The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death - Charlie Huston [74]
—Movies, asshole. My business is movies. Films are fag shit comes in from Europe or out of New York. Films don't make box office for shit unless they win the Oscar. Movies are all about the box. I make movies. But, you know, financing comes from all kinds of sources these days. The studio system, in case you missed the news, is totally dead. These days, we like to spread the risk. Get maybe a bank to pick up the bulk of the load. Bring in some private investors for bridge financing while the package takes shape. All that shit. I expedite relationships that help create financing opportunities for my movie projects.
—So Harris wants to get into the industry?
—No, asshole. He wants to pay me to help him ship his almonds overseas, and then I can redirect those funds into these online filmmakers I have a relationship with. These guys, they had a top-ten most-viewed clip on YouTube for over a week. Fucking sensation. They shot this thing about a dog eating its own shit, it was hysterical. Made it for nothing. I'm gonna take my cut of the almonds deal, funnel it into my production company, and lock up these guys' creative output for the next ten years. I'm gonna pay these kids a couple grand and they're gonna make these videos of animals eating their own shit, and I'm gonna stream them over a dedicated website where people have to subscribe for the service.
—Wait, a website dedicated to shit-eating animals?
—No, asshole, dedicated to humorous clips. Shit-eating animals will be the initial draw, but I'll expand after we attract more capital. Kids are gonna make me rich. And I'm gonna own everything they do. Fuckers didn't know enough to negotiate points or anything.
I got a feeling about something. And I had to ask.
—Jaime. How old are these kids?
—I don't know, thirteen maybe. But they have talent. Raw. Think it's easy to get a dog to eat its own shit? Let alone a, I don't know, a parakeet?
—They got a parakeet to eat its own shit?
—Well, no, still working on that one. But they got mad footage of dogs eating their own shit. They mix Alpo into it. That's the secret.
Beyond the massed containers, the long humped spine of the Vincent Thomas Bridge stretched from the mainland across the water to Terminal Island.
—As much as I hate to admit it, Jaime.
—What?
—You'll probably get rich off shit-eating animals.
He grinned.
—Yeah, and that's just one aspect.
I took us past the turnoff to the bridge, heading toward San Pedro.
—Yeah. Imagine. So, I see where you have this thing all mapped out from an industry angle, but I'm still unclear on where the connection comes from. You know, Central Valley agro-hijackers meet shit-eating-animal entrepreneur.
—Heh, sounds like a pitch. Pretty good one, too.
Having spent my earliest formative years at L.L.'s feet, and at his always bent elbow, listening to various habitués of the movie-making community swap pitches, I couldn't really argue with him.
—Sure, when you're an Internet success, you can parlay it into a TV show.
—Feature, man.
—Sure. But it's light on plot details. Like how'd you and Harris hook up?
—Just ways and means. Contingencies and eventualities.
Up ahead, the freeway drifted to a stop at a traffic light at the top of Gaffey Street.
—Translation, man, I'm an asshole. Remember?
—Man, I remember. It was the wetbacks that did it. Warehouse up north got busted by La Migra. Took all the workers out. Only half the almonds had been turned around. Harris didn't want to have that shit sitting around while his cousin's cousin's cousin's whatever got a new crew together. He told him to keep the second load of almonds and the other truck instead of a cash payment for the services. They had an argument. Harris may or may not have fucked him up and took off with the loaded truck. But the third cousin, he was the connection for the freight forwarder up there. The guy who could contract a shipping line and get the load onto a terminal and through the Port of Oakland to the buyer on the other end. That meant he had