bourbon as she walked to the door and, with a smile, left. Eddie Planet was hungry, and hungry people are vulnerable.
Crofoot knew all about Eddie, knew the difference between the paunchy, too tan guy in the rumpled suit who stood in front of him now, and the titan of television he once was. The difference meant everything. Crofoot went to the mahogany bar and took an Evian out of the refrigerator.
“I just came like Vesuvius,” Crofoot said casually. “How many times have you come today?”
Eddie Planet’s third wife, Shari, didn’t think sex was a good idea so soon after her latest breast implants. That was six months ago.
“I’ve lost track.” Eddie nervously shook his glass, but his ice was melting too fast to tinkle.
“That was my third,” Crofoot said. “You got to have three a day, minimum, just to keep your balls working, the testosterone pumping. If there’s no one around, use your hand. But why am I telling you? You know what I’m talking about. You’re a producer.”
“Aren’t you?”
“I’m an investor, Eddie.” Crofoot joined Eddie at the window and looked out at the neon night. “I’m just creative with my money.”
When Bugsy Siegel came to Vegas, he stood in the desert and saw casinos. When Daddy Crofoot came, he stood in the desert and saw Bill Cosby. A two-bit comic worth two billion thanks to off-network syndication. Crofoot wanted in.
“I understand that you