I pulled the Mexico over outside the shimmering office block that housed Winston's cinematic dream, a block away from the Wiltern. Climbing out of the vehicle I felt battle beaten and ready to deal. Inside the air-conditioning made a mockery of the cabin of my old Ford as a chilled embrace enveloped me from the revolving front door to the elevator. Punching three I rode her up before she spat me out on the thin carpeted doorstep of the short term lease as the modern day Godfather of Gore geared up to begin shaking trees and expense accounts, courting bored businessmen with the promise of glamour and sex that would inevitably come from being able to write off dinner with a twenty-one year old blonde as tax deductible before she blew your chowder because the lines I'm in movies slipped from your teeth. Between movies Winston operated on a shoe string from his house but when the campaign began and the fundraising was underway he'd enter into a leasing arrangement as he believed the image of success was infinitely more important than actual success, and in this town I believed that he had discovered the formula for the American dream. Image. The secretary was new, never the same – agency type, young with a killer rack but she didn't know me from Adam and was less than wild about my unkempt beard and off-white tee combo.
'Can I help you?' she asked.
'I'm here to see the man.' I replied pounding my black power fist into the air. She disappeared into the background, amongst the mountains of cardboard boxes that would require unpacking and hidden before the chorus line of potential backers were paraded past the walls of movie
posters and cabinets of conveniently placed (not to mention store purchased) awards.
Stepping out of an office, in a fitted grey suit with his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, Winston smiled his toothy smile and the word checkmate all but scrolled across his face.
'Douglas Morgan.' he beamed 'Come on in.'
I followed him through. A desk by the window, curtains pulled and two crystal tumblers waiting. For all my pained soul searching about working on another of his movies, the man was a class act. The kind of guy who can show a dame and brother as equal a good time. Slipping into the cool leather bucket chair, its soft material kissing my lower back, I raised a glass.
'So what do you have me here for?'
'I've a movie I want you to write,' he stated sliding gracefully into his chair before pressing his drink to his lips 'I'm hoping to have the backers in for a screening of Swasucka! before pitching them the idea and giving them a sample of the script.'
'Wait, you're screening them Swasucka! before you ask them for money?'
'Laugh all you want white boy but Swasucka! is a good fucking movie. You did some good fucking writing there…'
'I'll drink to that.' so I did.
'I'm looking to bring them in for the shake in three weeks, can you do me three weeks?'
'What's it about?'
'Picture this,' he clapped his hands, rose from his seat and held his arms aloft 'a travelling fun fare. From the depths of Louisiana through to the cold steel heart of East LA they set up cheap rides for all the family. Only nobody who attends ever tells a friend about the great time they had, because nobody ever gets out alive!'
It dawned on me where he was going, and I wondered whether Luke would take a blowjob instead of the one hundred and twenty dollars I owed the bar.
'It's called… Abusement Park!'
I nod. Maybe two blowjobs.
'Abusement Park.' I repeated.
'Yeah, you like that shit?!'
'How much?'
'Let's say a treatment, character breakdown and the first hour at least for three weeks' time. That way I can get a few guys in for a rehearsed reading and really WOW them.'
'No, how much?' I rubbed thumb to index and fuck off finger.
'I'll pay you five grand.' Winston's face mistrustful at how easy he'd got me on the ropes.
'Fine. I'm going to need a little advance, some walking around money. I've got a bar tab and a few things I need to buy.'
' Sure, how much you want?' he replied, reaching into his bottom drawer pulling out a cash box.
'Nothing fancy, six… seven hundred ok?'
'Here's a G, you take that and buy yourself something pretty… now get the fuck out of here. I've got an African Americans for Romney fundraiser I need to get ready for.'
I cough, my scotch sent racing out my nose; burning a hot trail on its way.
'You're a black man working in Hollywood, aren't you supposed to be liberal? Fox News is telling Middle America you're liberal, you hate guns and you love abortions. Get with the god-damn stereotype.'
'You want a stereotype muthafucka?! How about I pummel your ass then go get myself some Popeye's?'
I laughed as I got to my feet.
'Save it for the Martin Lawrence roast, I've got a movie script I need to bend out.'