Read Online Blue Movie by Terry Southern - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Terry Southern
Ads: Link
important step in their operation.
“Is it long enough for a jet?” asked Boris, peering out dubiously.
“Are you kidding?” demanded Sid with great indignation, albeit somewhat nervous, “do you think I’d make a goof like that, for Chrissake?”
Boris shrugged. “Looks short to me.”
Sid deprecated the judgment with a wave of his hand. “Ah, well, you’re talking about the Concorde, one of those big mothers—”
“No, man, I’m talking about a DC-Nine. I’m talking about five thousand feet.”
Sid scrutinized the strip with a frown as the plane turned and taxied over to where a gigantic Mercedes 600 waited, with three men standing beside it—able Morty Kanowitz and his trusty assistant, Lips Malone, the third party being dapper Art Director Nicky Sanchez.
The Mercedes 600 is the largest car in the world; an exaggerated limousine, about twenty-seven feet long, it looked oddly disproportionate against the miniature airstrip.
Giant hellos were exchanged all around, and Boris and Sid were flourished into the front-facing back seat to sit opposite Morty and the art director, while Lips slipped in alongside the driver—this being the present pecking order within the tiny hierarchy.
“Ya looking beautiful,” Morty was saying, with a playful slap to Sid’s knee, “both you guys are looking beautiful, for Chrissake!”
Morty, a short, fat sort of professional Bronx type, had complemented his smart Cardin combo with regional headgear—a tight-brim Tyrolean featuring two colorful feathers—as, of course, had his front-seat shadow, Lips Malone.
“I’m telling you,” Morty went on, “you guys are going to love it here!” He shook his head, rolling his eyes up, Eddie Cantor style, to indicate his hat. “Look, we gone native awready!”
Sid stared morosely at the short runway, then turned to scowl at Morty.
“Get rid of that freaky hat, will ya,” he growled. “Makes you look like a goddamn fruit!”
2
T HE PRODUCTION OFFICE had been set up on the top floor of the Imperial Hotel—a squat, four-story brown brick building in the middle of town.
“Come on,” said Morty, with a slightly nervous laugh, as he led Boris, somber in dark glasses, and Sid, mopping his perspiring brow, down a half-lit hotel hallway, “I’ll show you around the lot.”
An old-line production manager who knew where his bread was buttered, so to speak—or, in other words, a sort of sycophantic ass-hole—fat Mort had already fixed their names, in raised cardboard letters, painted gold, on the doors which they passed now in succession:
SIDNEY H. KRASSMAN
Executive Producer
BORIS ADRIAN
Director
MORTON L. KANOWITZ
Production Manager
ART DEPARTMENT
Nicholas Sanchez
WARDROBE
Helen Vrobel
ACCOUNTING
Nathan A. Malone
All the rooms were the same—ordinary hotel rooms, except that a desk and three telephones had been installed, and a large couch instead of a bed. Another unusual feature of each was a young, but not-too-nifty, miniskirted girl sitting behind a typewriter, smiling up eagerly when introduced as “Gretel,” “Gretchen,” “Gertrude,” “Hildegarde,” etc.
“Where’d you get those broads?” asked Sid, scowling. “I don’t know whether I’m at a whorehouse or a dog show!”
“Believe me, Sid,” Morty explained, “I could of gotten some ravers, but it was hard enough finding broads that could unnerstan’ English, let alone type, for Chrissake! So I thought to myself, ‘what the hell, the picture comes first!’ Am I right?” He cast a beseeching look around to the others.
“Whad’ya say the name of mine was?” Sid wanted to know.
“Grunhilde!” said Morty, with a vaudeville leer and wink. “Takes twenty-seven words a minute and gives the best head in the city!”
Sid guffawed, and Morty, thus encouraged, tried to follow it up, grinning crazily:
“Swallows it too, Sid—just the way you like it, huh?”
Sid, in grand good humor now, and wanting to infect the silent
“Is it long enough for a jet?” asked Boris, peering out dubiously.
“Are you kidding?” demanded Sid with great indignation, albeit somewhat nervous, “do you think I’d make a goof like that, for Chrissake?”
Boris shrugged. “Looks short to me.”
Sid deprecated the judgment with a wave of his hand. “Ah, well, you’re talking about the Concorde, one of those big mothers—”
“No, man, I’m talking about a DC-Nine. I’m talking about five thousand feet.”
Sid scrutinized the strip with a frown as the plane turned and taxied over to where a gigantic Mercedes 600 waited, with three men standing beside it—able Morty Kanowitz and his trusty assistant, Lips Malone, the third party being dapper Art Director Nicky Sanchez.
The Mercedes 600 is the largest car in the world; an exaggerated limousine, about twenty-seven feet long, it looked oddly disproportionate against the miniature airstrip.
Giant hellos were exchanged all around, and Boris and Sid were flourished into the front-facing back seat to sit opposite Morty and the art director, while Lips slipped in alongside the driver—this being the present pecking order within the tiny hierarchy.
“Ya looking beautiful,” Morty was saying, with a playful slap to Sid’s knee, “both you guys are looking beautiful, for Chrissake!”
Morty, a short, fat sort of professional Bronx type, had complemented his smart Cardin combo with regional headgear—a tight-brim Tyrolean featuring two colorful feathers—as, of course, had his front-seat shadow, Lips Malone.
“I’m telling you,” Morty went on, “you guys are going to love it here!” He shook his head, rolling his eyes up, Eddie Cantor style, to indicate his hat. “Look, we gone native awready!”
Sid stared morosely at the short runway, then turned to scowl at Morty.
“Get rid of that freaky hat, will ya,” he growled. “Makes you look like a goddamn fruit!”
2
T HE PRODUCTION OFFICE had been set up on the top floor of the Imperial Hotel—a squat, four-story brown brick building in the middle of town.
“Come on,” said Morty, with a slightly nervous laugh, as he led Boris, somber in dark glasses, and Sid, mopping his perspiring brow, down a half-lit hotel hallway, “I’ll show you around the lot.”
An old-line production manager who knew where his bread was buttered, so to speak—or, in other words, a sort of sycophantic ass-hole—fat Mort had already fixed their names, in raised cardboard letters, painted gold, on the doors which they passed now in succession:
SIDNEY H. KRASSMAN
Executive Producer
BORIS ADRIAN
Director
MORTON L. KANOWITZ
Production Manager
ART DEPARTMENT
Nicholas Sanchez
WARDROBE
Helen Vrobel
ACCOUNTING
Nathan A. Malone
All the rooms were the same—ordinary hotel rooms, except that a desk and three telephones had been installed, and a large couch instead of a bed. Another unusual feature of each was a young, but not-too-nifty, miniskirted girl sitting behind a typewriter, smiling up eagerly when introduced as “Gretel,” “Gretchen,” “Gertrude,” “Hildegarde,” etc.
“Where’d you get those broads?” asked Sid, scowling. “I don’t know whether I’m at a whorehouse or a dog show!”
“Believe me, Sid,” Morty explained, “I could of gotten some ravers, but it was hard enough finding broads that could unnerstan’ English, let alone type, for Chrissake! So I thought to myself, ‘what the hell, the picture comes first!’ Am I right?” He cast a beseeching look around to the others.
“Whad’ya say the name of mine was?” Sid wanted to know.
“Grunhilde!” said Morty, with a vaudeville leer and wink. “Takes twenty-seven words a minute and gives the best head in the city!”
Sid guffawed, and Morty, thus encouraged, tried to follow it up, grinning crazily:
“Swallows it too, Sid—just the way you like it, huh?”
Sid, in grand good humor now, and wanting to infect the silent
Similar Books
