The Big Bamboo by Tim Dorsey Page A

then other numbers. “Room 23? Are you sure?” He hung up and floored the gas.
     
     
     

9
     
VISTAMAX STUDIOS
     
     
    Aknock at the door. Betty stuck her head inside. “Murray’s here.”
    The brothers were finishing a late lunch. Ian chewed calamari. “Send him in.”
    A balding, middle-aged man with a pencil over his ear approached their desks. He wore a brown tie and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He read from a computer printout with sprocket holes.
    “Eight forty-two. White tiger escapes…”
    “Tiger?”
    “Morning rewrite,” said Murray. “New African scene. Zebras, too.”
    The brothers were already feeling ill. The worst part of their day. Updates from the set of
All That Glitters
.
    Everything would be right in the Vistamax garden if it wasn’t for that one film.
    While the Glicks ground out chum the rest of the year, the publicity side of the business necessitated they belly up to the high-roller table and produce at least one flagship picture a year. The movie didn’t have to make much money. It could even lose a little money—a little. Just as long as it received half-decent reviews that kept Vistamax from slipping into the B-studio swamp militantly ignored by the entertainment press. It was a gray distinction, and one that was worth eight or nine figures.
    This year’s outing had looked better than ever when Vistamax landed the services of Werner B. Potemkin, the director’s director, darling of the critics. It couldn’t miss, guaranteed to vault Vistamax into unfamiliar realms of respectability. While the other studios threw gobs of cash at Potemkin, Vistamax was able to snare the legendary filmmaker with something much more valuable. Total creative control. Just think of all the money they’d save!
    That was twenty rewrites and even more missed deadlines ago. The Glicks wondered what they’d been thinking. So did the Vistamax board, when red ink began washing ashore on the other side of the Pacific. So did the Asian crime bosses, who were using the former electronics manufacturer as their leap into legitimacy.
    When news of the deal first broke, Hollywood was atwitter. Marquee director. Epic film. And the star would be their town! Then shooting began, and Potemkin’s temperament turned the production into nothing less than kryptonite. Withered everything in range. Firings, resignations, rehab. The Japanese pressured the Glicks, who pressured Potemkin, who responded with tantrums in French and lawyers in Lamborghinis.
    For a rare moment in their lives, the Glicks were helpless, forced to sit on their hands while an asshole flew their studio into the side of a mountain. All they could do was torture themselves with daily updates from the set, which meant Murray.
    “…Eight fifty-seven. Central Casting midgets arrive…”
    Ian got up and poured a stiff drink at the office wet bar.
    “…Nine-sixteen. Delay from tiger escape causes stage lights to melt deadly iceberg…Nine thirty-six. Voice coaches arrive. The midgets are now singing midgets…”
    Mel joined his brother at the bar.
    “…Ten-eighteen. Water from iceberg shorts out all power…Ten thirty-nine. Search begins for missing midget.”
    The Glicks brought bottles and glasses back to their desks.
    “…Eleven twenty-one, emergency generators and standby ice sculptors arrive…Twelve twenty-eight, midgets written out of script…”
    Mel began banging his forehead on his desk.
    “…Twelve forty-five. Filming indefinitely suspended again when tiger and missing midget are found.” Murray lowered his clipboard. “I’ve already taken care of flowers.”
    “Murray,” said Ian. “Just kill me.”
    “You’re welcome.” Murray left.
    The brothers pulled out coke drawers. Two extra-long lines in stereo. Then two more…
    Knock-knock. Betty. “Ford Oelman to see you.”
    A young man took a bashful step into the office. “You called for me?”
    Two drawers closed.
    “You must be Ford!” said Ian.
    Mel