Suckers - Jack Kilborn [73]
Crofoot tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair, adding up the figures on an imaginary calculator.
“It’s going to cost two million dollars, and what’s the network coughing up, maybe half?” Crofoot didn’t need an answer, he could see it on Eddie’s face. “So that leaves a million dollar deficit. How much is the studio kicking in?”
Eddie instantly plummeted from his postpitch high. “I think I’ll have that drink now.”
Crofoot motioned to the bar. “Help yourself.” He knew where this conversation was going, but it wasn’t fun unless Eddie squirmed.
Eddie took a handful of ice cubes and crammed them into a crystal glass, then liberally splashed them with Jim Beam. “I’ve worked with all the studios, and made each of ’em a fortune. We’re talking millions on millions. But executives have no loyalty, no respect. You have a couple near misses, and they forget you exist.” He gently shook the glass as he walked back to Crofoot, the tinkle of ice cubes making him feel like an important character in a meeting rife with human drama. Suddenly, he felt like he actually had some control over the situation. He sank into a leather chair.
“I did a half-dozen ambitious, high-concept series that were too innovative, ahead of their time kind of stuff. The networks didn’t have the guts to stick with ’em. So the studios lost a few bucks, but not nearly as much as they’ve made off of me in my time.” Eddie settled into a seat opposite Crofoot, who was staring impassively at him. “There’s still a Saddlesore stage show on the Pinnacle Studios tour. But, can you believe this, no studio will give me a cent for this incredible pilot, just because they lost a couple dollars on a couple shows.”
Crofoot smiled, but Eddie found it anything but reassuring. For the first time in days, his bowels wanted to do aerobics.
“The shows were toilets, Eddie. Everyone shit all over them and the studios had to flush twenty million bucks down the drain.” Crofoot’s fingers were doing their tap dance and so was Eddie’s stomach. Crofoot’s choice of metaphor verged horrifyingly close to mind reading. “No one can afford you. The big studios are too smart now, and the little ones are too poor.”
Eddie sat up so quickly some of his drink sloshed out of the glass onto the black leather. “Look at Saddlesore, look at Deputy Ghost, look at Beyond Earth—those shows made ten times what my other shows lost!”
“A decade ago, Eddie.” Crofoot handed Eddie a napkin and motioned to the wet spot. “In Hollywood, that’s the Stone Age. You’re extinct. You’ve had to mortgage everything you own just to keep up the appearance that you’re still alive.”
Eddie wiped up the tiny puddle, then unconsciously dabbed his brow with the wet napkin. “This is your chance to get into the television business big time, to start as a player. You know how hard it is to sell a pilot? You don’t let opportunities like this slip away. It’s brass ring time. You understand what I’m saying? They don’t come along every day.”
And in Eddie’s case, might not come along ever again. But Planet was right about one thing, it was the perfect opportunity for Crofoot to buy into the exclusive network television game and get a coveted seat at the high rollers’ table.
“You’re asking me for a million dollars just for the pilot, and maybe three hundred thousand an episode to cover the deficit if it goes to series.” Crofoot said. “That’s a big risk.”
“Frankencop is gonna sell and it’s gonna be a hit, I can feel it,” Eddie said. “I’ll stake my career on it.”
“If I give you a million bucks, more than your career is going to be at stake. You do understand that, don’t you, Eddie?”
Eddie swallowed some Jim Beam and mulled the implications. If he couldn’t deliver on a pilot commitment, for Christ’s sake, he was dead in the business anyway. What difference did it make if he was dead all the way around? Better to be six feet under than to face the humiliation of waiting for a table at Morton’s.
“Sure,” Eddie said.
No contract. No deal memo.