Authors: Edward Lee
The House (5 page)
Or...had they?
"Hey, kid. Four thou's what you need? Is that what you said?"
Leonard stopped, turned, and looked at the well-dressed if not shifty looking man who'd spake the strange words.
"I need it to make a movie," Leonard said without much use. "I've got the script, I've got the equipment. All I need is the money."
"I can spot ya four thou easy," the man zipped off. "You gotta show me the equipment, though, for collateral purposes. Then I lay four large on ya, cash, but it's a hundred points."
"A hundred...
points?"
Leonard asked, not quite comprehending.
points?"
Leonard asked, not quite comprehending.
"Interest kid. I lay four on ya, cash, and ya pay back eight."
Leonard's eyes bloomed. Sure, that was a steep interest rate, but where else would he get a loan? It wouldn't take more than a few weeks to make the movie, and not much more for the money to roll in. He'd clear the debt easy, even be able to pay it back early!
"You got a deal, sir!" Leonard enthused. Then he happily led the man to the U-STORE IT! The collateral was proven, and the deal was sealed. Then the man, right then and there, gave Leonard four thousand dollars in cash.
The man's name was Rocco.
««—»»
Naivete. The oblivion of youth.
Rocco, as you may have guessed, was, among other things, a loan shark for the Mob. Leonard supposed he knew that but saw no good reason to consciously acknowledge it. None of that mattered. Only the movie mattered, for the movie was his dream. Leonard knew he'd been put on earth to make movies. And he shot the movie—the rough cut—in three days. You see, luck continued to pour forth from the sky like rain in Seattle. Not only had he gotten his loan as quickly as if he'd summoned a genie from a lamp, some sympathetic tenants at the Works attended the City College's drama classes, and they eagerly had helped him out—for title credits, no money—and—more, more luck!—it just so happened that the City College Drama Department was in the middle of an adaptation of Macbeth. When the Tawes Building closed for the night, Leonard snuck in with his pals and, utilizing the impressively crafted "witches' scene" set, along with a terrific dry-ice fog generator, he was able to put the whole thing in the can in three nights. The costume department provided the Confessor's black raiments, while the Confessor himself was played by one of Leonard's new-found neighbors. As for the role of the truth-seeking writer...Leonard played the part himself while yet another buddy ran the camera. This seemed to add even more verity to the heart of the creation.
Three days and—
boom!
—it was done. In a manic spurt, he then edited the movie and processed the sound in another 48 hours. The postmark deadline for the Sundance Festival was just another day away, yet Leonard managed to mail the final cut of
The Confessor
in just a nick of time. Ten months from now he'd be rich, and he had a year to pay back the loan, and better yet, the total production costs—thanks to the "borrowing" of the set from the college—came in at a scant $700. This enabled him to maintain rent at his cheap room at the Works and not worry about a job. Instead, he began his followup script so he'd have the next one ready for Hollywood when
The Confessor
won Sundance and then went on to Cannes.
boom!
—it was done. In a manic spurt, he then edited the movie and processed the sound in another 48 hours. The postmark deadline for the Sundance Festival was just another day away, yet Leonard managed to mail the final cut of
The Confessor
in just a nick of time. Ten months from now he'd be rich, and he had a year to pay back the loan, and better yet, the total production costs—thanks to the "borrowing" of the set from the college—came in at a scant $700. This enabled him to maintain rent at his cheap room at the Works and not worry about a job. Instead, he began his followup script so he'd have the next one ready for Hollywood when
The Confessor
won Sundance and then went on to Cannes.
It was a
wonderful
dream.
wonderful
dream.
Then came a knock on the door. Just a few days later.
"Hi, Rocco!" Leonard greeted his friend. "I shot the movie already! It's going to be better than
The Tenant!
"
The Tenant!
"
"Great, kid," Rocco cordially remarked. But behind him stood a man who had to be bigger than Bill Brundige. Bill Brundige was a defensive end for the Redskins, and he was, like, six-foot-five, 270, which meant that the guy
behind Rocco was even bigger, and that was
big.
Big jaw, big nose, big arms, big everything. And the same shifty, beady kind of eyes that Rocco had.
behind Rocco was even bigger, and that was
big.
Big jaw, big nose, big arms, big everything. And the same shifty, beady kind of eyes that Rocco had.
"Kid, this is Knuckles. I bring him along as muscle on pickups. Knuckles, meet Leonard."
When Leonard shook hands with this suited giant, something in his stomach seemed to drop.
Why are they here?
Why are they here?
"Glad to hear about your movie, kid," Rocco commented, "but we gotta a bunch more pickups today. So let's have the dough."
"The. Dough." Another drop—PLOP!—in Leonard's belly.
"You got the dough, right kid? Please tell me you got my eight large."
"I. Uh. Eight large."
"Yeah. Let's have it."
He was joking, of course! Right?
These guy's didn't look like they were joking. "Wellawellawella," Leonard attempted.
"I gave ya four on a hundred points. Ya owe me eight. Like we agreed."
"Wellawella-uh-uh...that was an interest rate based on a year, right?" Leonard said. "You know, like the banks?"
Rocco and Knuckles busted out laughter.
"Do I look like Suburban Trust? Kid, don't fuck with me. It's a
week
. Everyone knows that. Points tabulated on a
weekly
basis."
week
. Everyone knows that. Points tabulated on a
weekly
basis."
Only now did the mammoth Knuckles speak. "He ain't got it, Roc."
Rocco's leer spiked Leonard in the face. "Well, do ya, kid?"
"Nuh-nuh-nuh, no," Leonard blabbered.
Silence, then.
"This is why we call my pal here Knuckles. Knuckles, show him."
WHAP!
Suddenly, Knuckle's ham-hock-sized hand was queerly covered by a black glove that had protruding knuckles. These were knuckle saps, or sand mitts, not that Leonard particularly cared what the implements were referred to as. He went down like the clichéd ton of bricks once the knuckle saps were introduced to the side of his head. Half-conscious, half-paralyzed, much like when J—, er, The Boss at The Widow's Walk had gonged Leonard's cranium with the pot pan while Leonard was two pelvic thrusts short of ejaculating into The Boss' wife. Only this seemed a bit more severe.
These men weren't pissed off restaurant owners.
They were loan sharks. Gangsters.
And it was then that these gangsters crouched down. Words floated like big wobbly bubbles in a fish tank. "Tough luck, kid. Ain't got time to fuck around with small-timers. We gotta kill ya..."
Leonard, then, mercifully passed out.
««—»»
More words wobbled amid the fuzzy, stygian scape of what Leonard presumed was heaven, hell, or some manner of afterlife. It was not Rocco nor Knuckles who'd spoken the words (it was a man named Leon Askin, in case you're interested). The words recounted in a high, squeaky German accent, and the words were this:
"Klink. Shut up."
But when Leonard awoke in a moment or two, he wasn't dead. "Why didn't I think of that? Shit, Knucks, you gotta sliver of brain." Rocco was commenting and hanging up the phone. "Yeah," Knuckles said. "I gotta good idea every now and then."
"Now all I see is a colonel about to became
corporal!"
corporal!"
Leonard's eyes opened, roved, looked at them. The TV was on, and Knuckles was watching
Hogan's Heroes.
"Klink, I'll have you court martialed, shot,
and
sent to the Russian Front!"
Hogan's Heroes.
"Klink, I'll have you court martialed, shot,
and
sent to the Russian Front!"
"Hey, kid," Rocco said upon noticing Leonard's return to consciousness. "You lucked out."
"Yuh-yuh-yuh—yes, General Berkhalter!"
"I'm...not dead," Leonard mouthed.
Rocco snickered. "Kid, you were one dick-hair short of checking out but just before Knuckles was gonna crack your neck, he got an idea. So I called Vinch."
"Vinch," Leonard mouthed.
"Yeah, Vinchetti, as in Vinchetti ‘The Eye.' He's district boss at headquarters in Jersey. Me and Knuckles are on his crew. And Vinch
loved
Knuckles' idea. See, kid, we had this joker up at one of our joints shooting flicks but he, like, fucked up real bad so Knuckles and I had to do the job on him. That's why we ain't killed ya."
loved
Knuckles' idea. See, kid, we had this joker up at one of our joints shooting flicks but he, like, fucked up real bad so Knuckles and I had to do the job on him. That's why we ain't killed ya."
Leonard stared through a headache like lasers drilling his brain. He didn't know what Rocco was talking about.
"See, kid. Instead of killin' ya, you're gonna work for us for a while. Vinch says do a good job for a year and the dough you owe'll be paid off."
Only now did some semblance of sentience return to Leonard. "You're...offering me a
job?
"
job?
"
"That's right, kid." Rocco inspected his fingernails. "You're gonna work for us doing what you do best. Making movies."
Leonard's head craned up off the floor. "Movies?" It sounded absurd but then Leonard wasn't going to complain or ask any burdensome questions. He was alive.
Rocco's lip twisted, and a brow arched. "That's the good news. The bad news is Vinch wants a nut."
A nut. Leonard reflected. A hazelnut? Planter's?
"You know, to keep ya in line. Punishment for going bad on your marker," Rocco said.
A nut.
"A...
nut?
"
nut?
"
Then he knew when Knuckles pulled down Leonard's pants and snapped open the angel-blade.
"Don't sweat it, kid. We're only taking one. Why do ya think God gave ya two?"
Rocco and Knuckles busted out laughter.
And Leonard screamed—
"I see
nothing, nothing!"
Sergeant Schultz assured.
nothing, nothing!"
Sergeant Schultz assured.
««—»»
Leonard groped the single testicle a moment more, as if to verify that it was an aspect of reality. Then he zipped up his fly, flushed the toilet, and finished the final edit of
Dog Day Afternoon.
Dog Day Afternoon.
««—»»
More exposition. The night that Leonard had been divorced from his left testicle, Rocco and Knuckles loaded up the car with Leonard's film-making gear and then, with somewhat more difficulty, loaded a shock-eyed, puff-faced Leonard into the same car. The car was a '69 Cadillac Deville, gray. Nice leather seats. "Knuckles, give the kid a rag so he don't bleed on the leather."
Later, Leonard would discover that it was not a terribly savage job that Knuckles the Bill-Brundige-sized gangster had done on half of his reproductive potential. The giant, peninsula-jawed man had expertly slit the scrotum, popped out the raw ball and—
snick!
—severed the vesicular cord. One, two, three—done. Surgically precise for, after all, Knuckles had had a lot of experience cutting things. He had cut off arms, legs, heads, faces—you name it, Knuckles had cut it.
snick!
—severed the vesicular cord. One, two, three—done. Surgically precise for, after all, Knuckles had had a lot of experience cutting things. He had cut off arms, legs, heads, faces—you name it, Knuckles had cut it.
And it might be added that Knuckles had then placed Leonard's ball in a Dow "gripperzipper" ZipLoc plastic bag, presumably to submit as proof to this Vinchetti person that the assigned task had been properly completed.
(Later, for what it's worth, Leonard's ball would be thrown into the palatial back yard of Mr. Vinchetti's estate where a guard dog would swallow it whole.)
Leonard lay in the back seat, clutching his groin.
They're taking me someplace...to make movies?
Very shortly he would find out what kind of movies, and why, and it is not necessary to expend wordage on the self-explanatory. Instead he contemplated his predicament in stopped degrees. He'd lost a testicle because he owed the Mob money. The Mob should have killed him but they didn't. Instead they were taking him to some arcane location to make movies. He was still alive and therefore still technically able to fulfill his dream of seeing
The Confessor
win Best New Picture at the Sundance Film Festival lock, stock, and barrel.
They're taking me someplace...to make movies?
Very shortly he would find out what kind of movies, and why, and it is not necessary to expend wordage on the self-explanatory. Instead he contemplated his predicament in stopped degrees. He'd lost a testicle because he owed the Mob money. The Mob should have killed him but they didn't. Instead they were taking him to some arcane location to make movies. He was still alive and therefore still technically able to fulfill his dream of seeing
The Confessor
win Best New Picture at the Sundance Film Festival lock, stock, and barrel.
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