Rough Cut Page 9

  Owl Creek wasn’t much different than many other working class drinking establishments in the Philadelphia area. Two stained pool tables surrounded by a worn tile floor, dominated the back of the room. The walls featured historical framed photos of the neighborhood, and faded promotional posters of chesty cheerleaders in ’80s hairdos, hawking cheap domestic beer. A jukebox mixed old country songs with older rock and roll. The limited menu featured barbecue ribs, a barbecue pork sandwich, grilled ham and cheese, and a popular two-dollar hot dog and potato chips platter. Diners couldn’t get a good look at their food because the bar had no natural light. The windows had been sealed by brick for decades. Anyone entering the establishment needed to wait a moment for their eyes to adjust, to avoid advancing blindly into the darkness and crashing into one of the raised, round tables. More than one dice game had been interrupted this way, resulting in several patrons getting beat up before they had even tasted their first drink.

  The ugliest and most prominent object in the room was a large, moth-eaten moose head securely fixed to the back wall. It happened to be located near the dart game, resulting in drunks gleefully inventing their own game that awarded points for striking Mr. Moose in key locations, including the eyes and nostrils.

  Aside from darts, Owl Creek also offered two unintentionally nostalgic games: Pac Man and a bowling game that never worked right and received frequent abuse.

  Owl Creek wasn’t the worst dive bar Randy had ever seen —that award went to Shank’s, where the walls were decorated with hubcaps and the floor smelled like urine —but it definitely carried its own remarkable lack of charm.

  As the tutorial wound to a close, and all the liquors and taps had been discussed, Nick grew more serious and gestured Randy close.

  “Above all, you gotta understand one thing,” said Nick, still sucking on the end of the unlit cigar, soaking it dark with his saliva.

  “What’s that?” asked Randy.

  “See that guy in the way back? Look quick.”

  “Big guy, bald?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I see him.”

  Nick took the cigar out of his mouth and moved closer to Randy’s ear, speaking in a firm, raspy growl. “Whatever you do, don’t bug him.”

  Lenny grasped his rum and coke tight, and knew that if he continued to squeeze the tall glass it would explode, slashing open his oily, blackened hands and spilling blood.

  Sometimes liquor helped to douse the flames of anger. But sometimes it fed the fury like gasoline.

  All these months had passed, and he still obsessed with fresh rage over the most profane four-letter word in the world.

  Nora.

  Wife, bitch, whore. She had walked out on him in the middle of the night, leaving that snotty note, taking her things, vanishing in their car, delivering a shock as cold as a slap to the face and a hard knee to the balls.

  Nobody treated Lenny that way. Nobody. Especially not the woman who had agreed to be his wife, for better or worse, richer or poorer, forever and into eternity, under the eyes of the Lord almighty and Pennsylvania state law.

  In the beginning he was infuriated, but figured he would get over it. Stupid, slinky chicks were a dime a dozen; and he would replace her as easily as getting a new spark plug for his RV.

  But it didn’t work that way. Instead, the hostility grew. No one took her place. Chicks avoided him, even when he tried real hard to be civilized and mannerly. It was weird, but he could read eyes. People just looked at him funny. They didn’t say anything outright, but he knew what they were thinking at the garage where he worked, and at the stores and restaurants he frequented.

  Loser.

  Everybody knew: His wife had run out on him, symbolically given him the finger and cut off his nuts; and now she was no doubt screwing someone new, and the two of them were laughing at him. Maybe at this very minute.

  It drove him mad.

  And he did some mad things, like shave his head bald. He needed the change, but his life stayed the same; only now he was just a humiliated bald big fuck.

  Early on, he expected her to return. He could see the scene clearly: Nora coming back to her husband with tears in her eyes. Begging forgiveness. Recognizing the huge mistake she had made. He had figured it would take a week, then recalculated to two weeks, then a month for her to return, tail between her legs, wiser and obedient. But the event only played in his mind. She didn’t reappear in the flesh.

  As a result, each day his anger increased one notch. Every 24 hours, the severity of her punishment pushed up another degree. Crazy wench, did she know what she was doing to herself?

  And God help the son of a bitch she ran off with. He would become so badly maimed and disfigured that he would never steal another man’s wife again.

  If only he could find them.

  Early on, he had tried to beat information out of people, like Nora’s boss at Dottie’s Diner. After two black eyes and a broken tooth didn’t release a confession, Lenny figured the asshole probably didn’t really know.

  But someone did, somewhere. She must have told somebody about her plan.

  Her trail went cold at the Stuckey’s parking lot where she ditched the Mercury. The early morning manager said he didn’t remember seeing her at all. His story didn’t change, even after his head was slammed into the wall several times.

  Lenny felt no remorse for the wrongly pummeled.

  He finished his rum and coke without pulverizing the glass in his hands. He felt the booze traveling in his veins, starting in his chest, and then moving in trails through his arms and legs. It was a good feeling, and he wanted more.

  Lenny looked up toward the bar. He raised his empty glass. He kept it raised.

  After a moment, Nick, the owner, noticed the gesture and quickly nodded. Nick nudged the new kid behind the counter and gave him instructions.

  Inside of two minutes, the new kid delivered a new rum and coke to Lenny’s table.

  The new kid looked nervous. First day jitters. It looked like the freckles were going to leap off his face. “Here you go, sir,” he said, placing the glass carefully on the table. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Sounds good,” said the kid, and he backed off and left.

  Lenny looked at his drink, marveled over how appetizing it looked, then took his first long pull.

  The front entrance opened, always a noisy affair, and everyone in the bar looked over to see a skinny older man with a long neck and big Adam’s apple. He wore a down coat, ripped at the seams, feathers protruding. He exchanged wordless nods of recognition with some people he knew at the counter, and ordered a beer. The new kid yanked on a tap and began to pour.

  Lenny returned his attention to staring at his tabletop. His eyes followed scratches, lines of graffiti, carvings, unidentifiable stains and discolorations. He followed it like a roadmap to an alien landscape. He felt fuzzy in a good way. As he took swallows from his drink, he looked forward to the next glass. And the one after —

  “Lenny!”

  Lenny jumped. He almost jolted a spill out of his glass. He glanced up, not happy.

  It was the scrawny guy with the Adam’s apple. He had a face full of stubble. He looked familiar.

  “Lenny, don’t you remember me? Charlie Bing. We worked together for Sal, the roofing company, remember?”

  Lenny vaguely recalled a scorching summer spent on residential rooftops, making repairs and doing resurfacing. He hated the job and the people. The work was seasonal. He quit or got fired when winter arrived and there was nothing to do. It was the first gig he landed after losing his job at the factory that made glass for television sets.

  “Yeah, I remember you. You were the guy that was always talking and never shut up.”

  Charlie laughed and signaled thumbs up. “That’s me, Charlie Chatterbox. See, how can you forget? So what’re you up to these days, big guy?”

  “I’m a mechanic at Berger’s Auto Body.”

  “Great.
People always gotta have their cars fixed. And how’s that lovely wife of yours, what was her name, Laura?”

  Lenny stared at him. Hard. “Nora.”

  “Nora, right. What a dish. She still working at Dottie’s?”

  “No.”

  “She’s a sweetheart, way too good for you,” Charlie chuckled. “Beauty and the Beast, right? I remember how she would bring you a sack lunch every day and wear those little dresses. What a tart. So where’s she working now, or do you have her chained up inside the house?”

  Lenny didn’t plan what happened next. It just happened. Somewhere deep inside a switch was turned on, and volcanoes erupted, bombs exploded, tanks discharged, and machine guns raged.

  In a matter of seconds, Charlie Bing went from vertical and stationary to horizontal and mobile. His skinny body became a missile, crashing into tables on the other side of the room. He reached the ground for a moment before being lifted again, by his coat, and slammed into Pac-Man with a thundering crash.

  “Lenny —!” said Charlie, his one and only word before fists pounded his mouth shut. Charlie’s body returned to the floor. A series of savage kicks caused his long torso to curl like a worm pierced on a fishhook. For a short instant, there was a break in the beating; and Charlie used the opportunity to lift himself up on all fours and scramble like a lopsided dog. Lynyrd Skynyrd played on the jukebox. Charlie advanced maybe five feet before Lenny returned with a drinking glass snatched from a tabletop. The glass exploded against the side of Charlie’s skull, sending spider claws of blood rolling down his cheek. Glass shards stuck in his scalp, but Charlie couldn’t pull them out because his hands were busy defending himself from new punches. The palms-out reaction proved counterproductive when his fingers snapped under the ferocity of Lenny’s battering fists.

  “Is it funny?” screamed Lenny, eyes ablaze, punches continuing to the face, ribs and abdomen. “You still think it’s funny?”

  Charlie was too broken and semi-conscious to even shake his head “no.” Unfortunately, the nonresponse only made Lenny madder...

  Randy Furson remained frozen behind the bar counter, less than one hour into his new job, witnessing the worst violence in his seven years of bartending in the Philadelphia metropolitan area. He was astonished that none of the regulars rushed to stop the fight. A few of them simply left, very quietly, not allowing the big entrance door to slam behind them. The owner, Nick Macero, watched the proceedings with a frown. Randy kept looking at his face for a clue, What should I do?

  Finally, Randy asked his boss, “Should I call the police?”

  “No,” said Nick, removing the wet cigar from his mouth. “Call an ambulance.”

  15

  A jet airliner screamed overhead as Harry arrived at Los Angeles International Airport. Traffic packed the lanes. Harry drove into the lower level of the passenger terminal, inching along, and soon found Paul Jacobs curbside with a towering stack of luggage. Everyone else emerging from the baggage claim areas looked tired, crabby and disheveled. Paul, however, remained his slick and smiling self. His suit didn’t have a single wrinkle. Harry pulled over, hopped out of the car, and waved.

  “The world famous Harry Tuttle!” Paul shouted, embarrassing Harry. Nearby heads turned, followed by puzzled non-recognition.

  Harry popped the trunk and Paul rolled his cart of luggage toward the car, approaching in big steps. “Good to see you, friend,” he said, giving Harry a hearty handshake.

  “Good to see you, Paul. Welcome home.”

  They began filling the trunk. “You are huge in Turkey,” said Paul.

  “That’s great. How did the trip go?”

  “Made us some good money, my friend. Major foreign rights deals. And I’ve been working the phones like you wouldn’t believe. I think we’re going to get into Redbox in a big way with The Beastly.” “I don’t know how you do it.”

  “It’s called building relationships. Making friends in high places.”

  They emptied the cart. Before Harry could slam the trunk lid shut, Paul stopped him. “Wait a second.” He opened a black duffle bag, fished around, and brought out a small jewelry box.

  He handed it to Harry. “This is for you. A little gift from abroad.”

  Harry held the box. An Italian name in script graced the top. “You didn’t have to get me a gift.”

  “Open it.”

  Harry opened the lid, revealing an extravagant wristwatch with a gold band. “Wow. Thank you. I don’t have a good watch.”

  “Take it out of the box.”

  Harry removed the watch. Horns honked behind them.

  “Turn it over,” said Paul.

  Harry looked at the back of the watch. He read the engraving: Scary Harry.

  “Very cool,” said Harry. “You really didn’t have to.”

  “Yes, I did have to. I knew you needed a new watch. And I wanted to get you something special to say thanks for all you’ve done. Put it on.”

  Harry secured the watch on his wrist. “This is such a nice gift. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Tell me about your new movie. I want to hear all about it.”

  “You don’t have to hear about it — you can see it. It’s done.”

  “Holy cow, Harry, you get more speedy with every release. You are the king of efficiency. That is why we love you.”

  They climbed into Harry’s car. As Harry entered the stream of traffic departing from LAX, Paul said, “I’ve been telling everybody about the new picture. They love the concept. I met some Japanese investors who —”

  “Actually,” said Harry, “I scrapped the vampire picture. I didn’t like the script. I came up with something better.”

  Paul’s expression soured. “But I’ve been telling everyone we would come out with a vampire picture. Vampires are in. They’re this year’s werewolf.”

  Harry assured him, “You’ll like this better, Paul. Trust me.”

  Harry dropped off Paul at his Brentwood Park home. After Paul unpacked and cleaned up, he rejoined Harry at the offices of PJ Productions.

  Harry already had the DVD in the projection system in the screening room, ready to go.

  “Don’t I get to go through my mail first?” said Paul. “I’ve got a hundred things to catch up on.”

  “No,” said Harry. “You have to see this movie. I’m really anxious for your reaction. It’s a little different than what I’ve done before —more edgy and contemporary.”

  Paul nodded, then smiled. “I haven’t seen you this pumped up in a long time. Well, all right. Let’s do it.”

  Paul brought bottled water with him into the screening room and sat in the second row. He also carried a pile of paperwork.

  Harry removed the papers from Paul’s lap. “No multi-tasking,” said Harry. “Shut off the phone. Hands off the Black-Berry. I really want you to watch this one. I’m going to kill the lights.”

  “I’ve got jet lag. If you turn off the lights, I might fall asleep.”

  “You won’t fall asleep...”

  The room went black. Harry started the movie.

  On the large screen, a campfire ignited, followed by superimposed credits.

  PJ Productions Presents

  Followed by

  Deadly Desires

  Followed by

  Written and Directed by Harry Tuttle

  Soon, the storyline began. A full moon. Several tents. A sign in English and Spanish reading Teotihuacan Camping Grounds.

  The 91-minute movie unfolded, and Paul watched it in its entirety in silence. Seated in the back, Harry heard no reaction from his typically verbose partner. He wondered if Paul had indeed fallen asleep.

  When the picture ended, Harry waited a moment, then stood up and turned on the lights.

  Paul remained still in his seat.

  Harry approached cautiously.

  As Harry stepped near, Paul turned to look at him.

  “You,” said Paul in a low voice.

  “I beg your pardon?”

&n
bsp; “You mad genius.” Paul began to reanimate, as if he was shaking himself from a long spell, awakening from an epic dream. “Holy crap, Harry. For once in my life, I am speechless. This movie is amazing. This is your best ever —without a doubt. This is fantastic, kick-butt brilliant.”

  “You like it?”

  Paul jumped up from his seat. “Like it? Harry I love it. I have goose bumps on my goose bumps. This could hit big, really big. It’s youthful; it’s raw; it’s extreme; it’s in your face; it grabs you and doesn’t let go. I was totally captivated. You really outdid yourself on this one.”

  Harry felt a wave of happiness wash over him. “Thank you, Paul...”

  Paul declared, “We’re going to release this theatrically.”

  “What?”

  “This is the one, Harry. We’re going to transfer it to 35 millimeter. It’ll cost us 50 grand but be worth every penny. This baby is not going direct to video. We are putting Deadly Desires on the big screen, in the big movie houses for big crowds coast to coast. You wanted to get back into the big time, well congratulations, buddy, you are back in the big time.”

  Paul affectionately threw his arm around Harry. “I have to admit, I haven’t always thought of our movies as having a lot of balls in the past, but this one —I knew you had it in you, pal. I just knew it. Congratulations. This one is your masterpiece.”

  16

  “Bravo! Bravo!”

  Cal Stillwall’s shouts rode the outbreak of applause that greeted the end of Deadly Desires. This wasn’t polite, measured handclapping —it was a continuous roar of enthusiasm and approval. The investors had come to life.