Dog Beach Read Free Page B

such things when he was a child, hanging upside down from his ankles while the Sifu beat him with a rattan cane. Westerners never understood Louie when he talked about Peking Opera School; they thought he’d been trained to sing and dance. The school, however, was really a boarding facility where young students—so many of them orphans or runaways—trained rigorously in acrobatics, martial arts, and tumbling skills. Louie was disciplined if nothing else. But more than anything, right now, he was just happy to have his hands on a fully loaded cylinder of relief. He also felt bad for the big, broken shell of a giant who used to wear number 99. When Louie climbed back to the sunny deck and the smell of hash browns and starter fluid, Banazak remained down in the galley, still staring at the floor.
    â€œSo sad,” Louie said back in the car, going on and on about it. “So sad, this man.”
    â€œHe’s a rapist,” Dutch said, popping an oxy. “Served time for beating up a sixteen-year-old black chick. He’s forfeited any right to fair play. Fuck him.”
    Onward they went, like Bonnie and Clyde.

4
    THE IVY
    â€œThe economics of the industry have changed,” Avi Ghazaryan said in that silky, Armenian timbre. “The town used to be paved with dumb money. You have a good idea, you get a deal. Now? They will only make movies that come with an underlying brand.” He was sitting at a lunch table with three Latino men and a private detective named Papagallo, onetime “private eye to the stars.”
    â€œMy daughter used to play that game Scrabble. Go to Paramount and pitch Scrabble as a movie and you’ll get a deal. Or fucking Slinky. Go to Warners with Slinky and a writer and you’ve got one on the books. One problem: You have to pay the rights holder. So, I ask myself: How do you pitch a brand without having to pay the rights? You ready? Look outside the window. Do you see the little man on the crosswalk light? Yes, you see him. The little stick-figure man. He’s also on all the pedestrian crossing signs, from here to New York. So imagine this: An old woman is out walking her dog in the rain. Lightning strikes the caution sign as she passes. The dog barks, they run inside. Next morning, the old woman—Kathy Bates, say—walks by the caution sign. But something’s strange. The little man is gone from the sign. He’s out there somewhere. And he kills. Serial killer. These guys, the town—I don’t know what town, some fucking town—they bring in a bounty hunter. I can get Randy Couture. He has to hunt down the little crosswalk man, the caution sign man. It’s a brand that everyone knows, but no one owns the rights to.”
    Avi drew a soft breath, ate a little salmon and balsamic greens, genuinely inspired. “I call this idea Caution . That’s it. Just Caution . It’s a pre-branded fucking hit with a nice one-word title.”
    â€œWhat’s going on with the zombie movie?” said one of the Latinos, a handsome guy in a blazer named Hektor. Papagallo was busy with his iPhone, and this frustrated Avi; he’d expected a bigger reaction to his crosswalk-man idea, but he knew he was dealing with idiots.
    â€œThis little fuck, Troy,” Avi said. “He’s having an artistic tantrum. Needs more time.”
    â€œNeeds more time?” said Hektor, looking at his partners. “We put in real coin, Avi. You guaranteed a return.”
    â€œOne thousand percent,” said an older Latino, staring warily at the talapia lunch special.
    â€œThat’s right,” Avi said. “As soon as this little fucker finishes the movie.”
    â€œWell, make him finish the movie.”
    â€œWhy are we babying this guy?” the older one said. “Have Hektor go over there and show him his tattoos.”
    Hektor smiled at the thought. Indeed, the side of his neck facing the wall was scrimmed with elaborate