Ben Fountain - Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk

“How much?”

“—David, let me finish, please. Look, just ballparking this thing, if it has even decent success on the scale I’m thinking of, you guys will come out considerably better than a hundred thousand, but you’ll have to hang in there and be patient. When I set our up-front number two weeks ago I was thinking we’d be playing with studio money, but it’s a whole different game when you go independent. The numbers scale back across the board, people usually end up taking a profits percentage in lieu of cash. Even stars take percentage if it’s a project near and dear to their hearts.”

“Fine, I hear you. How much.”

“Well, initially it’s pretty minimal. Fifty-five hundred against profits when the option’s exercised—”

A gurgling commences in Dime’s throat.

“—but you’ll get that second advance when production starts—”

“Fifty-five fucking hundred ?”

“I know it’s not what you were hoping for—”

“No shit!”

“—but then you’ll get that second advance—”

“How much?”

“Well, we’re still working on that, but usually it’s tied to production budget. The bigger the budget, the bigger your advance—”

“Not our deal, Albert. You said a hundred thousand up front.”

“I did, because I believe in your story so much, and I still think we’re gonna home-run this thing. Look, two weeks ago I thought we had a real chance of taking studio bids, you guys had such outrageous buzz coming in. But we get a couple of no’s, and Russell Crowe taking a pass, that really hurt us. It doesn’t take much for the buzz to fade, and I admit, maybe I got a little ahead of myself, I jacked up everybody’s expectations and now we’re all going to have to adjust. Plus the fact that the war’s put up some spotty box-office numbers, didn’t I say that might be a problem? So we’re bucking that too. I know fifty-five hundred sounds pretty lame after the numbers we’ve been talking about, but for young men like yourselves, young soldiers on Army pay, it’s not nothing, right?”

“Albert, don’t even talk to me like that.”

“Dave, I’m just trying to get you to think long-term here. This is equity, think of it as stock, stock options, you’re deferring a chunk of money up front for a shot at real money down the road. And you guys would be helping to build something, that’s what equity’s all about. If the company makes money, you make money, you’ll be fully vested partners with Legends on this deal—”

“Wait, who ?”

“Legends. That’s the name Norm wants for his company.”

“Jesus Christ, he’s already got the fucking name ?”

“You better believe he’s got the name and that’s great, I got no interest being partners with a ball scratcher, and neither should you. He’s ready to go, Norm’ll pull a damn trigger — do you not realize the value of that? How freaking rare that is in my world? You die by the slow no in this business, lemme get back to you, lemme get back to you, lemme get back to you, everybody’s so scared of screwing up they’d rather lose a kidney than make an actual business decision. So here we are in Dallas, we meet this guy, he sizes up the situation and wham, he’s good to go. I’m not saying you have to love the guy, but you’ve got to respect the power of that.”

Respect this, Billy can practically hear the Bravos woof. As if in pain Dime swags his head side to side.

“But Albert.”

“What?”

“You said they love us.”

“I did, David, but that was two weeks ago. People move on, they start to focus on other things.”

“So you’re saying this is the best offer we’re going to get?”

“Dave, I’m saying this is the only offer we’ve got.”

“Does Norm know?”

Albert shrugs. “He knows we’ve been talking to people.”

“So what he’s offering is, basically, fifty-five hundred bucks apiece. And that’s all he’s on the hook for. No guarantees we’ll get anything else.”

“Dave, you want a guarantee, go buy a microwave. No guarantees in my world unless your name is Tom Cruise.”

Dime sighs, and to Billy’s profound alarm he turns and asks, “What do you think?” but before Billy can answer an unmarked door pops open between them and the suite, and Mr. Jones leans out.

“Mr. Ratner, the third quarter’s about to end.”

“Thanks. We’ll be right there.”

Mr. Jones withdraws but leaves the door ajar. Albert turns to Dime and Billy, lowers his voice. “Guys, tell me what you want. You wanna go in there and talk, or should I just yell through the door no thanks.”

“No,” Dime says.

“No what?”

“This sucks,” Dime says to Billy.

Albert gives them a big smile. “Always, guys, always, it’s just a question of degree. Be thankful it’s not rectal bleeding.”

“What happens to the rest of it if we say no? His big production company, all the movies he wants to make.”

Albert drops the smile. “I think he’s planning to go forward with that. He seems committed.”

“Are you going to be involved?”

Albert’s mouth forms a tidy little purse. “Well, I’d be foolish not to consider every opportunity.”

“Albert, you’re an asshole.”

The producer doesn’t bat an eye. “Dave, I got you an offer. If you think you can do better, let’s go in there and talk to the man.”

“Okay, fuck it. Let’s go in there and talk.”

Billy says he’ll be fine waiting in the hall, but Dime gives him such a blistering look that he’s shamed into coming. Mr. Jones is standing just inside the door, which he shuts and locks behind them. They descend a couple of steps into a dim, cramped, low-ceilinged space furnished along the ad hoc lines of a waiting room at a car wash. It’s a super-private adjunct to the official owner’s suite next door, a man place, ripe with the muzzy smells of sweat, burnt coffee, vestigial cigarette smoke, plus a percolating flatulence that might be stale lunch meat. Everyone turns and smiles for the Bravos. “Gentlemen! Welcome to the war room!” someone cries, and they are urged forward, offered chairs and refreshments. TVs mounted on wall brackets are tuned to the game, the announcers nattering like parrots in a cage. A bare wet bar occupies one corner of the room. Norm and his sons are seated at a counter that runs the length of the plate-glass front. Scattered about the countertop are laptops, spreadsheets, loose-leaf notebooks, bottles of water and sports drinks; as his eyes adjust to the bad light Billy sees not a drop of alcohol in sight. Two Cowboys executives are moving about, big, burly guys with the trouser-hitching swagger of management who started out on the loading dock. Mr. Jones perches on a stool by the wet bar, still with his suit coat buttoned. Everyone else is down to loose ties and rolled sleeves, except for Josh, who’s doing his mannequin thing at the back of the room.

Dime asks for coffee. Billy says he’ll have the same. Norm has swung his Aeron chair around to face them, and now he rubs his eyes and tips the chair back, giving the scoreboard a last glance as the quarter expires.

“Sorry about the lights,” he says, nodding at the ceiling. “We keep them off during games, otherwise it’s like a fishbowl in here. Damn irritating to look over at the TV and see yourself staring at yourself on the tube.”

“Or dropping the f-bomb,” says one of the execs. “Not that that’s ever happened here.”

Norm shakes his head as the others laugh. “We try to keep at least an R rating up here.”

“Not many people ever see the inside of this room,” says the second executive, who has introduced himself as Jim. “This is the inner sanctum, boys. A lot of folks would give their left arm to be sitting where you are.”