The Big Bamboo by Tim Dorsey Page B

made a big waving motion with his arm. “Come on in, kid!”
    “Have a seat!”
    “We’ve been dying to meet you,” said Mel.
    “W-why?”
    “Your screenplay, that’s why!”
    “He’s so modest,” said Ian.
    “You’re too modest,” said Mel. “Take credit when credit’s due!”
    “We take credit,” said Ian. “Even when it’s not ours.”
    “Never seen such writing!”
    “So fresh! So now!”
    “Reminded me of
The Grifters
,” said Mel. “Except you’ve done that whole new thing with it.”
    Ford was stunned. “You read it?”
    “Not a word,” said Mel.
    “But we’ve heard great things.”
    “That’s why we’re going to make an exception this time and not be mad at you.”
    “Mad?” said Ford.
    “Personal work on company time.”
    “It’s a firing offense.”
    “But we’ve grown to like you.”
    “We just met,” said Ford.
    “That’s right,” said Ian. “You don’t have any baggage.”
    “It’s your most likable quality.”
    “Why don’t you have a seat?” said Ian.
    “He’s already sitting,” said Mel.
    “Or you can stand,” said Ian. “You’re the writer.”
    “Love how he’s dressed,” said Mel, “downplaying the writer look.”
    “Got that whole props thing happening,” said Ian.
    Ford’s eyes went back and forth.
    “Writers can dress any way they want,” explained Mel.
    “So they usually dress weird,” said Ian.
    “The worst-dressed people in this town are directors.”
    “Especially a female director if she’s attractive.”
    “Wears baggy shit to show crew she’s not stuck-up.”
    “But you’re the writer! You can dress any way you want.”
    “And the fact that you didn’t says something.”
    “I’ll bet my studio you have a lot to say.”
    “Don’t know if you’ve heard,” said Mel. “But the writer can do no wrong here at Vistamax.”
    “That’s why we wanted to lay down some rules so you don’t fuck up again.”
    “We won’t fire you this time.”
    “Nobody told you the rules.”
    “What are you, a mind reader?”
    “Of course not!” said Mel. “You’re the writer!”
    Ford became dizzy.
    “We understand the artistic process,” said Ian.
    “Actually, we don’t, or we’d be artists,” said Mel.
    “That’s why we’re going to cut you some slack this time.”
    Mel opened a drawer and produced scraps of paper with handwritten notes.
    “Where’d you get those?” said Ford.
    “Your personal locker in props.”
    “You worked on this during company time.”
    “Which makes it our intellectual property.”
    Ford jumped up from his chair. “But I’ve been working on that for years. Long before I got here. I only made a few notes at work.”
    “Only a few notes?” said Mel. “You can’t pee in a pool and say, ‘I just went in this one spot.’ Fucks up the whole pool.”
    “Children swim in pools!” said Ian. “Did you ever stop to consider them?”
    “Besides, we’re not going to use the script anyway.”
    “It isn’t that good.”
    Ford looked at one brother, then the other. “You said you loved it.”
    “We were trying to be encouraging,” said Ian.
    “You’ve got initiative, kid.”
    “Just leave it at home.”
    “Hey!” said Mel. “We got a surprise for you! Tell him, Ian. He’s going to be tickled.”
    “On the way out, see Betty. We’ve told her to hook you up with gift certificates for the studio store.”
    “Just got in some great sweatshirts.”
    “Probably do all your Christmas shopping.”
    Mel stood and walked over to the door.
    “But…” said Ford.
    “He doesn’t know how to thank us,” Mel told his brother.
    “Just keep doing that Ford magic,” said Ian.
    Mel opened the door. “That’ll be thanks enough.”
     
FORT LAUDERDALE
     
    Serge burst through the hospital entrance and ran past the front desk.
    “Sir!” yelled a nurse, jumping up from her chair. “You have to sign in!”
    Serge kept running, checking room numbers on the way. The hall had speckled green