John Scalzi - Agent to the Stars

"Jesus Christ," Brad said. "The girl's in a fucking coma!"

"Yes, she is," I said. "One that was brought about by the negligence of one of your crew members."

"That's not true," Brad said. "That woman worked for Featured Creatures."

"Which worked for you," I said. "You hired them, Brad. The legal line of responsibility goes right back to you."

"I think that could be argued," Brad said.

"You could try," I said. "It'll take you about two years to get a court date. In the meantime, I'm sure our legal department could probably hold up the start of your production a couple of weeks. Maybe a month, if we have to."

"You're a real son of a bitch," Brad said.

"Hey," I said. "I'm not the one trying to screw someone in a coma."

Brad decided to try another tactic. "Tom, look. It's not a matter of me not wanting to do right by Michelle. You know I want to."

"That's good to hear, Brad," I said.

"But now we're paying two actresses for the same part. We have to have some economies of scale going on here."

"So you're paying Charlene Mayfield $12 million?" I asked.

"Well, of course not that much," Brad said. "But we're paying her quite a bit."

"How much?" I asked.

"Well, I can't really discuss it," Brad said.

"Hmmm." I said. I buzzed Miranda. "Miranda, how much is Charlene Mayfield getting for Earth Resurrected ?" I asked.

"One hundred seventy five thousand dollars," Miranda said. "According to her agent, who I just called."

"Really," I said. "Do we know if she's making any gross points?"

"Of course she isn't," Miranda said. "Although she's apparently getting a point on the net."

Net points are a promise of the percentage of profits the film makes, should it ever make it into the black; as opposed to gross points, which are a straight percentage of the film's haul at the box office. Since studio bookkeeping is such that even a film that makes a quarter of a billion dollars in domestic box office can run deeply into the red, net points are rarely if ever given — they're what you're given if you're gullible, stupid, or the screenwriter.

"A whole point on the net," I said, looking directly at Brad.

"That's right," Miranda said. "That'll be worth at least a case or two of Fresca." I thanked her and signed her off.

"Wow, Brad, a hundred seventy five thousand dollars," I said. "Aren't you the generous one. That's nearly as much as you're going to pay for your second unit catering. Good thing I had Miranda listen in on the conversation and double-check that salary for us."

"That was a dirty trick," Brad said.

"It's not dirty, it's called looking out for my client's well-being."

"Is it about your percentage?" Brad said. "Because if it is, I'm willing to deal. What if I said you could keep your ten percent, clear? No questions."

I rubbed my forehead. It was barely 1:30, and I was tired already.

"Look, Brad," I said. "What say we cut the shit, because I'm having a really bad day, and you're not making it any better."

Brad blinked. "All right."

"Good," I said. "The fact of the matter is, you're not getting the twelve million back. The way I figure it, since you are the one who indirectly put her into the coma, it's the very least you can do. It's possible that if we took it to court, you might get that money back. But in the meantime you will have tanked your entire movie production. What is it budgeted at? 80 million? 90 million?"

"83 million, counting salaries." Brad just about spat the word salaries .

"83 million against twelve million is a bad bet any day, Brad. And that's not counting the money you're going to throw down the lawyer hole. Our lawyers are on staff. We don't pay them any extra. And, of course, we're not even talking about the counter-suits we'll throw back at you for negligence and violation of contract. Not to mention the other suits that will be filed against you by the studio and your other investors if you close down production. Make no mistake, Brad, you're going to get fucked. You won't be able to sit for a year."

Brad bristled, which is exactly what I wanted him to do. I'd gotten into the sensitive area where males feel threatened and will make stupid, macho statements just so they'll feel their balls are still attached. I was hoping that Brad would grope for his testicles.

Sure enough, he did. "Don't you threaten me, you little asshole," Brad said. "If you want a court fight, I'll give it to you. You'll spend so much time giving depositions you'll forget what the sun looks like. Don't think I don't have what it takes to win this."

"I don't doubt that you'd try, Brad. But let me scope out a scenario for you. You go to court to snatch money away from an actor who your own negligence has managed to put in a coma. You tank the film you're working on to do it. Let's say that somehow you manage to win. Fine. You get your twelve million back, and you go back to your offices to get ready to do another movie... and no one will work with you."

Brad's eyebrows knitted. "What do you mean?"

"I mean no one will ever work with you again. Actors won't want to work with you, because you've given the clear signal that you don't give a shit about them. Agents won't want to work with you, because they'll never be sure you won't try to dick their clients around. Studios won't want to work with you because you'll have made it clear that you value your pride over their money. Which is not an attitude they want to know about. You will never work in this town again. Never."

Brad looked like he'd been kicked in the balls. Which, in a way, he had. "You don't know that for sure," he said.

I leaned forward in my chair, over my desk, close to Brad's ear. "Try me," I whispered.

I sat back. Brad sat there, stunned, for a good minute. The he got up, spun out of his chair, stalked around the office a couple of times, sat back down, and started gnawing on his thumb.

"Fuck!" he finally said.

It was over. I won.

Now was the time to get him back to our side. "Brad," I said. "You don't want to have the money back. You think you do right now because you're cheap and you're in a panic. But it's penny wise and pound foolish. In the long run, you're going to look good by letting Michelle keep it."

Brad smirked. "Somehow I doubt that," he said.

"Such little faith," I said. "Try this one on: today, as you may or may not know, I was casually accused of setting up my client for her accident."

"I watched that in the office, right before I called," Brad said. "What an asshole."

"You have no idea," I said. "What if we say that I set up this meeting in a panic, and begged you to take the twelve million back? That way, from my point of view, any suspicion would be off of me, because I'd have no financial reason to off my client."

Brad looked at me strangely. "This benefits you, but I'm waiting to see how it benefits me."

"It benefits you, Brad, because you angrily refuse to accept the money back. How dare I assume that just because Michelle is in a coma, that'd you'd snatch the money back. We can say that in addition to refusing the money, you demanded that if Michelle didn't recover, that I donate the money to brain trauma research. Say, fund a professorship at UCLA Medical School or some such."

"What were you going to do with the money, if you don't mind me asking?"

I gestured to the heavens with my hands. "Damn it, Brad. I don't know that she left me her money. Even if she did, I sure as hell don't want it. If it got given to me, that's probably what I'd do with it. Yes, that's what I would do. But my point here is — this idea came from you . You look good because you took a stand for Michelle."

"And you throw the scent off of yourself."