looking for him. Those Chinese youths were some kind of street gang, the kind that serves a bigger and badder organization.
Breathless, Louie sat on the edge of his unmade motel bed and listened to the phone ring. Maybe they were aiming for Mean Lady. Maybe she hadnât paid lucky money to a Chinatown street gang. Or maybe they had come in to off Louie, shoot him in the back while seated at the bar.
He had to get out of Vancouver.
Had to catch a bus because he couldnât afford another flight. Had to find somewhere else where he could get lost, yet still keep some tenuous hold on the only work he really knew how to do. When his doorknob moved and someone tried to get in, he sprung from the bed, moved to the tiny bathroom. But it was only housekeeping, a Mexican girl who never waited more than two knocks to unlock the door and enter. When she saw Louie, she began to apologize and leave.
âNo, no, itâs okay,â he said.
He set two crimped and sweaty Canadian dollars on the bed, grabbed his duffel bag, and left the room. As he hurried his way to the Greyhound station, baseball cap and sunglasses on, he made a decision under pressure. He was hardwired to do that, still alive because of it.
Los Angeles. Hollywood. He knew people. Kind of. Itâs where he should have gone in the first place.
9
THE COFFEE BEAN
Avi Ghazaryan sat alone at an outside table at 8591 Sunset Plaza Drive. It was an overcast morning, a tad cool for late June. Although he rented office space at Lantana in Santa Monica, the place was making him nervous. Too many fly-by-night productions came and went, often coming in with money, going out broke and looking scared, just to hang their shingle at Lantana for six months and roll legit. Avi much preferred his table at the Coffee Bean and was seriously thinking about putting its Sunset Plaza address on his business card. He could say he had an office upstairs, but he preferred casual outdoor meetings.
It was a soothing ritual: The L.A. Times spread open under a double espresso and a script, his focus on his iPhone, scrolling the trades. But he was brooding today, still surly over Tyler at Paramount. It had taken a few days, but the WME boys had gotten him in to see the production prez. Tyler, heâd felt, screwed him again. The meeting itself felt like a home run. At one point during the pitch, Tyler interrupted and asked if the concept had any foreign value. Avi had come prepared, leaned forward in his chair:
âCross a street in London, there he is. In Germany he wears a hatâthey call him Ampelmännchen. In Mexico City, he moves his feet. Taiwan? At every crossing you will find him. What do you mean, âforeignâ? The guy is as international as fucking Robin Hood. Or Snow White.â
Avi let the words sink in: Robin Hood. Snow White. International. Home run. Grand slam, even. Yet in the elevator, going down, Avi had a nagging feeling. No sooner was he out the door, he imagined, than Tyler turned to his D-girl and had her call Sacco and Vanzetti or whatever their names were, that young writing team barely out of braces that had the Midas Touch of the month. Heâd pitch Caution to those eager little gamers as if it were his own idea, have them tag-team a draft in a monthâs time. The business always had a reptilian scent, but it was worse these days. At least reptiles had blood in their veins, cold as it might be. This new breed was robotic. Robotic cannibals, eating the scrap metal of their comrades and crapping out homogenous product. How badly he missed the old days when dirtbags had souls and studio heads didnât have names like Tyler.
Scrolling Nikki Finke, Aviâs mind went to his next fixation: Troy Raskin. Little motherfucker. The clock was ticking. Avi needed a cut to show his nervous investors, especially Hektorâs L.A. crew from Little Guatemala; they were getting antsy. He had paid a grand to Papagalloâs guy and heard that a
Breathless, Louie sat on the edge of his unmade motel bed and listened to the phone ring. Maybe they were aiming for Mean Lady. Maybe she hadnât paid lucky money to a Chinatown street gang. Or maybe they had come in to off Louie, shoot him in the back while seated at the bar.
He had to get out of Vancouver.
Had to catch a bus because he couldnât afford another flight. Had to find somewhere else where he could get lost, yet still keep some tenuous hold on the only work he really knew how to do. When his doorknob moved and someone tried to get in, he sprung from the bed, moved to the tiny bathroom. But it was only housekeeping, a Mexican girl who never waited more than two knocks to unlock the door and enter. When she saw Louie, she began to apologize and leave.
âNo, no, itâs okay,â he said.
He set two crimped and sweaty Canadian dollars on the bed, grabbed his duffel bag, and left the room. As he hurried his way to the Greyhound station, baseball cap and sunglasses on, he made a decision under pressure. He was hardwired to do that, still alive because of it.
Los Angeles. Hollywood. He knew people. Kind of. Itâs where he should have gone in the first place.
9
THE COFFEE BEAN
Avi Ghazaryan sat alone at an outside table at 8591 Sunset Plaza Drive. It was an overcast morning, a tad cool for late June. Although he rented office space at Lantana in Santa Monica, the place was making him nervous. Too many fly-by-night productions came and went, often coming in with money, going out broke and looking scared, just to hang their shingle at Lantana for six months and roll legit. Avi much preferred his table at the Coffee Bean and was seriously thinking about putting its Sunset Plaza address on his business card. He could say he had an office upstairs, but he preferred casual outdoor meetings.
It was a soothing ritual: The L.A. Times spread open under a double espresso and a script, his focus on his iPhone, scrolling the trades. But he was brooding today, still surly over Tyler at Paramount. It had taken a few days, but the WME boys had gotten him in to see the production prez. Tyler, heâd felt, screwed him again. The meeting itself felt like a home run. At one point during the pitch, Tyler interrupted and asked if the concept had any foreign value. Avi had come prepared, leaned forward in his chair:
âCross a street in London, there he is. In Germany he wears a hatâthey call him Ampelmännchen. In Mexico City, he moves his feet. Taiwan? At every crossing you will find him. What do you mean, âforeignâ? The guy is as international as fucking Robin Hood. Or Snow White.â
Avi let the words sink in: Robin Hood. Snow White. International. Home run. Grand slam, even. Yet in the elevator, going down, Avi had a nagging feeling. No sooner was he out the door, he imagined, than Tyler turned to his D-girl and had her call Sacco and Vanzetti or whatever their names were, that young writing team barely out of braces that had the Midas Touch of the month. Heâd pitch Caution to those eager little gamers as if it were his own idea, have them tag-team a draft in a monthâs time. The business always had a reptilian scent, but it was worse these days. At least reptiles had blood in their veins, cold as it might be. This new breed was robotic. Robotic cannibals, eating the scrap metal of their comrades and crapping out homogenous product. How badly he missed the old days when dirtbags had souls and studio heads didnât have names like Tyler.
Scrolling Nikki Finke, Aviâs mind went to his next fixation: Troy Raskin. Little motherfucker. The clock was ticking. Avi needed a cut to show his nervous investors, especially Hektorâs L.A. crew from Little Guatemala; they were getting antsy. He had paid a grand to Papagalloâs guy and heard that a
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