Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk (34 page)

Dime asks for coffee. Billy says he’ll have the same. Norm has swung his Aeron chair around to face them, and now he rubs his eyes and tips the chair back, giving the scoreboard a last glance as the quarter expires.

“Sorry about the lights,” he says, nodding at the ceiling. “We keep them off during games, otherwise it’s like a fishbowl in here. Damn irritating to look over at the TV and see yourself staring at yourself on the tube.”

“Or dropping the f-bomb,” says one of the execs. “Not that
that’s
ever happened here.”

Norm shakes his head as the others laugh. “We try to keep at least an R rating up here.”

“Not many people ever see the inside of this room,” says the second executive, who has introduced himself as Jim. “This is the inner sanctum, boys. A lot of folks would give their left arm to be sitting where you are.”

“You should charge admission,” Dime says, and everyone laughs but him.

“I’m not sure we could get it today,” says Norm. “Not our most stellar effort, I’m sorry to say. I was really hoping we’d put on a show for you fellas. But maybe we’ll turn it around in the fourth.”

“Some pass blocking from Stennhauser would be nice,” says f-bomb, to sour laughs. Norm turns to one of his sons.

“Skip, how many carries does Riddick have?”

Skip consults his laptop. “Nineteen. For thirty-four yards.”

Groans rise from several sectors of the room. “He’s done, coach,” says Jim. “Let’s give Buckner a go, at least he’s got fresh legs.”

“He don’t have any holes to hit, what does it matter,” says f-bomb. “We need to be pushing some bodies around up front.”

Norm frowns and takes a sip of Fiji water. Skip hands him a sheet of paper he’s just printed out, from which Norm proceeds to read aloud third-quarter statistics. A waiter enters through a side door, showing a momentary slice of the main suite. Over there it’s a pretty good party; over here, a long day at the office. Billy accepts his coffee and takes some sips. He likes it here. The close quarters evoke a sense of primal security, a kind of hunkered-down campfire intimacy that seems specifically masculine. It’s that long-sought place of ultimate safety, all the better for its cave-like feel, its air of chummy exclusivity. He would love to wipe the war from his brain, if only for a moment, and indulge in the luxury of pretending that he’s permanent here.

“This defense is as tough as any we’ve faced all year,” Norm says, perhaps rehearsing for the post-game press conference. He sets the printout aside and speaks past the Bravos to Albert, who’s chosen to sit where the soldiers can’t see his face.

“Albert, did you tell our young friends about our plans for their film?”

“Sure did!” Albert answers, spreading the pep a bit thick.

“Congratulations on your movie company, sir,” says Dime. “Sounds epic.”

“Thank you, Sergeant, thank you very much. It’s something we’ve been kicking around for a while, and we’re excited to get it going, incredibly excited. It’s definitely going to be a challenge, but with Albert on the team I like our chances. And I’m especially excited about bringing
your
story to the screen, and let me pledge to you right now, and I can’t emphasize this enough, we’re going all-out on this. Anyone here will tell you, when I decide to do something, I don’t go halfway.”

“Norm loves his work,” says f-bomb.

Everyone laughs, and Norm joins in with a boyish chuckle, he doesn’t mind this sly poke at his workaholic rep. Billy is struck by the depths he finds in Norm’s watery blue eyes, the sincerity, the evident eagerness to concur and connect. Watching him at close range, it’s hard to believe he’s as mean as people say.

“I believe in your story,” Norm tells the Bravos, with only the briefest glance at the field, “and I believe in the good it can do for our country. It’s a story of courage, hope, optimism, love of freedom, all the convictions that motivated you young men to do what you did, and I think this film will go a long way toward reinvigorating our commitment to the war. Let’s face it, a lot of people are discouraged. The insurgency gets some traction, casualties mount, the price tag keeps going up, it’s only natural some people are going to lose their nerve. They forget why we went there in the first place—why are we fighting? They forget some things are actually worth fighting for, and that’s where your story comes in, the Bravo story. And if the Hollywood crowd won’t step up to the plate, well, I’m happy to pinch-hit, more than happy. This is an obligation I willingly assume.”

Son Skip is absorbed in his computer screen. Norm’s other son—Todd? Trey?—has swung his chair around to listen to his father, though at the moment he’s tapping out a text on his cell. Jim is pouring himself a soda at the bar. F-bomb executive is leaning against the wall, munching a sandwich and nodding his head to the beat of his boss’s speech.

“I have my doubts about Hollywood anyway,” Norm is saying, “their politics, the whole cultural attitude out there. And some of the concepts they’ve been throwing around? This whole thing with Hilary Swank—look, I know she’s a great actress, I’m sure she’d do a great job. But having a woman in the lead just sends the wrong message, in my view. This is a story about
men,
men defending their
country,
and I’m sorry, that’s just what it is.”

“But Hilary’s still a prospect,” Albert pipes up, and everybody laughs.

“She is, she is,” Norm concedes, grinning, “I didn’t say she isn’t. And if casting her turns out to be the best thing for our movie, that’s what we’ll do. I’m not interested in making a
good
movie, I want something
great,
something people will be watching a hundred years from now. I want a movie that’s going to rank right up there with the best American films of all time.”

And with that everything seems settled and fine, until Dime speaks up and spoils it.

“What makes you think you can?” he asks, taunting, jeering, lifting his chin as if dismissing some object of contempt. Someone gasps, or so it seems when Billy later recalls these moments. Skip turns from his computer, slowly folding down the screen. Todd stares, fingers poised over the keypad of his phone. F-bomb executive has paused in midchew.

“Pardon?” Norm’s dazed smile makes a pudding of his face.

“Can you do it, can you deliver. You want to buy our story for fifty-five hundred bucks, that sure sounds like chump change to me. We could sell it to pretty much anybody for that, hell, my granny could swing that deal with a trip to the ATM. With all due respect, Mr. Oglesby, sir, show us you’re serious. Show us you’re a player.”

Still with that knocked-wonky smile, Norm sits back and carefully crosses his arms. He turns to his sons, then to the two executives, and as if cued by some mysterious signal, they all bust up laughing.

“Look around you, son,” Norm says, regarding Dime with a warm, pitying cast to his eyes. “Look around and think for a moment about everything you see. Then you tell me, am I a
player
?”

Billy knows if it was up to him, he would fold right now. It’s too strong, the dark mojo of these rich, powerful men operating in the comfort of their home turf, and Norm above all with his kindly blue eyes, his fatherly patience, the paralytic force field of his mesmerizing narcissism. Billy wishes Albert would speak up and pull them back from the brink, but Dime presses on.

“Sir, may I speak frankly?”

Norm smiles, shows his palms. “Why stop now?”

More yuks from the cheering section. The small of Billy’s back is a peat bog of sweat. Does Dime plan these things or just wing it?
Wings it,
he decides with a fierce burst of pride. He’d follow his sergeant through forty hells.

“I’ve been told it’ll take a budget of around eighty million dollars to get our movie made—am I correct on that, Albert?”

“Ideally,” Albert intones from somewhere south of the Bravos. “Sixty to eighty million to make a first-class war picture.”

“That’s a lot of scratch,” Dime says, turning back to Norm.

“It is,” Norm agrees.

“So where’s it coming from?”

“Ah.” Norm chuckles, looks to his son. “Skip, remind me again, where does the money come from?”

“Capital markets,” Skip says briskly, only slightly condescending as he turns to Dime. “Banks, insurance companies, hedge funds, pension plans, there’s always plenty of money out there looking for deals. Assuming the economy cooperates, we think we can get Legends fully funded in the three-, three-hundred-fifty-million range with a series of private offerings, roll them out over a period of, say, eighteen months. Then with additional funding to come as needed, maybe on a per-project basis.”

“GE Capital’s been begging to put some money with us,” says Todd.

“That’s right. And that’s not counting individual investors. Just with our friends next door”—Skip nods toward the main suite—“I bet Dad could step over there and have commitments for twenty, thirty million by the end of the game.”

“We have access,” Norm says patiently to Dime. “We have ample experience raising capital. I think you could even call us”—he pauses and smiles—
“players.”

“Yes sir, I sure hear you on that, sir. Those are some stout numbers you’re talking about, but with all due respect, sir, fifty-five hundred for each of my Bravos just seems kind of . . . small.”

“Albert, they understand how we need to structure this deal?”

“I explained,” Albert answers in a studiously neutral voice.

“So you know”—Norm turns back to the Bravos—“your fifty-five hundred is just an advance, correct? We could buy you out with a big lump sum, sure, but that makes it harder for us to get your movie made. We need maximum flexibility to put this package together, and what we’re asking from you, what we need from you, is in the nature of an in-kind equity contribution. In exchange for the rights to your story you’ll have a vested interest in the project, which means you share with us in the upside—”

“And the downside,” says Dime.

“Sure, sure, and the downside. There’s going to be risk, just like with any investment. But it won’t be any greater for you than it is for any other investor, myself included.”

“Mr. Oglesby sir, with all due respect, sir. We’re soldiers. We feel like we’ve already got enough risk in our lives.”

“And I’m certainly sensitive to that, but we’re talking about an entirely separate arena here. If we’re going to sell this project to potential investors, we’ve got to show them a solid package. We can’t afford to be cutting sweetheart deals here.”

Norm swivels his chair for a look at the field, and Billy realizes that their host was hoping to close the deal before the fourth quarter began. Too late; the players are taking the field. “You do understand, I trust,” Norm says, turning back to the Bravos, “this is about a lot more than just money. Our country
needs
this movie, needs it badly. I really don’t think you want to be the guys who keep this movie from being made, not with so much at stake. I sure wouldn’t want to be that guy.”

“We understand, sir. And I can assure you sir, if anything terrible happens, Bravo is ready to take full responsibility.”

Norm cuts a glance at his execs. He’s almost smiling, Billy sees. He’s enjoying this. There is a vast asymmetry in the dynamic here that Billy can’t quite put his finger on, even though it’s the elephant shitting all over the room.

“Sergeant,” Norm says, “that’s our offer. Based on what I’m hearing, it’s the only offer you’ve got, and now, well, you’re going back to Iraq. Wouldn’t you like to have something before you go? Something to show for all your hard work and sacrifice, the magnificent service you’ve given the country? Maybe it’s not as much as you were hoping for, but I think most people would agree, something is better than nothing.”

“Something would be nice,” Dime says. “Something would be great. But it’s”—he breaks off with a choking gasp—“it’s just, I don’t know, it’s just so
sad,
sir. We thought you kind of liked us.”

“But I do!” Norm cries, lurching upright in his chair. “I
do
like you! I think the world of you fine young men!”

Dime clasps his hands to his heart. “See?” he gushes to Billy. “He
does
like us! He likes us so much he’s going to fuck us in the face!”

In a second Albert is on his feet, chousing the Bravos out of their chairs with a bright furious smile and asking Norm for a place where he can talk to his “boys,” and though the Oglesby team takes it all more or less in stride, Dime has offended, clearly. He has crossed the bounds of couth. A very curt Mr. Jones leads them down the hall to a small, windowless room with a half bath attached, a kind of massage and decompression chamber, Billy gathers, furnished with a heavily pillowed daybed he would describe as “French,” a couple of leather and steel-tube chairs, a massage table, and a deep-pile Persian rug. The ubiquitous TV is mounted high in a corner, the first they’ve seen today that’s not switched on. Mr. Jones ducks into the bathroom and has a look, then walks a circle around the massage table. He seems to be doing some sort of security sweep.