The Big Bamboo (36 page)

Another direction: “Stop or
we’ll
shoot!”

Serge looked the other way. Southerners.

The two groups indecisively swung guns back and forth between each other and Serge.

“Who the hell are you?” yelled one of the Japanese.

“Who the hell are
you
?” yelled a redneck.

Ian and Mel in the middle: “Help!”

“Where’s our two million?” Mr. Yokamura yelled at the Glicks.

“Two million?” yelled a southerner. “That’s
our
money!”

Ian pointed at the catwalk. “In the briefcase.”

Asian guns swung up. “Give us the briefcase!”

A drawl: “Give
us
the briefcase!”

Mr. Yokamura flew into a rage. “What the hell’s going on around here!”

Serge cupped his hands around his mouth. “The denouement!”

“You’re a dead man!”

“I know you are,” said Serge. “But what am I?” He walked a few steps along the catwalk and came to a bank of pressure gauges and giant red levers marked DANGER.

Nobody had ever seen Potemkin so angry, and that was saying something. He’d already smashed the director’s chair and taken out a water cooler. He grabbed his megaphone, ran to the edge of the landing and pointed it up at Serge. “Who the fuck are you!”

Serge looked down and smiled.
“Mr. Mojo Risin!”

“Who?”

“…Gotta keep on Risin!”

“You’re insane!”

“Don’t you dare give them the money!” yelled Mr. Yokamura.

“…
Mr. Mo-Jo Ri-Sin!
…” Serge began throwing red levers.

“We’ll negotiate!” yelled a southerner, looking up at the catwalk. “Tell us what you want.”

“I…just want to have some fun…until the sun comes up over Santa Monica Boulevard…”

The first assistant was screaming at Potemkin. “We have to get those people out of there!”

Potemkin was too berserk to hear. He stomped down the steps with his megaphone. “I said
cut
! Are you deaf!…”

“Get back up here!” yelled the assistant. “You see what he’s doing on that catwalk?”

But Potemkin kept marching out into the basin. “You fuckers are ruining my movie! Who let you in here?…”

Cops burst through the stage entrance with guns drawn. Babcock: “There they are!”

But Serge had just thrown the last lever. Everyone froze where they stood, looking around for the source of the deep, earthshaking rumble. Too late. They made a vain attempt to run as the concrete basin flash-flooded with three million gallons of foaming water. Broken bits of chariots bobbed as the water level continued to rise.

“…Gotta keep on ri-sin’!…”
Serge and Coleman casually strolled through the fire escape door at the end of the catwalk and into the sunlight.

HOLLYWOOD—In a bizarre and ironic turn of events, the director and producers of the controversial All That Glitters have themselves become casualties of the catastrophe-prone production.

The recovery of the bodies was delayed five hours until studio crews could drain the pirate ship basin on soundstage 19. The deceased include Werner B. Potemkin and both Glick brothers, along with a dozen actors playing the roles of redneck outlaws and Japanese mobsters during a climactic scene from The Ten Commandments.

The Glicks’ untimely demise coincides with the shocking revelation that sealed warrants had just been issued for both brothers in connection with the kidnapping and murder of former Vistamax actress Ally Street. Police were moving in for an arrest at the time the Red Sea came back together.

Meanwhile, questions still surround sets of Polaroid photos anonymously mailed to news outlets, which depict the Glicks in a series of compromising positions. Media ethicists are divided on whether the pictures should be published. The
Hollywood Tattletale
has chosen not to print the photos, which can be viewed on our Web site.

In yet another development, police have again released The Stalker Ford Oelman (see related story). The former murder suspect was escorted from the jail shortly before noon, when police held a press conference to clear The Stalker’s name.

As reported earlier, Mr. Oelman came under suspicion in the Street case because he had harassed the actress, made numerous public threats, obsessively filed court documents against the studio and had to be forcibly ejected from the property. Described as an unbalanced loner, Mr. Oelman was also found to be hiding Ms. Street’s unlaundered panties in the trunk of his car.

Police said it was a mistake.

HOLLYWOOD—The Stalker Ford Oelman has reached an undisclosed, out-of-court settlement with Vistamax Studios stemming from the actions of late producers Ian and Mel Glick, which led to his arrest for murder.

“Money can never right the injustice done to this young man, but it’s a start,” said Mr. Oelman’s attorney, Rodney Demopolis. He refused to discuss the amount, but unnamed sources place it in the seven-figure range.

Demopolis, dressed in a sharp Armani suit and sitting in his spacious new Beverly Hills office, said he has since been flooded with clients who were previously too intimidated to come forward with complaints against several other film giants. “Apparently the old Hollywood system of exploiting the little guy is not dead.” Demopolis refused to identify the studios but “you’d know the names.”

Accompanying Demopolis was Vistamax Entertainment Division chief Yoshi Tagura, who read from a prepared statement: “We personally apologize to Mr. Oelman, the entire Vistamax family and loyal moviegoers everywhere who are eagerly awaiting the Christmas release of All That Glitters.”

The day before the civil settlement, shares of Vistamax were trading sharply downward on Wall Street, responding to reports of a massive studio shakeup, including the dismissal of two dozen top producers and executives. However, the stock quickly rebounded with confidence after Tagura named a longtime studio veteran as the new CEO.

“Vistamax is my family,” said Dallas Reel, who returned from an extended leave for “professional exhaustion” to appear at the press conference and pose for a three-way handshake with Tagura and Oelman.

In addition to financial compensation, Mr. Oelman’s settlement with the studio also involves restoration of intellectual property rights and a guaranteed three-film contract.

Mr. Reel announced that the first project will be the film version of Mr. Oelman’s ordeal in Tinseltown. “His story is so unbelievable and compelling that nothing needs to be changed. We’re thinking of moving it to New York.”

The Big Bamboo Lounge was hosting its first-ever cast party.

Champagne corks popped. Music played. Laughter. The bartender laid out toilet paper coasters.

All the players were there, the same con-artist lineup that had pulled the oil scam in Alabama. Plus their newest additions, Serge and Coleman.

Chi-Chi and Coltrane arrived. A reunion cheer went up.

A woman named Chelsea Davidson raised her champagne glass and called the room to order for a toast. She looked much younger—not anything like Tori Gersh without the wig, fake nose and theatrical makeup. “To Ford Oelman, without whose brilliant script we would never have been able to pull this off.”

Glasses clinked.

“Author! Author!”

Ford smiled and blushed.

“Speech!”

“Come on, Ford,” said Jennifer Rosen, who played the part of Ally Street. “This is your moment. Say something.”

“Yeah, Ford,” said Mark. “This was your finest script yet, even better than the oil deal.”

Ford stood up. “I just reacted. I didn’t know what to do after the Glicks screwed me and ran off my lawyer. Can’t tell you how much I wanted revenge.”

“It was all so perfect,” said Chelsea. “The stolen cell phone, Ally’s fake death, not to mention framing yourself and staging the cell phone robbery in front of your unsuspecting friends from props.”

“That was key,” said Ford. “The best perjury is by those who believe their own testimony.”

“Remind us never to get on your bad side,” said Mark.

More laughter.

“But I still don’t believe it worked,” said Chelsea. “It all hinged on Jennifer seducing the Glicks at the party. How’d you know they’d go for it? Without that…”

“It’s like the snake that bites the frog and they both drown. They couldn’t escape their nature.” Ford smiled. “I also had a great actress.”

“And I had great material,” said Jennifer. Her face changed. “But I still think I should get an extra share for those two lunatics you stuck me with!”

“Lunatics!” said Serge. “What about you? Another day of that whining and there
would
have been a murder. Your bullshit has wheels!”

“Both of you are full of crap,” said Chelsea. “What about me and those crazy ransom calls. Then that shit on CNN! My head almost exploded!”

“All of you: Shut up!” yelled Chi-Chi. “This is supposed to be a happy gathering.”

“He’s right,” said Ford, raising his glass. “I’d like to make a toast. To all my friends who came in my hour of need.”

“Of course we’d come,” said Jennifer. “What did you think we were going to do? We’re like family.”

“Speaking of which…” said Mark. He looked toward Serge. “How does it feel to have a half brother?”

“I nearly fainted when I read my granddad’s letter,” said Serge. “I couldn’t get to L.A. fast enough.”

“Ford couldn’t believe it when I gave him the news you’d called,” said Mark.

“Granddad told me all about you,” said Ford. “But nobody knew where you were. Almost no chance we’d ever meet. So when Mark got the call, we thought it was some trick from the people in Alabama. They’d already started snooping, and we figured they’d gotten to Chi-Chi and the others.”

A tall man with dreadlocks patted Serge on the shoulder. “Sorry about roughing you up at the Safari. No hard feelings?”

“I would have done the same,” said Serge.

“But, Ford,” said Chelsea, “how did you ever find your granddad? I wouldn’t know where to begin looking.”

“Didn’t even know I was adopted until I was fifteen,” said Ford. “That great family with the farm in Alabama. But you know how you just start sensing something. I mean, I’ll always love them like real parents. When they thought I was old enough, they finally told me what they knew, which wasn’t much…”

“So how did you find him?” asked Jennifer.

“That was tough. They knew my mother was from South Florida…” He looked at Serge. “You must have been a little kid.”

“Had no idea,” said Serge. “Vaguely remember her getting fat, but at that age…The letter Chi-Chi gave me explained the big points. A year after Dad died, she started seeing this other jai-alai player. Then he goes back to Spain before either of them knows she’s pregnant. Never comes back. She was already a single mom. What was she going to do?”

“Sergio handled the arrangements,” said Ford. “But after all those years, try poking around Miami with only a name. Gave up a few times. Finally Googled his name on the Internet and got a hit with a newspaper article on one of his friend’s funerals.”

“What a story,” said Serge. He looked at the others. “So, where to now?”

“Montreal,” said Chelsea. “These brokers took some friends of my parents in a stock deal.”

“Acting in Canada,” said Serge. “Hollywood slang for dying.”

“Sure you guys won’t join us?” said Chelsea. “We were quite a team.”

“I’m going to stay back here in Florida for a while,” said Serge. “I get jittery when I’m over the state line for too long.”

“I’m hanging here, too,” said Ford. “We have a lot of catching up.”

“Hey!” said Serge. “You like
The Punisher
?”

“Loved it!” said Ford.

“Have I got a place to show you!”

“What are we waiting for?”

“Let’s rock!”

“Slow down, you two!” said Chi-Chi. “Jesus, it’s like your granddad’s echo in here. Let’s just relax and finish our little party.”

“That reminds me,” said Chelsea. “We have another toast.” She raised her glass toward the framed photo on the wall over the Seven Dwarfs. “To Sergio.”

“To Sergio.”

The usually deserted downtown street in front of Union Station was jammed with humming, air-conditioned semitrailers.

The warehouse on the opposite side of the road danced with activity. A large sun umbrella shaded a director’s chair with OELMAN stitched on the back. Filming had just begun on the first independent project financed by the out-of-court settlement.

Cameras from two different ground angles—and a third overhead in a cherry picker—triangulated on an abandoned brick building last seen in
The Punisher
.

A clapboard clapped.

Ford raised a megaphone. “Annnnnd…
action!
”

Far from camera view, across the street next to the railroad station’s switching yard, sat a beat-up ’71 Buick Riviera. Behind the steering wheel was Ford’s screenwriting collaborator, who remained uncredited at his own request. Serge turned the page of a trade magazine.

“Hey, Coleman. Check out this article.”

HOLLYWOOD—In a real-life success story that rivals anything ever filmed, the late Werner B. Potemkin has received an Academy Award nomination in the best director category for his swansong masterpiece, All That Glitters.

When first released in America, the film was viciously panned coast to coast, and had to be pulled from over one thousand screens nationwide in only the second weekend. But soon after its overseas release, the tide of reviews began to shift.

Dismissed in the States as an overindulgent, unfocused pile of steaming shit, the film had to wait upon European sensibilities to correctly interpret Potemkin’s vision for a delicious self-parody of an obsessed director on the brink of madness.