Chương 20: The Long Game (09/05/1980)

DATE: Friday, September 5, 1980 LOCATION: Burbank, California | Warner Bros. Studios | Executive Building LOCAL TIME: 02: 00 PM PST The office smelled of stale coffee, rich leather, and the heavy, intoxicating scent of the Hollywood Establishment. Bob Daly, the co-Chairman of Warner Bros., stared at the script on his mahogany desk. The title page simply read: THE USUAL SUSPECTS. He looked at my father, Doug, and Uncle Jack. Profound boredom radiated from him.

"A heist movie," Daly said flatly.

"Noir. Five criminals in a lineup. It's a little... dry, isn't it? Where's the hook? Where's the merchandising?"

"The hook," Uncle Jack said, leaning forward and resting his forearms on the desk, "is the mystery. Who is Keyser Söze?"

"Who cares?" Terry Semel, the studio President, interjected from the sofa.

"Audiences want Star Wars, Jack. They want spectacle. This is just guys talking in a police station." My father, Doug, stood up. In my original timeline, Doug would have folded. He would have taken the rejection, apologized for wasting their time, and driven back to Carlsbad. But he wasn't that man anymore. He was a high school English teacher who had just sold The Mermaid to Disney. He had his confidence back. More importantly, I hadn't written the script.

I had only given Doug the scaffolding—the names, the twist, the basic heist. Doug was the one who had spent the last year breathing life into it, writing the gritty, hardboiled dialogue that made the characters sing.

"It's not just guys talking, Terry," Doug said, his voice dropping into the commanding, resonant baritone he used on the football field. He walked over to the window, forcing the executives to physically turn in their chairs to look at him.

"It's a ghost story." Daly raised an eyebrow.

"It's about a man—Verbal Kint," Doug continued.

"A crippled, pathetic weakling who fools an entire precinct of seasoned detectives. He sits in that office, drinks their coffee, and spins a lie so beautiful, so terrifying, that they actually thank him for it when they let him go." Doug's eyes locked onto Daly's.

"He invents a devil named Keyser Söze. He makes them look at the shadows. And then, right under their noses, the devil walks out the front door." Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. Daly paused, the pure storytelling pulling him in despite his cynicism.

"And who plays the cripple? Pacino? Hoffman?"

"No," Jack interrupted, flawlessly taking the baton to handle the business side.

"We found a kid in the comedy clubs in Toronto. A mimic. A rubber-faced genius named Jim Carrey."

"A comedian?" Semel scoffed.

"For a noir thriller?"

"He's not just a comedian, Terry," Jack said, his salesman's instinct flaring.

"He's a shapeshifter. He can contort his body. He can change his voice. We need someone who looks pathetic one second and absolutely terrifying the next. This kid... he's electric. He's got a manic energy that's just waiting to snap."

"And the driver?" Daly asked, looking down at the casting sheet.

"Kobayashi?"

"Christopher Lee," Jack said. Daly frowned.

"Dracula? Isn't he a bit... heavy for a chauffeur?"

"He's not a chauffeur," Doug corrected, pacing back to the desk.

"He's the gatekeeper. We need a voice that sounds like it comes from the bottom of a crypt. We need gravitas." Daly looked at Semel. A silent, executive calculus passed between them.

"Okay," Daly admitted.

"Lee is good. Carrey is a gamble, but he's cheap. But it's still just a standalone crime thriller. Small potatoes. So why the hell are we talking about a five-year development deal for the kid?" Daly pointed his expensive fountain pen at me. I sat perfectly still on the velvet ottoman, wearing a tailored navy blazer. I didn't swing my legs. I didn't look around at the framed movie posters. I stared back at Daly with the dead-eyed, unblinking intensity of a predator.

"Because the movie is just the vehicle," Jack lied smoothly, leaning back in his chair.

"You guys are bleeding money looking for the next franchise kid. You want a darker Karate Kid, a sidekick with actual teeth. Well, look at him. We want to train him. Gymnastics. Martial arts. Weapons. We want to build the most physically capable child actor in history. The kid is the franchise."

"For what?" Semel asked.

"To play Verbal Kint's son?"

"To play the Action Hero of the 80s," Jack said.

"We shoot The Usual Suspects in '84. We release it in '85. And by then, Chad will be almost ten years old. He'll be able to do stunts that will make Burt Reynolds look like a statue." Daly looked at me, highly skeptical.

"Can you fight, kid?" I didn't answer. I didn't need to pitch. That was the adults' job. My job was to close. I slowly reached into my pocket and pulled out a silver quarter. I placed it flat on the back of my hand. I extended my arm toward Daly. I flipped my hand over. Snatch. The movement was a blur of unnatural, mechanical precision. My five-year-old central nervous system shouldn't have been able to process the fast-twitch muscle response, but Jackie Chan had been drilling me in the La Jolla bunker for months.

The coin was secured in my fist before gravity could even register it was falling. I opened my hand. The quarter was gone. I reached behind Daly's ear, pulled it out, and placed it gently on his leather desk pad. Clink.

"I don't fight," I said softly, my high-pitched voice perfectly, chillingly level.

"I win." Daly blinked. He stared at the quarter, then at me. The hairs on his arms stood up. He laughed—a short, nervous burst of air.

"Alright," Daly said, picking up his pen.

"We'll option the script. The Usual Suspects. And we'll sign the physical development deal for the kid. But I want first refusal rights to the sequel if the movie hits."

"Done," Jack said, flashing a shark-like grin. They shook hands. Bob Daly thought he had just bought a low-budget noir film starring a Canadian stand-up comic. He didn't know he had just financed a five-year, black-ops combat training program for a preschooler.