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“Get in. I got coffee, I got beignets, I got cinnamon rolls. I got some chocolates, too.”
She had done three miles. She wiped the sweat out of her eyes and tried to catch her breath. “Last chance, Mr. Nemo.”
“I got to get out of the car. I can’t bend over and talk like this. It pinches off my pipes.” His driver helped him out, then walked him to a picnic table. Tony collapsed on the bench, wheezing. “These guys in Hollywood say I got to get the option. It ain’t enough to use a historical story. Levon Broussard told me to get lost, that a local person is already doing the treatment. So who’s that local person gotta be?”
“I don’t have control of the option, Mr. Nemo. I was doing an outline for fun.”
“Nobody does anything for nothing in the film business. Look, come in with me on this deal. I checked you out. You’re already in the Screenwriters Guild. The state of Louisiana pays up to twenty-five percent in tax exemptions and subsidies for films that get made here. We put some locals in Confederate uniforms and hire a boxcar load of boons, and we’re in business.” When she didn’t answer, he looked her up and down. “I’m not supposed to say ‘boons.’ They call each other niggers.”
“The answer is no.”
“Union minimum for a treatment is, what, twenty-two grand? That’s for ten pages. I’ll write you a check now.”
“Sorry.”
“How much you want?”
“Talk to Levon.”
“He won’t talk! That’s why I’m here!” He began coughing and spat a wad of phlegm between his legs. He wiped his mouth with a lavender monogrammed handkerchief. His face was dilated, his eyes as big as oysters. “I’m gonna have a heart attack here.”
“Levon doesn’t think Civil War adaptations have a future.”
“He’s a snob, and sour grapes is what he is,” Tony said. “I ain’t a bad man, no matter what everybody says. I didn’t invent the rules. I go by the rules. I’m a ruthless son of a bitch who always keeps his word. You could do worse in this business.”
He began choking again, the handkerchief pressed to his mouth, his face turning purple. His driver spread his gloved hand on Nemo’s back.
“You better take him to Iberia General,” Alafair said.
Tony waved weakly at the air. “I want you on that script. You’ve got balls.”
“I’ve got what?”
“Balls. You got balls,” he said, his voice hardly more than a whisper.
She wondered how so many people could be afraid of such a sick man. The driver held an oxygen cup to Tony’s face.
“I hope you’re better, Mr. Nemo,” Alafair said.
Then she jogged across the green toward the drawbridge at Burke Street, her tanned legs flashing in the sunlight.
SHE DIDN’T TELL me about her encounter with Tony until that evening.
“Why didn’t you say anything earlier, Alf?” I said.
“You were at work. He’s a pitiful man. I think we should feel sorry for him.”
“Don’t tell Clete Purcel that.”
“You should have seen him.”
“Tony Nemo should have been sent to a rendering plant a long time ago.”
“Pretty callous, Dave.”
“I’ll feel as bad about that as I can.”
But you can’t get mad at your daughter because she’s compassionate, even if you think her feelings are misdirected. I called Levon’s house. Rowena answered.
