Back in Los Angeles from New York, the first thing Link did was call all the core creatives together and make an official announcement:
"Pulp Fiction goes into production in three days."
The moment the words landed, the entire team erupted with excitement.
Everyone, that is, except Bender.
Even after the meeting ended, the worry on his face wouldn't fade. He pulled Link aside and lowered his voice.
"Link , we still haven't signed the distribution deal. Harvey Weinstein's been… lukewarm lately. And I heard Ron Meyer's basically living in Miramax's offices—having coffee with him almost every day."
"Sounds about right," Link said calmly.
Bender grew anxious. "Harvey's the best possible distributor for this project! If Ron talks him into messing with us—like demanding re-edits, or sabotaging the marketing—we're dead in the water!"
Link looked at him, steady and confident.
"Bender, relax. Harvey's a businessman. He only cares about money. To him, this movie is a gold mine. There's no way he'd give that up just to satisfy Ron's bruised ego."
He patted Bender on the shoulder.
"In Harvey's eyes, Ron isn't even a bargaining chip. He's dead weight."
—
Just as Link predicted.
Miramax Films. Harvey Weinstein's office.
The heavyset man—infamous in Hollywood for his domineering personality and razor-sharp instincts—was lounging back with a cigar, listening to Ron Meyer rant nonstop beside him.
"…Harvey, I'm telling you, that kid Link is a lunatic! He doesn't understand how Hollywood works! All you need to do is add one clause to the distribution contract—final cut goes to the distributor. You'll have him completely under your thumb. Then we—"
Harvey blew out a thick cloud of smoke and cut him off.
"Ron," he said, his voice gravelly and firm, "you seem to have forgotten something. I'm a businessman. Not your personal revenge machine."
Ron froze.
Harvey crushed the cigar into the ashtray and leaned forward. His small eyes gleamed like a predator's.
"I've reviewed everything on this film. A washed-up star's comeback. An arthouse darling reinventing herself through destruction. A Black powerhouse delivering a monologue that steals the screen. And on top of that—a genius-level script."
He stared straight at Ron, emphasizing every word.
"This isn't just another indie movie. This is a gold mine. One that could crown Miramax at Sundance—and even Cannes."
"And you," Harvey continued, open contempt in his tone, "want me to dump sand into that gold mine? All for your pathetic little sense of pride?"
Ron's face flushed red. He tried to fire back.
"Harvey, don't forget—it was me who—"
"Who what?" Harvey sneered. "Who got fired by his own client in public and turned into a joke inside CAA?"
"And now you want me to go down with you? I'm not that stupid."
He picked up the phone and hit the intercom.
"Send Lawrence Bender from Pangu Pictures in."
Ron whipped his head around—and only then noticed that Bender had somehow already been waiting outside the office.
Harvey stood up, straightened his expensive suit, and didn't even bother looking at Ron again.
"Ron, you can leave now."
"Oh—and one more thing." He paused at the door and glanced back. "Don't come back. Miramax doesn't work with losers."
"You—" Ron's face turned purple. He pointed, his hand shaking, but no words came out.
The next second, he watched Harvey personally step forward, all smiles, warmly greeting Bender as he walked in—like a completely different person.
Ron's vision went dark. Gritting his teeth, he slammed the door and stormed out.
—
Half an hour later, Bender walked out of the Miramax building holding a freshly signed distribution contract—still in a daze.
The terms were absurdly generous.
Miramax promised top-tier, A-level marketing support, a guaranteed $30 million box-office split—and even gave up their long-standing demand for final cut.
"He… how could he…" Bender muttered, staring at the contract.
Right on cue, Link's call came through.
"All set?"
"All set…" Bender's voice still sounded unreal. "Link —how did you know? How did you know Harvey would kick Ron out and give us terms this good?"
On the other end of the line, Link let out a soft chuckle.
"I didn't know."
"I just bet that a real gambler—when he sees a royal flush—will clear every chip off the table."
He paused, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
"Instead of splitting the pot with another loser."