Chapter 49: A Tax Problem on New Year's Day
On the morning of January 30, New Year's Day, the holiday atmosphere was still lingering in parts of the city; for most of New York, though, it was just another working day.
Bruce drove toward Estelle's office, excitement bubbling inside him—not because of the holiday, but because he was about to collect Miramax's payment for the scripts.
He still didn't know the exact amount after commission and taxes, yet he was sure it dwarfed anything he'd seen in his entire life.
Bruce parked in the surface lot behind the building. When he stepped off the elevator, one of Estelle's handful of employees whistled, called out, "Bruce is here!" and everyone burst into applause, leaving him bewildered; he grinned, waved, and hurried into Estelle's office.
"What was that about?" Bruce waved away the drifting smoke and asked Estelle, who was puffing on a cigarette.
"Congratulations, of course. The Miramax deal is the biggest contract we've signed in years."
Bruce smiled. "So, as the boss, will you share some of that commission with the staff?"
"Of course—but not now. It'll show up in their year-end bonuses. Here, your check!" She flicked ash into the tray and slid a check across the desk. "Enough to move out of that old Bedford Street place and buy a sleek loft in SoHo—desk by the window overlooking the city. You'll write million-dollar scripts there."
Bruce picked up the check, laughing. "I like Bedford Street—my coffee shop, my friends. Not moving yet." Then he saw the amount. "Wow, that's a lot of tax!"
He traced the pale-blue security strip and the $598,500 figure as Estelle explained: "Miramax paid $1.05 million. After ten percent commission and thirty-three percent taxes, that's what's left. Earn more, pay more—be happy, Bruce."
Before he could reply, Estelle lit another cigarette. "Taxes include federal, New York State, New York City, and self-employment. Oh—and you know that money's only sitting in your Client Trust Account? You'll still need to file and pay it yourself, right?"
Bruce blinked. "What? I thought every check I get already has taxes withheld."
"Honey, didn't you read your contract with Estelle & Associates?"
"Not really. Back when Ruby was my agent we barely signed anything."
"Then get yourself a lawyer you trust. Our contract says we don't withhold taxes—it's industry standard for freelancers."
"But Ruby's checks were always after-tax. I never dealt with taxes!"
"Ask Ruby; I'd guess it's something specific to the adult film industry."
"So the two checks I got from you in October and December—those were untaxed?"
"No, they were your net earnings. Taxes were calculated and set aside but not remitted—held in trust for you to pay when they're due. Clear?"
"When are those due? And when is today's money due?"
"I'm no CPA or tax attorney, Bruce. Time to hire one. People at your income level don't do it themselves."
"If the company doesn't pay them, why set up a trust account?"
"Consider it a service—keeps new clients from blowing the cash and ending up fined or worse."
Bruce left, the check burning in his pocket. Instead of heading to the bank, he drove straight to Sullivan & Cromwell and found Grace.
Busy Grace, surprised by his sudden entrance, led him through the bustling hallway into a quiet conference room.
A receptionist brought coffee and closed the door, sealing out the noise.
"Weren't we meeting after work?" Grace teased, sitting beside him. "Did your New Year's plans change?"
"No, everything's still on track," Bruce sighed, tapping the armrest. "I just left my agency. I need a lawyer."
Grace turned serious. "Trouble—are you suing them?"
"No lawsuit," he leaned in. "Taxes. I need a tax attorney—it's urgent and complicated."
"What happened to your accountant?"
About to answer, he studied her face. "Isn't it... odd discussing this here?"
"Why odd? Do you feel odd about it?"
"We're dating, yet we meet in 'professional mode' talking about tax returns and deadlines—it's so businesslike."
Her expression softened. "Sorry, I've been swamped—always—leaving us too little time together."
"Not complaining," he murmured, taking her cool hand. "I understand—it's your work."
His touch sent ripples through her; she curled her fingers around his, eyes gentle.
"Bruce," she whispered, voice soft and tentative, "have you ever... kissed anyone in a place like this?"
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