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CONFIDENTIAL INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY • THE BOARDROOM (DOUBLE DOWN OR DIE, SCENE 9)
INT. GENERAL DYNAMICS EXECUTIVE OFFICES – CHICAGO – AFTERNOON (SUMMER 1973)
A long conference room. Heavy mini-blinds, drawn nearly shut, cut a single shaft of gray Chicago light across a mahogany table thick with cigarette smoke and old money. The corridor wall is glass, its blinds half drawn. Portraits of fighter aircraft line the walls — not one cargo plane among them. In the corner, a slate chalkboard bears numbers no one has erased. The steel door is shut. Beside it, Fred's garment bag — and, leaning against the wall like a rival, a leather golf bag stamped with a country-club crest.
FREDERICK W. SMITH stands at the head of the table beside an easel of hand-drawn route maps. Across from him sits DUNCAN HOLT (50s), chief executive of General Dynamics' venture capital fund — soft, pink, suspenders, golf slacks, a china coffee cup at his elbow, a putter across his knees. He doesn't bother standing. He is smiling. It never reaches his eyes. He is looking at his wristwatch. Behind his chair, a glass case: a Silver Star, a Distinguished Flying Cross, a row of ribbons. The fighters on the walls are the ones he flew. Beside him: GORDON TEALE (40s), who brought Federal Express into the fund; WALTER PRUITT (50s), bookish, a ledger open before him; and, at the far end of the table with a legal pad, EVELYN CROSS (late 20s).
Fred's eyes go, once, to the glass case behind Holt's chair. A man he has read about. A man he would like to be.
FRED
Mr. Holt. I know Friday afternoons are spoken for. I'll be brief.
HOLT
(not looking up from his watch)
You have thirty minutes. My foursome tees off at three-thirty, and they don't wait for anyone. Not even me.
FRED
Every package we've promised, we've delivered — on time, every night, since we launched. That's not luck, gentlemen.
Holt sets a golf ball on the carpet and taps it with his putter. It rolls the length of the room and stops against Fred's shoe. Fred looks down. Holt does not look up.
HOLT
Continue.
FRED
That's a system working as designed. What it doesn't have yet is volume, and volume takes time — time to fill those cargo bays with something besides empty air.
Holt sips his coffee. Sets the cup down without a sound.
HOLT
(to Teale)
Sunday, I shot a seventy-one.
TEALE
Tremendous, Duncan.
HOLT
Seventy-one.
Holt turns to Fred, as if just remembering him. He glances at his watch.
HOLT
(quietly)
Time is money, Fred. And Federal Express is out of both.
HOLT
That's why you're here. Isn't it, Fred?
Neither man blinks. The silence stretches. At the far end of the table, Evelyn breaks it.
EVELYN
Fred — how are Linda and Wendy?
Fred turns. The armor cracks half an inch: a real smile.
FRED
Linda's tired. Wendy's decided she's an airplane.
A ripple of warmth around the table. Holt lets it last exactly one second too long.
HOLT
Charming.
He lets the word sit.
HOLT
(pleasantly)
Why should we keep funding this flying circus?
Holt rises, the putter a barker's cane.
HOLT
(deadpan, to the table)
Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, to the Package Chauffeur Show — overnight service for pennies on the dollar, and we lose dollars on every penny invested in the company.
One nervous chuckle from the far end. It dies alone. Holt settles back into his chair.
TEALE
Duncan, the fuel shortage is hitting him hard — prices are up fifty percent since spring. His on-time delivery record is perfect. Can he guarantee us a date for profit?
HOLT
(tasting the word)
Guarantee, huh.
HOLT
(sharp)
It's too late for new guarantees, Fred. You haven't delivered on the promises you've already made.
HOLT
(mildly)
Gordon gets a piece if it ever pays. Isn't that right, Gordon?
TEALE
A small piece.
HOLT
The only piece anyone here wants to see.
Holt's eyes drift to Pruitt.
HOLT
Pruitt.
PRUITT
Yes, Mr. Holt.
HOLT
When do we get our money back?
PRUITT
Twenty-four months, sir.
HOLT
And how many additional bailouts have they asked for?
PRUITT
Two, sir.
HOLT
(gently)
Today makes three. I can count to three.
Holt hooks a thumb under one suspender and snaps it, once.
The intercom on the credenza buzzes.
SECRETARY (V.O.)
Mr. Holt, the club is on line two. Your foursome wants to know if you've forgotten them.
HOLT
(into the intercom, warmly)
Tell Whit I'd sooner forget my own name.
He releases the button. The warmth goes with it. He turns to Fred like a man who has been kept waiting.
HOLT
Twenty minutes, Fred.
TEALE
Take a break, Holt. The Postal Service told me overnight to Philadelphia was impossible. I called Federal Express. Eighteen hours, guaranteed.
HOLT
(mildly)
It's worth a courier fee, Gordon.
At the far end of the table, Evelyn puts down her pen. She smiles at Fred and offers her open hand toward him, like a gift with a bow on it.
EVELYN
Mr. Smith, you charge a birthday card and a crate of car parts the same way. May I suggest three things?
HOLT
(waving a hand, amused)
Please.
EVELYN
One: build a medical division. Tissue samples, biopsies, hospital equipment — people waiting on results will pay for the hour, not the pound.
Fred writes a "1" in the margin of his route map. Holt drains his cup, loudly.
EVELYN
Two: the more a company ships each week, the less each package costs — your planes fly either way.
HOLT
Miss Cross. I have a tee time.
EVELYN
(faster)
Three: put the big accounts under contract, so you're not selling to strangers every night.
Fred's pencil flies. Against the side of his cup, Holt's fingers tick off a count. He may not know he's doing it.
Fred's eyes open — genuine, the first unguarded reaction he's had all scene. He turns to her fully.
FRED
We can move all of it. Any size, any weight. I trust my crews with cargo a lot more delicate than a court filing.
FRED
I could give that some serious consider—
HOLT
(gently, over him)
Consideration? You mean consolidation.
HOLT
One plane, Fred. Make one plane profitable, then we'll talk about the other thirteen.
HOLT
May I call you Fred Astaire? Every time you run short on money, you come in here with a new song and dance, looking for a payback.
Fred almost smiles. It's a good line, and he knows it.
HOLT
(a beat)
What can you tell me right now, as a guarantee, Fred?
TEALE
Then let's do the math. What's the break-even per plane?
HOLT
(a short, ugly laugh)
Break-even? You mean flat broke.
He doesn't look at Teale — he's already turning to Pruitt.
HOLT
Pruitt. What was the original loan?
PRUITT
Twenty-four point two million, sir.
HOLT
Wasn't that enough money for them?
PRUITT
No, sir! We had to bail them out.
HOLT
To the tune of...
PRUITT
Two point two million, sir.
HOLT
And the second song and dance?
PRUITT
One point six million, sir.
Holt doesn't wait for the total. He's been carrying it around all day for this moment.
HOLT
Call it twenty-eight million dollars in eighteen months — and your last set of deliveries was only 180 chauffeured packages on fourteen high-performance jets. This is the most expensive gamble General Dynamics has ever made in this short amount of time.
Holt leans across the table, eyes locked on Fred.
HOLT
(quiet)
Fred. How about you stop trying to deliver small packages and start delivering on the big promises.
He holds his hands apart like a man describing the one that got away — a big promise, as a fish. Pruitt has already closed the ledger. Neither man needs it anymore. Teale sits back, the fight gone out of him for the moment.
Holt cups a hand behind his ear, head tilted, and turns to the room.
HOLT
(hushed)
Do you guys hear that?
HOLT
Shhh... Shhh... Listen.
Three beats. Hand at his ear, Holt listens to the silence. The room holds its breath.
HOLT
I can hear an echo every time we call on you, Fred. It's an echo of excuses.
HOLT
Pruitt. Why the second bailout?
Pruitt opens another book and scans it.
PRUITT
Fuel, sir.
HOLT
Everybody's fuel went up, Fred. UPS's fuel went up. Their trucks are still rolling. My Gulfstream is fueled.
Fred's jaw tightens. He glances at Evelyn; she gives him half a smile. He answers with a small wink and squares his shoulders. For the first time, he leaves off the "Mr."
FRED
I didn't come here to make excuses, Duncan. You don't have twenty-eight million dollars at risk — you've already spent it. The only question is whether it bought anything. Not one lost package in three months says it did.
HOLT
(a beat)
Three months.
HOLT
Your sisters' lawyer says you have about that long.
The room goes still. Fred doesn't move.
FRED
(low)
You've been talking to my family's lawyers.
HOLT
They called. I listened. They'd like to know where the inheritance went.
HOLT
So would I.
Holt rises, drops a golf ball on the carpet, and lines up a putt at a coffee cup lying on its side.
HOLT
It takes time to build a castle. A hole can be dug in a day.
The ball drops into the cup. Pruitt retrieves it.
TEALE
What if we advance half, and Fred raises the rest from other lenders?
HOLT
(to Teale)
Half a loan still earns your piece, doesn't it, Gordon?
TEALE
(a beat)
It does.
Holt turns back to Fred, smiling.
HOLT
(mildly)
Raise the rest from whom? Try your family.
HOLT
(a beat)
Oh. That's right. They're suing you.
The pencil in Fred's fist snaps. He sets the two halves on the map, very carefully. The air drops like a lead weight.
FRED
(low)
My family is my business.
HOLT
(a shrug)
Your business is other people's money, Fred. Ours.
Fred crosses to the easel and turns the route map to face Holt. Every route, every number, penciled in his own hand.
FRED
My father's legacy and my family's trust are not leverage for your board games. That's where the inheritance went.
He straightens to his full height, finger leveled at Holt.
FRED
Don't tell me what my family spent.
Holt glances at his watch. Fred's most honest moment of the day, and Holt checks the time.
Teale rises, both hands open between them.
TEALE
(staying neutral)
Gentlemen. Let's not make this personal. Fred, we're impressed. But we have shareholders too — people who invested on your promises.
HOLT
(over him)
Empty promises, Teale.
The room settles. Teale sits. Fred sits, touching his chin, watching Holt, saying nothing. Holt rises slowly — and for the first time all afternoon, the smile is gone.
HOLT
Trust is earned in drops and lost in buckets; you receive back only the conviction you invest through kept promises.
HOLT
In order to survive now, you have to be a survivor, not a victim. Survivors are resourceful, sharp, and self-sufficient — like me. If you can bring us the funds you were looking for, we will match those funds in one loan and continue to keep your boat afloat.
HOLT
(a beat)
I don't care where it comes from. Borrow it. Beg it. Win it at cards.
HOLT
(a beat)
We are not handing out any more short-term loans without matching funds to run your carnival.
Three beats of silence. Fred studies Holt's move like a boxer sizing up a sparring partner.
FRED
Then I'll bring you your match. But I need fifty thousand tonight — to make payroll and keep the planes fu—
Holt slams his palm down on Pruitt's closed ledger, cutting him off. The slam echoes. Nobody breathes. Holt lets the silence do its work.
HOLT
(softly)
You're out of time, Fred. Be like Jesus — go find your followers and ask them to make sacrifices for you.
HOLT
(long, drawn out)
Go fuc—
HOLT
(catching himself, sharp pivot)
—und! Go FUND yourself!
He throws the ledger against the glass. Papers scatter like a grenade going off in a confetti factory.
Silence. Teale studies the ceiling. Pruitt is already on his knees, gathering papers. Nobody told him to. Holt smooths his tie, retrieves his coffee cup, and takes a sip.
Fred is already moving. He snatches his garment bag from beside the door and the route map off the easel — Evelyn's three points penciled down its margin. At the door, he stops. His eyes find the glass case behind Holt's chair — the Silver Star, the Flying Cross. A man he wanted to be. Fred looks away first.
HOLT
(not looking up, pleasant)
Drive safe, Fred.
The steel door slams behind him. Holt waits for the latch to click. At the glass wall, his CHAUFFEUR appears with Holt's hat, tapping his wristwatch. Holt raises one finger: one minute. Then he stands, crosses to the chalkboard, and wipes the old numbers away with his sleeve.
HOLT
Gordon. Miss Cross. Stay a moment.
Teale straightens his tie, ready to be thanked. Evelyn goes still.
HOLT
Your three points, Miss Cross. Quickly. I have a tee time.
EVELYN
(barely audible)
One. A medical division.
Holt chalks a 1 on the clean slate.
EVELYN
Two. Rates that fall as volume rises.
A 2.
EVELYN
Three. Contracts.
A 3. Then, across the top, in his neat businessman's hand: "HOLT." He pockets the chalk by mistake, takes his putter and golf bag from the chauffeur at the door, and is gone. Teale's smile stiffens.
Through the glass wall, a secretary's hand pulls the corridor blinds shut.
[END OF SCENE]
Continues in Double Down or Die, Scene 10 — Genesis 50:20 at the Airport, O'Hare