The next morning, Zane was driving his "new" car down a hot street in a poorer part of Los Angeles. The car was just a tired, old Ford he'd bought for three thousand dollars. It was practical, but it had no air conditioning, and the stuffy heat was making him grumpy.
"James, are you sure you know where we're going?" Zane complained, wiping a bead of sweat from his face. "You said this place was close."
"Hey, it is close," James shot back. He was fanning himself with a map. "It's not the distance, man, it's the car. This thing is a rolling oven. It's messing with your brain."
Zane grunted but didn't argue. Saving money was important.
"Just shut up and tell me where to turn," he said. "And for the record, if this 'Condy' guy you found is no good, or if he tries to charge a dollar over two thousand, I'm taking it out of your salary."
"No, man, not my salary!" James whined dramatically. "Promise me you won't! I'll be your best friend, I'll wash your car, I'll..."
Zane ignored him. He had officially hired James yesterday. It wasn't a surprise. James was 24. He had dropped out of high school and didn't have many job options. He had to support his mother, who was paralyzed, and his nine-year-old sister. His life was always a struggle. Zane knew from the old memories that James had a rough past. He'd even been kicked out of school for selling marijuana to make money. Giving him a steady job with good pay wasn't just a business move. It was a lifeline, and Zane was happy to give it.
"Here," James said, pointing. "This is it."
The house was a falling-apart, two-story building that just looked dead. The moment they got out of the car, the smell hit them. It was a nasty mix of old beer, rotting garbage, and something sour. Zane didn't want to know what it was.
The door creaked open before they could knock. A man with a messy, matted beard and a greasy bathrobe smiled at them with a wild, friendly look.
"James, my dear friend! You've brought me business, haven't you? And this handsome man must be the client! Come in, come in, don't just stand there!" he boomed. He quickly swept a pile of nutshells and beer caps from a stained sofa onto the floor.
Zane stared at the couch. He could see the faint stain of old vomit on it. He was not going to sit down. So this is the master negotiator, he thought. A real diamond in the rough. A very, very rough rough.
"We're fine standing," Zane said quickly. "We can talk here."
After they explained the situation with Pixar and how the talks got stuck, the man—Condy Edward—waved a hand. His whole attitude changed from a sloppy host to a super-sharp professional.
"That's it? A simple licensing deal?" he said with a confident smirk. "Child's play. My old co-worker Max Lee is all bark and no bite. Give me three days. I'll get it done and you'll love the results."
Zane saw his chance. "Three days is good. But I'm on a tight schedule," he said. His voice turned hard as steel. "I'll give you two days. Handle it in two, and I'll pay you $1,500."
Condy, who had just taken a drink of beer, nearly choked. "Two days? That's... fast. But possible. But a rush job costs extra. You'll have to add more."
"You're right," Zane said, acting like he was being very generous. "For such a rush job, you deserve a bonus. I'll add five hundred dollars."
He held out his hand. "Two days. Two thousand dollars. Do we have a deal?"
Condy stared at Zane's hand, then at his face. Zane could see lots of feelings pass through his eyes: anger, professional pride, and finally, the tired look of a man who badly needed the money. He sighed.
"You're a ruthless bastard," he said, but a small smile played on his lips. He shook Zane's hand. "Deal."
Three days later, Zane was back at Pixar Animation Studios. This time, he was there to sign the contract. He was finally meeting the man in charge.
"Mr. Blackwood," Steve Jobs said, shaking his hand. His grip was firm. His eyes were intense. "I have to say... I'm surprised. Where on earth did you find that negotiator?" He clearly wanted to say "you shameless bastard" but just sounded shocked and respectful.
Everyone at Pixar felt the same way. As Zane walked through the office, he could hear the shocked whispers of the creative team.
"That guy Condy... he was like a barbarian. He actually roared at one point."
"And the other one, James! He just smiled while drowning Max in spreadsheets. A smiling assassin!"
"But the boss, Blackwood, was the worst. All he did was repeat the same line for two days straight: 'I'm sorry, that's not in the budget. We just don't have the money.' It was like a broken record. I think Max started twitching."
Their negotiator, Max Lee, had apparently been left a broken man. He swore he would never be in the same room with "that savage" again.
The final contract was a huge win for Zane. The main points were:
Zane got the merchandise rights for Toy Story in four states: California, Nevada, Arizona, and Utah.
The fee was a one-time payment of $800,000 for a 12-year license. That was an amazingly long time.
The best part: A special rule that gave Zane the first chance to buy the merchandise rights for all Pixar animated films for the next five years.
Zane kept a calm face as he signed, but inside he was jumping for joy. He hadn't just gotten a good deal on Toy Story. He had just secured the golden keys to a kingdom. This deal included the future rights for A Bug's Life, Monsters, Inc., and Finding Nemo. All for only $800,000. He had outsmarted Steve Jobs, and it felt incredible.
A few days later, the work on his stores was moving along right on time. Zane began hiring people. He also started writing outlines for cheap horror movies that he knew would make a lot of money, like Saw and The Blair Witch Project.
He was sitting in a temporary office, looking at resumes, when the next person for an interview walked in.
He looked down at the paper, then up at the person. His mind went completely blank.
She was stunningly beautiful. She acted confident, but he could see she was also nervous.
Her name was Charlize Theron.
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