The Los Angeles sun was brutal. Quentin's beat-up Chevy sat idling by the curb with windows that wouldn't roll down and a busted AC. The air inside was thick and stifling; both of them were already soaked through their shirts.
"You're positive he comes here every day?" Link asked.
"Totally!" Quentin wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, his eyes buzzing with excitement. "Bender loves the window table. He hides behind a magazine like he's reading, but he's really just checking out the girls walking by."
"Sounds like a typical producer."
"Heh," Quentin grinned. "Man, if he's willing to write a check, I'll wear a maid outfit and serve him the coffee myself."
The car was parked across from a spot called "Caffe Luna." The sign was faded, looking a little past its prime.
"Wait for my signal," Link said, leaving the script with Quentin.
Quentin swallowed hard and gave a heavy, nervous nod.
Link got out and pushed through the cafe doors. The smell of roasted beans gave him a much-needed second wind. He scanned the room and spotted his target immediately.
The man looked to be in his early thirties, hair slicked back perfectly, wearing a sharp casual suit. On the table sat a copy of Variety magazine with Bruce Willis on the cover.
Lawrence Bender.
Exactly as Quentin described. Window seat, fake reading, people watching—check, check, and check.
Link went to the counter and ordered the cheapest thing on the menu: a black coffee.
"That'll be ninety-five cents."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of change, clinking the coins onto the tray. When the final nickel dropped, he could feel the eyes of the cashier and the customers behind him.
Over at the window, Bender glanced over. His eyes flicked to the pile of small change, and the corner of his mouth twitched with a faint, condescending smirk. Link knew exactly what that look meant.
He picked up his coffee and walked straight to Bender's table. His heart was racing, but his hand was steady.
"Mr. Bender." Link set his coffee down. His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the cafe noise with total clarity.
"I'm going to give you a choice."
Bender's fingers froze on the page. He looked up, his tone lazy and unimpressed. "Kid, I meet ten guys like you every single day in this place."
Link ignored the brush-off and held up two fingers.
"Choice one," he said, locking eyes with the producer. "Close the magazine and give me three minutes. I'll give you the chance to go from a production assistant to the hottest producer in Hollywood within two years."
Bender let out a short laugh. "Talk is cheap."
"Choice two," Link's voice dropped an octave. "Keep reading your magazine. And two years from now, at the Cannes Film Festival, you're going to watch someone else take home the Palme d'Or for a movie called Pulp Fiction. And you..."
He paused, staring deep into Bender's soul.
"...you'll be the guy who spent the rest of his life being the laughingstock of the industry because he passed on it."
The background chatter of the cafe seemed to fade away.
The lazy look on Bender's face vanished. He reached for his coffee, his fingertips brushing the ceramic, but he pulled back instantly. He sat in silence for ten seconds.
Link saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed.
Finally, Bender reached out and slammed the copy of Variety shut.
"...You've got two minutes."
The corner of Link's mouth turned up. He turned around and signaled to Quentin through the window.
Across the street, Quentin froze for a split second, then scrambled out of the car. He sprinted across the road clutching the script like a football, looking terrified and ecstatic all at once, nearly forgetting to look for traffic.
Link looked back at the table. The afternoon sun cut through the glass, landing perfectly on the closed magazine cover.
The pitch was on.