Suckers - Jack Kilborn [72]
Eddie downed what was left of his drink and set the glass down on the table.
“I’ve sold a pilot to MBC, and that’s like a miracle,” Planet said, winding up for his pitch. “You got any idea how hard it is to sell a pilot these days?”
Crofoot knew exactly how hard—he’d been camping out in Vegas for two months, reading up. The network guys hear thousands of ideas, buy hundreds of scripts, and make a couple dozen mostly doomed pilots, sample episodes of wannabe TV series or, as Crofoot saw it, million dollar bets with a slim chance of return.
“You were lucky,” Crofoot said, though he had no intention of relying on chance. The best gamblers cheat. Television was a fool’s bet otherwise. And Crofoot was no fool.
“It’s not about luck, it’s about relationships—who you know. And Morrie Lustig and I go way back, back when he was the network exec on Hollywood and Vine.”
Eddie was referring to the infamous, short-lived series about the busty fashion model teamed with a photosynthesizing, green-skinned detective who could communicate with plants—Half-man. Half plant. All-cop. Morrie Lustig was now MBC’s head of programming. It wasn’t so many years ago that Lustig was a network liaison, the skinny kid with the clip-on tie nervously giving Eddie script notes like “What’s the potted palm’s motivation?”
“Morrie called me up a couple months ago, said it was time to do Frankenstein as a series, and that I was the only man in this business who could pull it off.” Eddie’s hands were beginning to move now, underscoring each point with a gesture or a sweep of his arm. “Morrie wants to do the classics, but updated. Sophisticated. Hip. Pulsating with the mood of the streets. So I came up with something.”
And then Eddie Planet was off, building up to what he did best, what he enjoyed most. The pitch. Sometimes it felt better than sex. He certainly did it more often.
“Nick Stryker is a rogue cop who doesn’t play by the rules, he just makes ’em up as he goes along. He’s an undercover cop who finally went so deep into the bowels of organized crime it took half the L.A. police force to get him out.” Eddie was feeling good now, getting caught up in his own momentum, building his pitch. “And when the smoke clears, and the blood dries, there are seventeen corpses on the floor. Ten of ’em are mobsters, seven of ’em are cops. One of ’em is Nick.”
Eddie’s hands were moving now, as if grabbing ideas out of the air and thrusting them into the hungry maw of his voracious pitch. Crofoot watched with a poker face. Eddie didn’t care whether Crofoot liked it or not; the pitch had a life of its own, it couldn’t be stopped.
‘‘Then a black Corvette pulls up and out steps Dr. Francine ‘Frankie’ Stein, a scientist with a badge, a black-belt beauty with more dangerous curves than Mulholland Drive. She picks up Nick’s decapitated head and clutches it to her heaving bosom. He was her lover, the best she ever had, and damn it, she’s going to bring him back, somehow, someway.” Eddie was feeling the rush, carried by the energy of his idea, of his vision, of what had to be the best fucking idea ever.
“She takes his head, and the corpses of the dead cops, back to her secret, high-tech, underground lab where, using the latest advances in surgical engineering, cybernetic organs, and computer imaging, she makes medical history.” Eddie was in the homestretch, the finish line in sight, the prize money and the fame his for the taking. “She builds a man. He’s got Nick’s head, and the best body parts and healthiest organs from the seven other dead cops. He’s also got a gun. And a badge. He’s no ordinary man. And he’s no ordinary cop. He’s Frankencop, and he’s serious about fighting crime. Dead serious.”
Eddie stopped then, a broad smile on his face, waiting for the rousing applause. Crofoot nodded, taking it all in.
“Are we talking a two-hour pilot?” Crofoot asked.
Not exactly the enthusiastic response Eddie had hoped for, but at least he was showing an interest. “We can shoot some sex scenes and sell it overseas as a big,