Quentin practically sprinted into the coffee shop, clutching the script to his chest like a priceless, fragile treasure. He sat down, breathing hard, his cheeks flushed with a mix of excitement and nerves.
Link noticed that Bender's gaze was darting between the two of them, finally settling on Link's face with an undisguised, critical inspection.
"And this is...?"
"Quentin Tarantino," Link said flatly. "The director of this film."
Bender raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Then let him tell me about this supposed Palm d'Or-winning movie you've been hyping up. What's the pitch?"
As soon as he finished, Quentin was like a switch had been flipped. He leaned forward, his hands gesticulating wildly in the air. "It's not just a story, it's a world! A world where hitmen talk about burgers before they kill someone! A world where a boxer forces a mob boss to pull out a samurai sword for revenge! They swear like sailors, but that's what life sounds like!"
Bender didn't interrupt; he just listened quietly. He looked at the frantic, excited Quentin, then back at the motionless Link. His expression was subtle.
"Sounds interesting," Bender said, leaning back against his chair, returning to his professional, detached posture. "Leave the script here, and my team will evaluate it."
"No," Link cut him off. The tone was quiet, but it made Bender's eyelid twitch.
"I told you, this opportunity only lasts for today, and it only belongs to you," Link said, glancing at the wall clock, the hour hand nearing 4 p.m. "You don't need a team. Your gut is better than all of theirs. If you didn't trust your own judgment, you wouldn't be sitting here alone, waiting for an opportunity that came out of nowhere."
The finger Bender had been resting on his coffee cup froze. He stared at Link, the last trace of laziness gone from his eyes.
"Alright, kid, you've convinced me," he tapped the table. "Tell me your terms. And I have to warn you, you're challenging every rule in Hollywood right now."
Link held up one finger.
"First, we aren't selling the script."
Bender paused, then chuckled. "Then what are you doing here?"
"A partnership," Link stated, word by word. "Quentin is the director. I am the producer. My name goes right next to yours."
Bender's smile widened, as if he'd heard the joke of the century. "Do you even know what a producer does?"
"I do," Link's expression didn't change at all. "That's why I came to you. You have the Hollywood connections. And we? We have the future. The future is the most valuable chip in this poker game."
The smile slowly vanished from Bender's face. He stopped leaning back and slightly shifted forward, re-evaluating the young man in front of him.
"...Fine," he said in a low voice. "What's the second condition?"
"Ten thousand dollars. Project seed money."
Bender scoffed as if he'd heard something ridiculous. "Ten grand for a script I haven't read, given to two guys I've known for less than ten minutes?"
"No," Link shook his head. "It's for the first right of refusal on a Palm d'Or trophy."
He paused, then added the final sentence, his voice calm, almost icy:
"And out of that ten thousand, I need five hundred bucks in cash."
"...Right now."
The whirring of the coffee grinder and the chatter from the next table seemed to vanish. Link could feel Quentin beside him, whose breathing had completely stopped, a thin sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead.
Bender was locked onto him, his eyes trying to bore straight through him. But Link didn't flinch, meeting his gaze calmly. Five hundred in cash. That number was more impactful than a ten-thousand-dollar check. It represented a do-or-die determination.
After half a minute, Bender slowly let out a breath, as if making a tough decision.
He took out his checkbook from his jacket's inner pocket and uncapped his pen. Scratch, scratch, he wrote the amount.
"Alright, I'll take the gamble. If, after reading this script tonight, it's one-tenth as good as you claim, this ten grand is your signing bonus."
"And if it's a pile of garbage," Link finished the thought for him, "the check is worthless."
Bender didn't say anything more. He tore off the check, then pulled five crisp hundred-dollar bills from his wallet, pushing them all to the center of the table.
"Hope it's worth the price."
Link pocketed the check and the cash, then stood up, finally allowing a faint smile to appear on his face.
"You'll be glad you made this call today."
He told the still-stunned Quentin, "Let's roll."
The two turned and left. The light of the setting sun streamed in from the doorway, casting their shadows long across the floor.
Link didn't look back, but he could imagine Bender had already flipped to the first page of the script.
A gust of wind blew in through the open door, carrying the heat of the street, lightly rustling the pages of the manuscript on the table with a soft shhh-shhh sound.