The phone rang, and Craig Glazer stubbed out a Marlboro Ultra Light in the ashtray on his desk. He hit the speaker button.
"It's a hundred for the cab," a man said.
"A hundred?" Glazer answered in his low, gravelly voice.
He picked the phone up from its cradle and crammed it between his left ear and shoulder. "You gotta be kidding me. That's a $40 ride. I mean, there's no way it's a hundred." He listened for five seconds, rolled his eyes, then hung up without speaking again.
Glazer was sitting in his cluttered, unglamorous office at Stanford and Sons, the Legends-area comedy club that he owns. He had been talking, as he often does, about The King of Sting, the memoir he co-wrote, which a company called Skyhorse Publishing put out in 2008. It chronicles Glazer's years as a "sting artist" in the early 1970s, posing as law enforcement and robbing drug dealers in Arizona. (The book is subtitled The Amazing True Story of a Modern American Outlaw. Used copies are plentiful on Amazon for $0.01, plus shipping and handling.)
Turning the story into a movie is a goal that has occupied him on and off since sometime in the 1980s. Now, as he enters his twilight years — he's 60 — it has become his dominating passion. He believes that such a movie would corroborate his long-held core belief: that he is a legendary rogue who deserves to be more famous.
"Anyway," he said, "we tried to write the script based off the whole book, but it just didn't work. There was just too much there. It was too episodic. So, with the movie, it opens with me getting arrested for stinging people in Arizona. Then it takes you through my years as a special agent for the attorney general in Kansas, and on from there."
Glazer's younger brother, Jeff Glazer, opened the door, and the laughter of the Friday-night club crowd flowed in. (Comedian Brian Dunkleman, of American Idol fame, was working the theater, about 10 feet from Glazer's office.) Jeff, the general manager at Stanford and Sons, runs the club's day-to-day operations while Glazer handles the marketing and the talent. They share the office, and they tend to bicker.
"Look what the cat dragged in," Jeff said, and behind him walked a curvy blonde who looked to be in her early 30s — tall, tight jeans, ample makeup. Glazer stood and scanned the room for a chair, but there was nowhere for her to sit.
"Why don't you get a drink and watch Dunkleman, and we'll wrap up in here," Glazer suggested.
She left the room, and Glazer's eyes bulged behind his tinted prescription glasses — too much light gives him headaches — and he shook his head as though really blown away by something. He explained that the woman was a former flame he hadn't seen in more than a year. She had called him out of the blue earlier in the day, and he told her to come to the club, assuring her that he would pay for the ride.
"She used to be a 9," he said. "Now she's, like, a 6. Unbelievable."
Jeff cracked open the door. "I can't deal with this girl out here," he said. "You've got to come — "
"Please, just ... we're almost done," Glazer said, shooing him out.
Glazer went on: "I mean, you don't know, you've never met her before. I'm in shock over here. She used to be smokin'. But she's always been big into the booze" — he brought his thumb to his mouth and lifted up his pinky — "and I guess it's caught up to her finally. That's just unbelievable. I'm legitimately shocked right now."
He returned to the topic of the movie, his movie. "Anyway, it's been a 30-year trek, when you add it all up. I'd be willing to bet there isn't a script in Hollywood that's been bouncing around as long as The King of Sting — or Outlaws, as it used to be called. But lately, I've been thinking maybe it's good it's taken this long. Back in the '80s, I kind of made a living on the story from options and advances. But, of course, the picture never got made. And maybe if it had happened back then, it would have been a bad thing. Maybe now that I'm older, I can really appreciate the situation. I mean, it's been the carrot in front of my nose for three decades now.
"But now it's at the point where I just want to get the monkey off my back. And it's looking like it's finally going to happen. We have the financing. We have a director: Robert Lorenz, who's been first assistant director to Clint Eastwood on a bunch of his movies. He recently directed Trouble With the Curve. We have a script. It's by Dan Gordon, who did the screenplays for Wyatt Earp and The Hurricane. The last chip that needs to fall into place is getting a big actor attached to one of the two lead roles. And we're very close on that, too."
Jeff opened the door again. "Unless I've lost my mind, isn't that the girl from the — "
"Yes, Jeff, will you please leave me alone? I'm trying to do this interview."
Glazer pulled his glasses up and rested them on his forehead. He rubbed his hands over his face and leaned back in a gesture of exhaustion.
"Craig needs to be a younger guy, so I'm thinking maybe somebody from the Twilight movies for that role," he said. "We need an older, established guy for Woodbeck." (Don Woodbeck was Glazer's sting partner.) "Personally, I like Jeremy Renner for the part. What do you think of Jeremy Renner? Hurt Locker? The Town?"
The woman returned with a drink for Glazer. She walked it around to his side of the desk, handed it to him and said, "I forgot to do something." She bent down and kissed him on the lips. Glazer returned the kiss with the expression of someone whose dog had just wakened him from a nap by licking his face.
"We're about done," he told her. "Couple minutes, I'll come out there."
She left again, and Glazer took his time through a number of topics: his regular appearances on Johnny Dare's radio show; the absurdities of America's drug laws; how he was one of eight people whom the comedian Jimmie Walker thanked in his autobiography, Dyn-O-Mite!
It was a typically stream-of-consciousness outpouring from a man who winds stories of sexual conquests around recollections of business success tied to ruminations on fame. Sometimes five minutes pass before he attempts to circle back to his original point. Sometimes 45 minutes whir by, and Glazer finds that he has lost the trail.
"Lots of people around here don't know, but Stanford and Sons basically launched the careers of Larry the Cable Guy and Lewis Black," Glazer said. He paused to listen to a muffled noise outside the door. He held up one index finger and cocked his ear. The door flew open.
"Get her out of here," Jeff said. "She flicked a cigarette at a customer. I don't want her in the building. She's nuts. I'm calling security."
The woman re-entered. Glazer looked at her, turned up his palms and said, "What are you doing?"
"What?" the woman said, feigning surprise. "Nothing."
"Why can't you just sit down and be quiet?" Glazer said. "What did you do?"
"There was a drunk girl out in the hallway, and I said, 'You like Craig's brother, don't you?' And she's like, 'What the fuck do you have to say about it?' And I'm like, 'Nothing, I just thought that maybe you liked Craig's brother.' Oh, my God. And she's like, 'Well, you're a dumb bitch,' and I'm like — I mean, Craig, the bartender and three of your waitresses saw it. I just backed off. It was, like, crazy, though. I was just trying to hook your brother up with this chick."
"He's not interested," Glazer said. "He has a girlfriend."
"Well, fine, I get that now," she said. "This is what you get for owning a bar. Crazy people."
Jeff addressed his brother: "Who the hell is she that she can come in here and dictate anything or say anything about what's going on here?"
"I didn't dictate shit," the woman said.
"You come in here and throw a cigarette on a customer," Jeff started.
"She got in my face and was calling me a cunt, and I flicked a cigarette at her chest. Big deal. What is your problem?"
"My problem is you," Jeff said. "Why are you here?"
"I can't do this," Glazer said.
"Why am I here? Why are you talking to me like I'm some fuckin' stranger? Because I'm fuckin' not. You didn't just fuckin' meet me yesterday. I've known Craig 15 years in the making."
"I don't want her near the crowd, Craig," Jeff said. He left.
"I have to seat the late-show crowd now," Glazer told the woman. "Will you just stay in here and be quiet?"
A line of guests for the 9:45 show had formed near the entrance to the theater, and Glazer spent the next 10 minutes assigning them to their seats. When he was done, the venue was about three-quarters full — "pretty good considering it's been raining all day," he said. Glazer sat down in a chair in the back row and shook his head, a little tired.
Jeff came over. "I just caught her snooping around on your Facebook," he said.
Glazer sighed and then got up and walked along the side of the theater, disappearing backstage. A few seconds later, he stepped onto the stage, took the microphone, heard scattered applause. "We got a great show for you guys tonight."
Type "Craig Glazer" into the The Kansas City Star's database, and the newspaper returns 360 articles from 1993 through 2011. The stories in which Glazer's name appears range from Westport shootings to Chiefs pep rallies to federal cocaine indictments. The aggregate portrait that emerges is of a local celebrity with diverse interests, questionable ethics and big ideas.
His father, Stanford Glazer, could be described in the same terms. The elder Glazer opened Stanford and Sons in 1975 in Westport and ran unsuccessfully for mayor of Kansas City in 2003 and 2007. In The King of Sting, Glazer reserves most of his sarcasm and scorn for his dad, whom he regards as an absent and cruel figure during his youth. (Stan called Craig "Larry Lardbutt" as a child and referred to Jeff as "Little Hitler.")
Glazer grew up here, attending Shawnee Mission East High School. At Arizona State University, he met Woodbeck and embarked on a life of crime. The first 100 pages of The King of Sting detail this period of Glazer's life, though beyond Glazer's word, the truth is hard to verify. As the book tells it, he and Woodbeck (a laconic Vietnam vet, the Butch Cassidy to Glazer's Sundance Kid) spent a couple of years in Arizona dealing weed, robbing pernicious drug dealers and living as outlaws. When the lifestyle got too hot — Glazer claims that there was a $5,000 bounty on his head — he returned to Kansas City.
It was then that the Kansas Attorney General's Office came knocking. They'd heard about Glazer's exploits in Arizona and wanted his help as an undercover narcotics agent. (This part of the story checks out; Glazer worked under Kansas Attorney General Vern Miller, who at the time was ramping up drug busts to build his résumé before a run for governor.) Glazer, 20 years old at the time, has claimed that he was the nation's youngest special agent.
In typical action-movie fashion, Glazer recruited his old partner, Woodbeck, to assist him. Quickly, the lines of legality blurred, dubious tactics were employed, and Glazer and Woodbeck were eventually arrested for trying to frame two men on a coke buy at a motel in Merriam. Glazer has always insisted that he and Woodbeck were the ones who got framed, but they were both convicted of conspiracy to distribute cocaine. Glazer appealed and was eventually given probation instead of jail time.
Around this time, Glazer began working at his father's restaurant, Stanford and Sons. The place had become one of KC's hot spots, and Glazer liked the glamour. He didn't like the grunt work, though.
"In the late '70s, I was the Kansas City Tony Manero, John Travolta's character in Saturday Night Fever," he writes in The King of Sting. "By day working seventy hours a week at a dead-end job at my father's restaurant, by night enjoying a life of rotating disco balls and rotating girlfriends."
When his probation ended, Glazer decided that it was time to make a movie based on his adventures. He put together a treatment for his life story — he was 28 at the time — and fired it off to hundreds of Hollywood agents. One agent bit, and in 1981 Glazer successfully optioned his story to CBS Theatrical Films for $300,000. He tracked down Woodbeck, and the two went off to conquer Hollywood.
"I first crossed paths with Craig sometime in the early '80s," said Sal Manna, a former journalist who later co-wrote The King of Sting.
"He was trying to be a Hollywood player, is how I'd describe Craig in those years. He was really going for it. He was involved with writers, producers, directors, actors — trying to get into the movie industry just like many thousands of others."
Not everyone found his story charming. In a 1981 Kansas City Times editorial, Arthur Brisbane criticized Glazer's sting tales: "However entertaining this Robin Hood movie might be, though, it might be a better idea to make a movie about Glazer's exploits after the Robin Hood period. Wouldn't it be more interesting to learn how Glazer, working as an undercover officer for the state of Kansas in 1974, managed to frame two black men even as his sidekick Woodbeck was caught literally holding the bag? That's a much more interesting story, and it's certifiably true, as numerous court hearings will attest."
Dan York, a vice president of production at Universal Pictures during Glazer's swashbuckling Hollywood days, said, "Craig pitched me this Outlaws story, which I related to because I grew up in South Texas and was familiar with the strange phenomenon of high school buddies getting involved in the pot-smuggling trade in Mexico. ... I had a friend in high school who was shotgunned on the road for getting involved in Mexican gang stuff. So I knew this type of stuff happened, that there was still this kind of Wild West in America. But these New York and L.A. guys just weren't buying it."
York and Glazer later worked on a handful of other scripts together, but none ever went into production.
"I spent too much time in L.A. chasing bimbos, going to Hollywood parties, staying up until 4 in the morning drinking, hanging with celebrities," Glazer said. "I was hanging out with guys like Sonny Landham, Mickey Rourke, Gary Busey, and acting like I was one of them. But I wasn't like them. They had careers in the industry. I just had this story that wasn't even made yet.
"I got so much publicity for that story. I was on the Today show. Entertainment Tonight did a two-part special. Hollywood really ate up what we were doing because we were these authentic cowboy outlaw types. And Hollywood has a way of perpetuating the party lifestyle we were living. But ultimately, I hadn't made it yet. I was too busy living the life of a celebrity without really having the goods to back it up."
Glazer tried his hand at acting; worked for a B-movie company, buying songs from bands to place in films; and, along with Woodbeck, gradually backslid toward crime.
In 1982, Woodbeck was killed in a bloody shootout in a hotel room after a cocaine deal went bad. In 1984, Glazer was busted for money laundering. He served four years in various California prisons. When he was released, in 1988, he stuck around Hollywood, working on more scripts. A few were optioned but never made.
"It was just disappointment after disappointment," Glazer said. "And eventually, everything dried up. Dan [York] looked at me one day and said, 'Look, you're talented, but sometimes you gotta do something else to make your dreams come true.' So I flew back to Kansas City in 1990. My dad was about to give the Stanford and Sons restaurant to my brother, Jeff, and I came back to help run it."
"I think it's fair to say I have the most recognizable voice in the city," Glazer said one Wednesday morning about a month ago.
His Macho Man Randy Savage–on-valium voice is a constant on local airwaves. He records advertising spots for Stanford and Sons (always closing with his "Think about it!" catchphrase) and shows up as a radio guest on 98.9 the Rock, Mix 93.3 and Q104, alongside whatever comic is performing at Stanford and Sons that weekend.
He's a regular around local TV stations, too. On another recent morning, at KSHB Channel 41, he introduced himself to an attractive young woman working there as "the most controversial media figure in the city," then asked her if she was single. She mentioned a fiancé. He replied that he'd written a book about his life as an outlaw and that he'd bring her a copy of it the following week.
On this Wednesday, though, his black Lotus sports car was parked next to the entrance of Entercom's Mission offices, and Glazer was waiting with comedian Nick Vatterott to go on Johnny Dare's morning show. Glazer sipped coffee and explained his media routine.
"We do Dare on Wednesdays, and sometimes we also do 610 Sports on Wednesdays," he said. "Thursdays we used to do Channel 5 TV, but they canceled that show [KCTV's Better Kansas City]. Friday we'll do NBC 41, and sometimes WDAF Channel 4. And we always do Mix 93.3, Q104 and Alice 102. And if it's a black comic, we might do Hot 103 Jamz. There are occasions on Fridays where I'll do five or six shows: four radio, two TV."
One of Dare's assistants came over and asked Vatterott what he wanted to talk about during the interview. Vatterott said he wanted to make fun of Matthew "Mancow" Muller, the Kansas City-born, Chicago-based morning DJ syndicated in some small U.S. markets.
"Johnny doesn't like Mancow," the assistant said. "They don't get along. He doesn't even like it when people mention him." Vatterott suggested that he talk about bad morning DJs in general. He got the OK.
Inside the studio, Vatterott and Glazer took their spots in front of microphones across from Dare as the host talked his way into the segment. After some chitchat with Vatterott, Dare brought Glazer into the conversation. Glazer plays a heightened version of himself on Dare's show — raunchier and a little racist, in the mold of Archie Bunker. Glazer told a story about having sex with a woman he met on Grindr, the website on which people post their locations in the hopes of finding some nearby individual who wants to hook up.
"You're just one big herpe," Dare said.
The actor Rick Schroder (Lonesome Dove, NYPD Blue) called in during Vatterott's segment. He and Dare spoke for 10 minutes about a new, unscripted show that Schroder is involved with, in which he's teamed with the U.S. Army to depict military life.
Glazer was not impressed. "A little over the top," he said on the air, after Schroder hung up.
"How is your book selling?" Dare shot back.
"Why are you bringing up the book?"
"Because you're trying to demean Rick Schroder."
"I wasn't demeaning him."
"It's always 'big me, little you' with him [Glazer]," Dare told his audience. "You are going to be the guy whose greatest regret in life is that you didn't get your movie, about you, made. ... You know you're never going to get this movie made."
Glazer's tone changed. "Well, I'm not going to get into it, but we're just about there." But before the segment was over, Glazer had brought Dare, Vatterott and every 98.9 listener up to speed on the progress of the film.
In the parking lot afterward, discussing Dare and his show, Glazer said, "Look, credit to Johnny: He's the most successful media personality in the history of the city. But is he a friend?"
He paused and let a wounded look register briefly on his face. "You know, would a friend say that he hopes your movie never gets made?"
Dare and Glazer's relationship perhaps owes its chill to the deterioration of their business venture. In 2004, as Stanford and Sons faced a lawsuit from its Westport landlord, the Glazer brothers and Dare opened a hard-rock-and-barbecue club together in the space. Johnny Dare's, as it was called, filed for bankruptcy less than a year later.
"It was a great idea at the wrong location," Glazer said. "Our salaries were way too high. The space was too small. Johnny tried to get involved with running it, which led to a million arguments. Once it wasn't doing so hot anymore, he wouldn't be there. For him, it was just like, 'Well, I'll just move on and keep doing radio, no big deal.' So I think ultimately our relationship was damaged as a result." (Dare didn't return phone calls for this story.)
The closing of Dare's was Glazer's final bow in Westport, where he had seen his 1990s success in that district dry up.
For a few years after his 1990 return to Kansas City, Glazer kept an apartment in Los Angeles. But by 1994, he had begun to import a bit of Hollywood to KC. The Glazer brothers had taken over Stanford and Sons and had gone after a younger crowd, adding a dance club and a pool room.
A few years later, Stanford's Comedy Club — which Stan had opened at a different Westport address and still owned — closed, and Glazer moved it back above the original Stanford and Sons. The dance-club version of Stanford and Sons had begun attracting local star athletes, and now the comedy club was booking national celebrities. The address was again one of the hottest spots in Kansas City, a place to see Chiefs and Royals players, comics on their way up, beautiful women and rich men. From 1990 to 1995, food and liquor sales nearly doubled.
Glazer became a vocal cheerleader for Westport as an entertainment district. Along with Bill Nigro, another Westport merchant and property owner, he spearheaded Chiefs pep rallies and car shows there. Playboy Playmates and Chiefs players would attend.
"I suppose Craig was kind of a ringleader for a lot of fun stuff in Westport in those years," Nigro recalled recently. "Some of the more outstanding press we got for our events definitely happened because of Craig. I'd probably say that a lot of the behind-the-scenes stuff of organizing the events was more on my plate. But we had great times there in the '90s in Westport."
Glazer's name appeared constantly in the Star, in Hearne Christopher Jr.'s city-gossip column and Jeffrey Flanagan's sports-oriented gossip column.
"He was great for the column," Christopher told The Pitch. "He's this outrageous guy who has the top comedy club in town. He gets big-name guys. He flies close to some celebrities. He's a sportsaholic who's friends with a lot of athletes. He's an older guy with an appetite for quite younger women. And he loves to kiss and tell. He's just a character, and he really loves the magic of journalism, and he's been very good at worming his way into the local media limelight."
Glazer later wrote columns for KC Confidential, the blog that Christopher started after being laid off by the Star in 2008. The men parted company last year because, according to Christopher, "He writes really long and he would get up at the crack of dawn and furiously type up a column. But spellcheck can't check names or facts. He eventually just became too exhausting to edit."
Long before that break, though, courts and the rule of law interfered with Glazer's ability to manipulate his own press. In 1998, Stan sued Glazer and Jeff, alleging that they'd reneged on an agreement to pay him $5,000 a month in exchange for ownership of the comedy club. But it was an oral agreement, and Stan lost the lawsuit.
"They're my ex-sons now," Stan told the Star at the time. "Their greed cost them their father."
Despite living in the same Plaza high-rise — the Sulgrave — Glazer and Stan didn't speak for two years. To spite his sons, who were planning to open a Stanford's offshoot in Overland Park, Stan opened his own comedy club in Overland Park and called it Stanford Glazer's Comedy Club. It lasted about a year; Glazer and Jeff's OP Stanford and Sons made it seven years before the brothers moved it to the Legends.
In 2000, Glazer began taking shots in Christopher's column at then-Mayor Kay Barnes and floating the idea of his own mayoral run. "I would get on the air or I'd be in Hearne's column saying, 'I turned Westport around. I can turn all of Kansas City around,' " Glazer said.
But in September 2001, Glazer was indicted by a federal grand jury and charged with conspiracy to distribute Ecstasy, marijuana and cocaine. He pleaded guilty. Federal prosecutors acknowledged that he was mostly sharing the drugs with friends and girlfriends, not buying in large quantities to distribute and not selling. Glazer got off with three years' probation, a $5,000 fine and three months at a halfway house.
"You have to understand, during that period, Stanford's was the most happening spot in the city," Glazer said. "I'd have athletes and celebrities hanging out in my office, and we'd do blow, just like a lot of entertainers do blow. It was my business to entertain people. Most people in the industry at that time were doing exactly what I was doing. Yes, it was criminal because the stuff's illegal. But I wasn't involved in any clandestine operations."
He blames Barnes for his bust. "I would be on Dare, exaggerating 10-to-1 about my party lifestyle to be funny, and I think law enforcement thought, 'Who the fuck does this guy think he is? This guy went to prison and clearly hasn't learned his lesson.'
"They tapped my phone for a year and got nothing. They had no evidence. They busted a couple of low-level dealers that had sold me a couple of bags over time. I mean, why even indict me? So, do I think I was indicted because people wanted to knock me out of the mayor's race? Yes. Do I think I'd have won? Yes. It'd at least have been close."
Glazer is now a columnist on the local blog Tony's Kansas City, where his writing is increasingly nostalgic and reflective. Sometimes that means self-congratulatory navel gazing about the cost of fame. Sometimes it's a tribute to black women. And sometimes it's a tender Father's Day tribute to 81-year-old Stan.
"He caps the night off for us," Tony Botello, the founder of Tony's Kansas City, said in June. "I've always been focused on starting the news cycle in the morning, so we post Craig's stuff at the end of the day — kind of a 'thought for the day' type of thing. I just think he's an interesting guy with unique insights and a pretty wide breadth of knowledge."
On the last Monday in June, Glazer was sitting on a white-leather couch in the living room of his Fairway condo, wearing And 1 basketball shorts that nearly reached his ankles, and a matching white And 1 shirt. His friendly dachshund, Junior, was resting beside him. A DVD of Champions Forever, a boxing documentary that he produced after being released from prison in the 1980s, sat on his mantel. A Playboy peeked from a stack of magazines on the coffee table.
Glazer has no children. He has been engaged a couple of times but married only once. It was 2003. She was 22, and he was 47. They divorced in 2008.
"Once in a while, I regret it," Glazer said. "It would be hard to find someone like Connie again. But the thing of having someone in your space all the time — I just don't think I'm built for it. I don't want to go to Grandma's house and do midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. Connie's sister was married to this Mexican guy. She invites their family over one day, and all of a sudden there's 20 Mexican kids running around here in my living room. It's like, 'Fuck, I don't want to do this. I want to watch the Raider game.'
"A couple years ago, I went to a psychologist because I was feeling weird about getting divorced," Glazer said. "He said, 'I know you. I know you've dated beautiful women. You wouldn't be satisfied with Miss Universe. You get bored. You're a hunter and you want to hunt.' He said, 'Get a dog and date around.' And that's what I've done. I would have to be hospitalized if this dog died."
Glazer maintains a rotating cast of girlfriends, all apparently comfortable with open relationships and being discussed on Johnny Dare's show. Earlier in the evening, one of his girlfriends — a tall, muscular, African-American woman known to listeners of Dare's show as "Chocolate Becky" — had stopped by. Now she looked tired and annoyed. She retreated into Glazer's bedroom.
During his 1980s Hollywood days, in Glazer's account, he dated a number of beautiful, semi-famous actresses, including Priscilla Barnes (who replaced Suzanne Somers in Three's Company) and Sandahl Bergman, a KC native who played opposite Arnold Schwarzenegger in Conan the Barbarian. There were Penthouse models, including an on-again, off-again with Christine Dupree, the centerfold in the Penthouse that had Madonna on the cover.
"In the '90s, when I was in Westport, it was a situation where I literally couldn't keep up with all the women," Glazer said. "I'd be hanging out with Johnny Damon, Joe Montana, Pauly Shore. There were women everywhere. At the end of the night, you end up with one or two of them. I don't own a nightclub anymore, so there's not as many of those types of nights anymore."
Stan, with whom Glazer is once again close, said, "I think getting older bothers him more than most people. He's a dapper guy and he likes dating younger women, and I think he's afraid aging is going to slow him down."
Glazer knows where his bachelor lifestyle is headed: "I can work out all I want. I can take testosterone. But at some point, you gotta look at what's coming next."
Chocolate Becky emerged from the bedroom and started to gather her things. "Why won't you just make yourself a drink and hang out with us," Glazer said. She mixed a screwdriver and sat at a table 10 feet away, keeping her back to Glazer.
Glazer returned again to his point.
"That's why the movie is so important to me," he said. "If I could just walk onto the set of The King of Sting, if we could just get that movie made, I could lay down and go to sleep and never wake up after that. The movie is all that's left for me. Because I've already done everything else. I've been a gunfighter, I've been a special agent, I've been in jail, I've been on the front page, I've slept with all the women, I've hung with the celebrities, I've written a book, I've had a nightclub, I've got the top comedy club.
"People can say all they want about Craig Glazer, but, fuck, the guy has been in the spotlight for four decades now. Forty years, and this Glazer guy just won't go away!"