Page 24 of All That Glitters

Chapter twenty

Rif Raf Produkshuns

The graffiti-splattered industrial neighborhood looked like a forgotten warzone.

Skeletons of abandoned factories overlooked rows of boarded-up buildings, their walls marred in layers of spray paint.

The air was thick with the smell of dust and exhaust. It was the last place you’d expect to find a film production company.

And yet, a shiny silver BMW was speeding down the derelict street on its way to a meeting with one.

“Tell her I can’t talk now,” Eli snapped into his wireless headset, one hand navigating the potholed street, the other flipping through Tony’s screenplay, which was propped up against the dash. “But tell her I’ve got her next film. And tell her it involves vampires. She likes vampires.”

He weaved through the sparse traffic, his eyes darting between the road and the script. He’d read the whole thing twice now. It was a horror-comedy that was ridiculous, amateurish, and outrageously fun. The character work alone promised this writer a future in the business.

“I’m meeting with the writer and the producers right now,” he continued into his headset, feeling the rush of adrenaline that came with every new deal.

He lived for this. The deal. The discovery.

He paused, listening. “No, they’re called Rif…

Raf… Productions.” He sounded the name out.

“I don’t know. It might be misspelled.” He listened again.

“Never heard of them either. But their bank verified the funds, and that’s the only language I need to speak. It’s a go picture, Amy. A go picture.”

The BMW pulled to a stop outside a run-down, red-brick warehouse. A row of Harley-Davidsons sat out front like guard dogs. A crudely hand-painted sign hung above the door, its letters already peeling. It read: RIF RAF PRODUKSHUNS. Definitely misspelled.

Tony was already waiting for him on the cracked sidewalk out front, a thoroughly confused look on his face.

It had taken him several reads of the sign to realize what it said.

Eli hopped out of his car with an energy that seemed totally foreign on the sleepy, dilapidated street. He was a shark in a wading pool.

“Tony Harding?” Eli asked, already extending a hand.

“Yeah.”

Eli grabbed his hand and shook it with the force of a man who lived for the deal. “Eli Bernstein. Starving Artists Agency. Love the script, kid. A real page-turner. So, you ready to sell this thing?”

“Oh, yeah,” Tony said with a big nod. He looked back at the building and the misspelled sign. “Did you find out who these guys are?”

“Nope,” Eli said cheerfully, popping the trunk of his BMW to retrieve a sleek leather briefcase. “But their bank verified funds. It’s a go picture. And that makes them Scorsese and Spielberg as far as I’m concerned. So let’s go say hi to our new best friends.”

Eli strode to the heavy warehouse door and pushed it open.

It creaked on its hinges, revealing an interior that was unmistakably a biker hangout.

A long, beer-ring-stained bar lined one wall, backed by rows of booze bottles and tapped kegs.

In the corner, a stripper pole stood beneath a bare lightbulb.

The whole place smelled faintly of stale beer, old leather, and testosterone.

And there, sitting around a row of rickety picnic tables and passing around a bottle of whiskey, were the executives of Rif Raf Produkshuns. It was Craig, Roy, Carl, Todd, and the rest of the gang from the county jail.

Roy was diligently reading a copy of Tony’s script, his brow furrowed in concentration. He held the pages close to his face, his lips moving as he sounded out the words. “What’s this here word mean?” he asked the table at large. “Dee-ca-pi-tay-ted.”

Carl took a swig of whiskey and considered it. “Think that’s where they don’t put no caffeine in yer coffee. It’s a health thing.”

Just then, a happy-go-lucky Labrador retriever named Elvis bounded over to the table, snatched Roy’s script right out of his hands, and raced off with it, his tail wagging furiously.

“Hey! Get back here with that, ya dang mutt!” Roy yelled, scrambling from his seat and chasing the dog around the clubhouse.

Across the room, the door creaked open wider. Tony and Eli looked in, their faces a perfect portrait of confusion and apprehension.

Craig looked up from the whiskey bottle, and his face broke into a huge, gap-toothed grin. “Hey, boys! Look who’s here! It’s our cellmate pal Tony and his agent!”

The entire gang rose and headed over to greet them. Under any other circumstances, watching this group of large, tattooed bikers approach would have been intimidating; but one look at the goofy, excited grins on their faces, and it was impossible to be scared. Only confused.

Tony stared at his former cellmates, his mind struggling to connect the dots. The guys who had given him advice on his love life were now his producers. It didn’t seem real. “You guys are Rif Raf?”

“Sure are,” Craig said proudly, slapping Tony on the back so hard he stumbled forward. “What’d ya all think of the name? Took us a while to come up with it. We wanted somethin’ that sounded professional.”

Eli’s eyes darted around the room, taking in the kegs, the stripper pole, and the dog currently using his client’s screenplay as a chew toy.

“Can’t think of a better one,” he said, his voice perfectly deadpan. He opened his briefcase on the bar, all business. “So, we ready to get down to business?”

“Never been readier,” said Craig.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Eli said, fishing a business card from his coat pocket and setting it on the table. “Meet me at my office tomorrow at ten, and I’ll get you set up with your lead actress.”

“You guys are producers?” Carrie asked skeptically, her arms crossed tightly as she stared at the collection of oddballs that made up the Rif Raf team.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Craig. “Plus, I’ll be directin’.”

Eli’s office, usually a pristine temple of deal-making, had been invaded.

The guys from Rif Raf Produkshuns, along with Elvis the dog, had packed themselves into the space, making the sleek, minimalist furniture look ridiculous and fragile.

Craig sat with his worn leather boots casually propped up on the corner of Eli’s expensive mahogany desk.

Roy was examining a piece of modern art on the wall with deep suspicion.

“Where’d you get the money?” Carrie said, sounding more like a prosecutor cross-examining a witness than an actress who just landed a gig.

“On advice of counsel,” Craig said, shifting uneasily, “it probably ain’t such a good idea for us to talk about how we come up with the money.”

Carrie frowned and stepped closer to Eli, who remained seated at his desk, praying to the film gods that his idiot client didn’t blow this deal.

“We wasn’t always the respectable-lookin’ fellas ya sees here today,” Roy added with a grin that showed more gum than teeth.

Meanwhile, Elvis, bored with the business talk, was sniffing curiously at a large, decorative plant in the corner.

Eli forced a bright, professional smile. “Hey. Their check cleared,” he said to Carrie, waving off her concerns. “That’s all that matters, right?”

Just as he said it, Elvis lifted his leg and relieved himself in a long, steady stream against the base of the plant.

“Elvis!” Craig boomed, his voice echoing in the small office. “What in blazes ya doin’, peein’ on these here people’s plant!”

Eli didn’t even flinch. He calmly pressed the intercom button on his phone. “Amy. Can you send a janitor in, please.”

“My apologies, Eli,” Craig said, shaking his head. “The dang mutt don’t know what he’s doin’ half the time.”

“You just keep making movies,” Eli said smoothly, “and I’ll keep buying him plants to pee on.”

Before anyone could say another word, Carrie leaned in, her voice a furious whisper in Eli’s ear. “I need to speak with you.”

“But we’re with guests, dear,” Eli hissed back, like a husband whose wife just asked him to mow the lawn during a dinner party.

She’d had enough. She reached out, grabbed him firmly by the ear, and began dragging him out of his own office.

“Oww—You guys excuse us for a minute,” Eli yelped, as she pulled him out the door.

The hallway was a stark contrast to the chaos inside the office. Carrie released his ear, leaving it red and throbbing, and pulled the door closed behind them. Her face was a mask of fury.

“There is no way in hell I’m doing a film with those… people,” she seethed. “Find me something else.”

Eli rubbed his ear, his patience quickly waning. “There is nothing else,” he said. “Ever since Planet of the Sorority Vixens tanked, all the offers have dried up. So it’s either this, or you learn to ask people if they want room for cream in their coffee at Starbucks.”

He let the words land. He watched the outrage on her face flicker, replaced by the slow, dawning horror of a queen realizing she’s been checkmated. The silence in the hallway was absolute. For the first time, Carrie Thompson had no comeback.