The Last Don - Mario Puzo [97]
She picked up the phone. She spoke into it. Then she hung up and said to Cross, “We have our meeting with their Business Affairs people to set out the rules before then. And you have three days to reconsider.”
Cross was impressed. “That was fast,” he said.
“Them, not me,” Molly said. “It’s costing them a fortune to tread water on this picture.”
“I don’t have to say this, I know,” Cross said. “But the offer I plan to make Miss Aquitane is confidential, between you and me.”
“No, you didn’t have to say it,” Molly said.
They shook hands, and after Cross left, Molly remembered something. Why had Cross De Lena mentioned that long-ago case when she had gotten that kid off, that famous victory of hers. Why that particular case? She had gotten plenty of murderers off.
Three days later Cross De Lena and Molly Flanders met in her office before going to LoddStone Studios so that she could check over the financial papers that Cross was bringing to the meeting. Then Molly drove both of them to the Studio in her Mercedes SL 300.
When they had been cleared through the gate, Molly said to Cross, “Check the lot. I’ll give you a dollar for any American car you see.”
They passed a sea of sleek cars of all colors, Mercedeses, Aston Martins, BMWs, Rolls-Royces. Cross saw one Cadillac and pointed it out. Molly said cheerily, “Some poor slob of a writer from New York.”
LoddStone Studios was a huge area on which were scattered small buildings housing independent production companies. The main building was only ten floors and looked like a movie set piece. The Studio had kept the flavor of the 1920s when it had started up, with only the necessary repairs being done. Cross was reminded of the Enclave in the Bronx.
The offices in the Studio Administration Building were small and crowded except for the tenth floor, where Eli Marrion and Bobby Bantz had their executive suites. Between the two suites was a huge conference room with a bar and bartender far off to one side and a small kitchen adjoining the bar. The seats around the conference table were plush armchairs of dark red. Framed posters of LoddStone movies hung on the wall.
Waiting for them were Eli Marrion, Bobby Bantz, Skippy Deere, the chief counsel of the Studio, and two other lawyers. Molly handed the chief counsel the financial papers, and the three opposing lawyers sat down to read them through. The bartender brought them drinks of their choice, then disappeared. Skippy Deere made the introductions.
Eli Marrion, as always, insisted that Cross call him by his first name. Then told them one of his favorite stories, which he often used to disarm opponents in a negotiation. His grandfather, Eli Marrion said, had started the company in the early 1920s. He had wanted to call the firm Lode Stone Studios, but he still had a severe German accent that confused the lawyers. It was only a ten-thousand-dollar company then and when the mistake was discovered, it didn’t seem worth the trouble to change it. And here now it was a seven-billion-dollar company with a name that didn’t make sense. But, as Marrion pointed out—he never told a joke that didn’t make a serious point—the printed word was not important. It was the visual image with the lodestone attracting light from every corner of the universe that made the company logo so powerful.
Then Molly presented the offer. Cross would pay the Studio the fifty million it had spent, would give the Studio distribution rights, keep Skippy Deere as producer. Cross would put up the money to finish the picture. LoddStone Studios would also get 5 percent of the profits.
They all listened intently. Bobby Bantz said, “The percentage is ridiculous, we would have to have more. And how do we know that you people and Athena are not in a conspiracy? That this isn’t a stickup?”
Cross was astonished by Molly’s reply. For some reason he had assumed that negotiations would be much more civil than he had been used to in his Vegas world.
But Molly was almost