actually thought about this. “A cautionary tale, you were involved with Carlos and lived to tell about it. If you want to stay that way, write it as a novel, you’d have more freedom, no legal problems and it would be safer personally. Call it ‘The Virgin and the Porn Queen’.”
“Obvious title.”
“You smell like lavender.”
“Did you write a second novel?”
“Started a couple but never got past page 50.”
“Here’s your chance.”
“No thanks. It’s your story.”
“I can’t tell it by myself.”
“Try.”
“Never finished anything. You have the know-how, help me.”
“I can’t see us writing together.”
“Didn’t you work with other writers in television?”
Pete isn’t listening, he’s visualizing musclehead fucking Desirée’s brains out, he’s thinking about celibacy. “I might help you get started.”
“One thing, so there’s no confusion, I’m not going to fuck you, our partnership is going to be on a purely creative level.”
“No problem, I’ve been celibate three years and anyway you’re way too young for me.”
“When do we start?”
“Tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 5
P ete knew all about Carlos Esparza’s assassination, the Mexican drug wars being one of the stories he avidly followed. The Zetas allegedly shot him coming out of the Sante Fe Restaurant in Xalapa just like she said. It was reported he died in the arms of his girlfriend, an unidentified blond. The deceased was a charismatic figure who had risen through the ranks of the Sinaloa Cartel as an enforcer to become under-boss to Joaquin “Shorty” Guzman. Songs about the dead narco, banned from the radio, play in the cantinas of his home state. They chronicle his violent rise to power and the benevolence he bestowed, funding free health care facilities and soccer fields for the people. His story is like a Sergio Leone film: a nine-year-old boy witnesses the murder of his father, a poor farmer. On his thirteenth birthday he takes revenge, killing the killer. To undermine Carlos Esparza’s growing legend, the government released lurid pictures of the dead narco. One taken on a cell phone moments after the shooting shows him in the bloodied arms of the unidentified blond. Pete zooms in on his computer, but can’t make a definitive ID because the blonds’ golden locks shield her face. It could be Desirée.
Carlos and Desirée, the drug lord and the porn queen, a fantastic story but not the one Marcus Bergman is paying him to write. Pete needs to get to work because he’s easily distracted, especially by the news and has to resist watching a replay of Charlie Rose’s show about the government’s bailout out of General Motors. Pete is not too big to fail.
Bergman wants laughs; he’ll get laughs. Behind the chief’s professional façade, a sarcastic inner voice comments on the mayor, a Condoleezza type in a tight skirt and flat ironed hairdo. She plays Bach on a Baby Grand to relax; the chief likes R. Kelly. She has grand political ambitions, congresswoman, senator; he likes his job. The audience will love seeing Condoleezza’s buttoned down sexuality aroused in the confines of a stuck elevator. Bobby’s inner voice does a lascivious play-by-play but denies how turned on he actually is. Because it’s hot in the elevator, the mayor needs to take off of her jacket. This being cable, they can show some skin. Modest, but blessed with beautiful body, she strips down to her bra. The chief takes the opportunity to take off his shirt and flaunt an old bullet wound. Pete is a master of titillation; no kissing in the pilot, coitus deferred until the last episode of the season.
Back to the beginning, Pete punches up all the dialogue leading to the six-page elevator scene. As a coda, he adds the mayor’s inner voice for the first time, commenting that if the chief had dared to touch her, she would have filed charges. Loathing masks desire, these two want each other. Is this the best scene he’s ever written?
“Obvious title.”
“You smell like lavender.”
“Did you write a second novel?”
“Started a couple but never got past page 50.”
“Here’s your chance.”
“No thanks. It’s your story.”
“I can’t tell it by myself.”
“Try.”
“Never finished anything. You have the know-how, help me.”
“I can’t see us writing together.”
“Didn’t you work with other writers in television?”
Pete isn’t listening, he’s visualizing musclehead fucking Desirée’s brains out, he’s thinking about celibacy. “I might help you get started.”
“One thing, so there’s no confusion, I’m not going to fuck you, our partnership is going to be on a purely creative level.”
“No problem, I’ve been celibate three years and anyway you’re way too young for me.”
“When do we start?”
“Tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 5
P ete knew all about Carlos Esparza’s assassination, the Mexican drug wars being one of the stories he avidly followed. The Zetas allegedly shot him coming out of the Sante Fe Restaurant in Xalapa just like she said. It was reported he died in the arms of his girlfriend, an unidentified blond. The deceased was a charismatic figure who had risen through the ranks of the Sinaloa Cartel as an enforcer to become under-boss to Joaquin “Shorty” Guzman. Songs about the dead narco, banned from the radio, play in the cantinas of his home state. They chronicle his violent rise to power and the benevolence he bestowed, funding free health care facilities and soccer fields for the people. His story is like a Sergio Leone film: a nine-year-old boy witnesses the murder of his father, a poor farmer. On his thirteenth birthday he takes revenge, killing the killer. To undermine Carlos Esparza’s growing legend, the government released lurid pictures of the dead narco. One taken on a cell phone moments after the shooting shows him in the bloodied arms of the unidentified blond. Pete zooms in on his computer, but can’t make a definitive ID because the blonds’ golden locks shield her face. It could be Desirée.
Carlos and Desirée, the drug lord and the porn queen, a fantastic story but not the one Marcus Bergman is paying him to write. Pete needs to get to work because he’s easily distracted, especially by the news and has to resist watching a replay of Charlie Rose’s show about the government’s bailout out of General Motors. Pete is not too big to fail.
Bergman wants laughs; he’ll get laughs. Behind the chief’s professional façade, a sarcastic inner voice comments on the mayor, a Condoleezza type in a tight skirt and flat ironed hairdo. She plays Bach on a Baby Grand to relax; the chief likes R. Kelly. She has grand political ambitions, congresswoman, senator; he likes his job. The audience will love seeing Condoleezza’s buttoned down sexuality aroused in the confines of a stuck elevator. Bobby’s inner voice does a lascivious play-by-play but denies how turned on he actually is. Because it’s hot in the elevator, the mayor needs to take off of her jacket. This being cable, they can show some skin. Modest, but blessed with beautiful body, she strips down to her bra. The chief takes the opportunity to take off his shirt and flaunt an old bullet wound. Pete is a master of titillation; no kissing in the pilot, coitus deferred until the last episode of the season.
Back to the beginning, Pete punches up all the dialogue leading to the six-page elevator scene. As a coda, he adds the mayor’s inner voice for the first time, commenting that if the chief had dared to touch her, she would have filed charges. Loathing masks desire, these two want each other. Is this the best scene he’s ever written?
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