Life Blood --II---Page 4

Moving on, my next stress-point was to meet with my young
boss, the afore-noted David Roth, who was CEO and First
Operating Kvetcher of Applecore Productions, a kinda-sexy guy
whose heart was deeply engaged, often unsuccessfully, with
bottom lines. The issue was, I'd done today's shoot, the interview
with Carly, without troubling to secure his okay. Without, in fact,
telling him zip—the reason being I was afraid he wouldn't green-
light the idea. Now my next move was to try to convince him what
I'd just done was brilliant.

Actually I liked David a lot, and hoped the occasional tangles
we'd had over the film wouldn't stand in the way of a friendship.
The truth is, you don't meet that many interesting, stable men in
my line of work. Our artistic goals weren't always in sync, but all
the same, he'd done an enormous favor for somebody close to
me and for that I'd vowed to walk through fire for him.

When I marched into his cluttered, dimly lit office, my mind

still churning over Carly's strange adoption story, what I saw sent
my problem-detector straight into the red. There, sitting across
from him, was Nicholas Russo, a five-seven smoothie in a
charcoal Brioni double-breasted, the gentleman David sometimes
referred to as Nicky the Purse. Another land mine in my life. He
operated off and on as Applecore's "banker" when cash flow got
dicey and real banks got nervous. It was an arrangement of last
resort, since Nicky's loans had to be serviced at two percent a
week. Do the numbers: He doubled his money in a year. I knew
too that putting money out to independent filmmakers was part of
Nicky's attempt at a legitimate front; the real cash went onto the
streets of Hell's Kitchen, just outside our door, where he got five
percent a week. And Nicky's overdue notices were not sent
through the mail.

He also had a piece of a video distributorship, Roma Exotics, that reputedly specialized in . . . guess what. It was all stuff I tried not to think about.

I had a strong hunch what was under discussion. The

$350,000 David had borrowed to finish my picture. We'd gotten
the loan three months ago, when cash was tight, and we both
figured we could pay it back later in the year, after we got a

backup cable deal (though I was ultimately hoping for a theatrical distribution, my first).

Shit! What did Nicky want? Were we behind on the weekly

juice? I'd signed on with David partly to help his bottom line. Was I instead going to cause his ruin?

At the moment he had his back to Nicky, seemed to be
meditating out the window he loved, its vista being the grimy
facades that lined the far west of Fifty-eighth Street. His office,
with its wide windows and forest of freshly misted trees, told you
he was a plant nut. Outside it was early April, the cruelest month,
but inside, with all the trees, spring was in full cry. The place also
felt like a storage room, with piles of scripts stacked around every
pot. The office normally smelled like a greenhouse, but now the
aroma was one of high anxiety.

David revolved back and looked across the potted greenery,
then broke into a relieved smile when he saw me. I could tell from
his faraway stare that he was teetering on the verge of panic.

"Hey, come on in," he said. "Nicky's just put a brand-new proposition on the table."

David had a keen intelligence, causing me to sometimes

wonder if he was in a line of work beneath him. (For that matter,
maybe I was too.) He was dark-haired, trim, with serious gray
eyes and strong cheekbones. This morning he was wearing his
trademark black sweater, jeans, and white sneakers, a picture of
the serious go-for-broke New York indy-prod hustler. He'd already
made and lost and made several fortunes in his youthful career.
My only sexual solace since Steve left was an occasional glance
at his trim rear end. I also saluted his fiscal courage. His
congenital shortfall, I regret to say, was in the matter of judgment.
Exhibit A: Nicholas Russo's funny money.

"Nicky, you remember Morgan James, the director on this
project."

"Yeah, we met. 'Bout four months back." Nicky rose and
offered his manicured hand, a picture of Old World charm. His
dark hair was parted down the middle and his Brioni, which
probably fell off a truck somewhere in the Garment Center, had
buttons on the cuffs that actually buttoned. "How ya doing?"
        "Hi." I disengaged myself as quickly as possible. The
slimeball.

Again, why was he here? The way I understood it, we'd

signed a legitimate, ironclad note. Nicky wasn't exactly the Chase
Manhattan Bank, but I assumed he was a "man of honor," would

live by any deal David had with him. "Do we have some kind of problem?"

"Nah," Nicky said, "I'm thinking of it more in the way of an
opportunity. Dave, here, showed me some of your picture this
morning, and it ain't too bad. Got me to thinking. You're gonna
need a video distributor. So maybe I could help you out."

Oh, shit and double-shit. I looked at him, realizing what he had in mind. "How's that? Applecore already has a video
distributor. We use—"

"Yeah, well, like I was telling Dave, I got a nose this picture's
gonna do some serious business." He tried a smile. "Whenever I
see one of these indy things that don't add up for me, like this
one, I always know it's a winner. What I'm telling you is, I think
you got something here. He says you're figuring on a cable deal,
and maybe a theatrical release, but after that you gotta worry
about video. I'm just thinking a way I could pitch in."
        Pitch in? The last thing I needed was some skin-flick wiseguy
getting his sticky hands on my picture. Forget about it.
        "Well, I don't really see how. I'm shooting this one by the
book. I've got a standard Screen Actors Guild contract, and
everything is strictly by the rules. If we're current on the loan, then
. . ." I looked at David, who appeared to be running on empty.
Maybe, I thought, I didn't understand what was at stake. What had
Nicky said to him? This was a man who could make people
disappear with a phone call to guys nicknamed after body parts.
"Look, let me talk to David about this. I don't know what—"
        "You two're just gonna 'talk' about it?" Russo's penetrating
eyes dimmed. "Now that's a little disappointing, I gotta tell you,
since I sent for my business manager, Eddie down there in the
car, hoping we could reach a meeting of minds right here. Sign a
few things. Roll that note I'm holding into a distribution deal and
give everybody one less worry." He turned in his chair, boring in
on me. "Like, for instance, I checked out your locations and I
noticed there ain't no Teamsters nowhere. All you got's a bunch of
fuckin' Mick scabs driving them vans. Now that can lead to
circumstances. Inadequate safety procedures. Of course, that
wouldn't have to be a concern if we was partners together. Then
you'd have good security. The best."

I looked at David, who seemed on the verge of a heart attack. Why was he letting this even be discussed? Get in bed with Nicky Russo and the next thing you know he's got somebody hanging you out the window by your ankles.