The Producers

Finkie's plan for the night:

"We'll tell them we're movie producers from LA."

"Then what are we doing in Montreal?"

Finkie's eyes lit up. As illusionary, delusionary, imaginary that being a movie producer was, for a brief shining moment it became real.

"We're scouting for locations."

"What's the movie about?"

Finkie furrowed his brow in deep thought.

...

"It's a story about a big time coke smuggler who fronts as a boot manufacturer."

"Your Uncle Hershie?"

"Don't go mention his name..."

"What do you think-- I'm an idiot?"

"You know if you ever said something, he could have you rubbed out. There were a couple of Hell's Angels at his Christmas party."

Harry's stomach gurgled. Hell's Angels?

"I hate druggie movies. Who wants to watch scumbags for two hours? Can we do a comedy instead?" Harry asked.

"Fine, we'll do a comedy...An Eddie Murphy project..."

"Eddie Murphy, that putz? How 'bout Steve Martin?"

"Okay, okay. Steve Martin. Happy, Harry?"

"So he discovered us and bought my script."

"Who made you the writer?"

"Who made you the producer?"

Finkie thought that over, then nodded.

"Right, but I'm also directing."

"Good. Direct...What's the movie about?"

"Who the fuck cares, Harry? If someone asks, just say it's confidential."

"Confidential. I like that. Very sexy."

Later that night:

The club was hopping while the two poseurs, (carefully coddling their flat four dollar beers), scouted the field. Finkie fixated on a couple of girls dancing together in the corner of the club.

"Who're you staring at, Finkie?"

Finkie drew close to Harry and discreetly pointed at the dancing girls.

"You see the one with the hat? I think I know her."

"How's that?"

"I'm pretty sure she was in my sister's macrobiotic cooking class. She's apparently a nudist too."

"    ."

"I'm gonna say hello."

"But what about our plan, the producer story?"

"You'll have to be the producer, Harry. She knows me."

"But I --"

"It's cool. She already knows I'm a film-maker. You're in from LA 'cause you just bought my script for Steve Martin."

"But--"

"Follow me," Finkie instructed as he marched with Harry in tow towards the hatted girl and her dance partner.

"Bonsoir," Finkie said to the hatted girl.

Harry gasped when he beheld the brown-eyed beauty dancing with the hatted girl. It was deja vu.

The brown-eyed beauty was the spitting image of Harry's big unrequited love from high school, Sherri Abrams...only better looking, curvier and named Ginette. Ginette, Ginette. His heart pounded, he took a deep breath. Fade away Finkie.

An English translation of that conversation:

"So, umm...So, this place is really, uhh uhh, happening," Harry stuttered in her ear.

She giggled, then nodded.

"What's your name?"

"Ginette."

"Like the Beau Dommage song. " And then he sang off-key a few words from the chorus. "Ginette, Ginette..."

"You have a bad voice."

"I know."

"But make up for it with your good looks."

"Tell me more, tell me more." Which doesn't sound as good in French, still...

"You look like a Mohawk prince. Tall, dark and handsome."

"With high cheekbones and thick black hair cascading down to my shoulders." Harry loved his hair.

"What's your name?"

"Harry. Not very Mohawk sounding."

Ginette giggled. "I never met a 'Arry."

"I never met a Ginette," Harry said. Or a French Canadian who could pronounce the "H" sound at the beginning of a word, he didn't say. Then Harry remembered Finkie's plan.

"I'm a movie producer from L.A. doing a Steve Martin movie. We're shooting it in Montreal and I'm scouting for locations." Got it all in. Phew! Like she gave a shit, making Harry instantaneously regret listening to Finkie and his fucking retarded plan.

Harry took a deep breath, focused, then compartmentalized and filed the stupidity he just blurted into one of the many unused parts of his brain.

"How true it is," he thought, "that we just use 15% of our brain." Then he took Ginette's hand and led her to a dark corner of the dance floor to dance. The man was smitten like never before.

A little later:

Finkie, who was all hot 'n heavy with the hatted girl, led her over to Ginette and Harry, then pulled Harry aside and whispered.

"The mad-hatter just invited me over to her place where she'll hopefully turn out to be the mad-fucker. Here's the keys to my car, we'll exchange notes tomorrow."