SLOW FADE TO BLACK:

a novel by

Gorman Bechard

Installment #2

Gorman Bechard

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, films, books, songs, TV programs, universities, cities, politicians and incidents, in other words EVERYTHING depicted in SLOW FADE TO BLACK: is fictitious, or use fictitiously. The events in this work of fiction are not real, nor are they intended to be so interpreted. For example, any quotes, speeches, thoughts, newspaper headlines, histories, anything and everything contained herein is completely a product of the author's imagination and there is no intention to imply that any of it is real.

CUT TO:

SIX

Michelle Bialer was on the phone. She sat in the relative comfort of her William Morris Agency office on the thirty-second floor of their Avenue of the America's East Coast headquarters. Film scripts and yet to be published book manuscripts were piled high on every conceivable flat surface in the room, save two: her seat, and Max's.

Sipping from a can of Tab, he watched her as she spoke, as she negotiated, as she schmoozed her way through a list of the world's exclusive club of film distributors: Twentieth Century Fox, Warner Brothers, Disney, Theilgard, Paramount, Universal, TriStar, and Columbia. Add to that list every major-minor: New Line, Propaganda, PolyGram, Samuel Goldwyn, and Miramax, and the William Morris Agency would have one hell of a debt to settle with AT&T in the name of their client John Maxwell -- those three-oh-one, two-one-three and eight-one-eight area codes receiving quite a working over from Michelle's two-one-two phone.

There wasn't one of the aforementioned companies that didn't want to be in business with Max, that didn't want to distribute his film. They offered elephant dollars up front and one, two, three and even four picture production deals.

"What about final cut?" Max asked. What good was shooting a film for someone, he wondered, when they can just fuck it up in post production? "I hear a song by Bob Mould, they hear one by Michael Bolton."

"No one's going to put a Michael Bolton song in one of your movies," Michelle said.

"Not and live to talk about it," he said.

She shot him a look, but he didn't so much as crack a smile.

"I'm not joking," he said.

"Let's not worry about soundtracks right now," she advised. "Let's get you out there. You can meet with these people. Discuss your concerns, your desires face-to-face. Then I'll get everything you want . . . and more . . . down in writing."

"I like Miramax," he said. "They'll know how to handle Defeated."

"They're very hot on it," she said. "But I don't think you should limit yourself. Remember, they're not in the league to give you a three picture deal."

He was silent. He knew what was coming next.

"I want you to meet with some of the majors. Fox, Warners, Disney . . ." She looked up.

Max was shaking his head.

"Okay," she said. "Not Disney."

"Thank you."

"Theilgard okay?"

"I guess," he said, exasperated.

"Universal, Paramount, . . ."

"What about Propaganda?"

". . . and Propaganda." She glanced at the list she held in her hands. "From one of these we'll get you what you're looking for."

"And what exactly is that?" he asked. "What am I looking for?"

"Hmm," Michelle said. "I'm not really sure, Max. Are you?"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "It's been a long time since I've known the answer to that question."

CUT TO:

He once knew. He once could have answered in a heartbeat. He once would have yelled it up to the sky, proclaimed it to anyone who'd listen. That he, John Maxwell, being of sound mind and body, wanted only to be the greatest director the film world had ever seen.

Period.

That was back in film school, more than a decade earlier.

The New York University film department, where he put in his four years, like every other Martin Scorsese wannabe. First running extension cords, running over dialogue, running for burgers -- the production assistant route. Then financing, budgeting, camera operating, lighting, editing, sound, script formats, script writing, which film stock looked best under what circumstances, and how to get an actor and/or actress to, Goddamnit, respond. He watched the classics from Edwin S. Porter's The Great Train Robbery -- the first of all narrative films -- to Taxi Driver, from everything Charlie Chaplin to anything Woody Allen, from Georges Melies' A Trip to the Moon to any and all Alfred Hitchcock, until he had committed to memory the master's every film in order of release, could tell you when where and how Hitch made each of his infamous little appearances, and could visualize every last one of the one hundred, four shots in that infamous Psycho shower scene. And that was only the first year.

Things got easier as a sophomore. A few less burger runs, a promise that he'd never again have to watch The Birth of a Nation, and more time behind the camera. Max loved being behind the camera -- it was a sheltering sky of solitude and satisfaction -- and soon became known as the grand whiz kid of cinematography, the six syllables that warranted genuflections and wows. To handle a camera is to live, and other such film school cliches. He shot eleven shorts for eleven classmates over eleven weekends that first semester. He was a cameraman in demand, at least to the underclassmen of the New York University film department. But he wanted to direct. He wanted to point and advise and whisper the enchanted word. He wanted to shout and decide, "Let's shoot it this way." Max wanted to play God in his little make believe world: "You die a slow agonizing death! You live happily ever after! You fall in love! You spend the rest of your natural life regretting a simple yes/no decision!"

Freshmen weren't allowed, but sophomores, well, they got a break, a couple rolls of film, and a weekend's worth of equipment. And it was time for his break. It was time for him to make a thousand yes/no decisions in one solitary day. It was time for his weekend as God. It was time for him to whisper, "Action."

And whisper it he did. As well as yell it, scream it from the rafters, shout it to the heavens, cry it into his beer.

Goddamn, that first film was a mess. A chaotic jumble of artsy-fartsy images and meaningless title cards -- he'd admit that in a minute. A sophomoric two minute, forty-seven second silent black and white ode to a girl he thought broke his heart. Its title came from the first line of an Anne Sexton poem. The girlfriend loved Anne Sexton -- that should have been a clue.

But there would be other films.

Max's junior year effort played the international film festival circuit, and even copped some awards -- one in Italy, another in Brazil -- best of show/most promising student director kind of blue ribbon things. No cash. Cash a film student could use. Though the ribbons looked nice on his shoe-box-sized studio apartment walls. And that bronze doohickey that sort of looked like a reel of film, well, it made a great paperweight.

Entitled Best Friend and running almost eight minutes in length, this second film was a brutal expose on the destruction of unwanted dogs at a local animal shelter. Max had told the shelter's director he was making a film that would portray the shelter as one that helped and cared for animals. He had lied. When Best Friend was aired on a Manhattan Cable local access channel, it caused such a controversy, the City of New York launched an investigation into the operation of the shelter. Its director was shortly thereafter indicted on numerous counts of animal abuse, misappropriation of funds and mail fraud. And the film student was suddenly a hero amongst his fellow classmates. His film had made a difference. He had gone against the system, bucked it, fucked it over and won.

"Yeah, but what about the dogs?" he'd asked anyone who'd listen. "Can't something be done to help the dogs?" Max hadn't made the film for notoriety, he made it to help the animals. His motivations were slowly evolving. He was growing up.

That summer he worked around the clock on the low budget feature film debut of a beloved East Village underground poet/author. It was a horror comedy that wasn't funny or frightening -- just plain horrible. But he could use the experience, he needed the free lunches and that extra pocket change. Logging in those hours behind the Eclair NPR 16mm camera, he watched, he observed, and more than anything else, Max learned what not to do when making a film. The horror comedy made its way straight to video, its director went back to his word processor, and Max became a senior.

His thesis was a forty-four minute full color, multi-track stereo sound epic. He would have filmed it in cinemascope as well, but student films were never filmed in cinemascope. At least not student films from students who needed to pinch every penny just to get by.

It was about a fifteen-year-old streetwalker named Sarah, who had allowed him access to her life and profession, insight into her soul. She was a bright and likeable teenager, a little skinny and real pale with a face full of freckles, and a laugh the size Texas. But she was petite, five feet tall at best, a pixie.

Film fanatics and cinema snobs the world over clamored to see Sarah. It was the hit of that year's festival circuit, capturing every prize a short documentary could win, cumulating in late March at the student Academy Awards presentation in Hollywood.

He had planned on bringing Sarah to the event. She had even bought a special dress at a local Salvation Army store. It was black and long, and looked like something straight out of the 1940's. Max told her she like a movie star in it. That notion made the fifteen-year-old laugh.

"Me, a movie star?" she had said.

"Swear to God," Max said. "You look like Veronica Lake."

"I don't know who that is," Sarah said. "Is she pretty?"

"Movie stars don't get any prettier than Veronica Lake."

"Honest?"

"You bet."

But Sarah never lived to see the awards presentation. She never lived to see her sixteenth birthday. She never lived to clutch that golden statuette to her chest. She was strangled by a crazed john, or so some New York City police detective theorized. "An open and shut case," he called it.

Max just nodded -- a humongous mother-fuck of a Why? reverberating in his head. He felt novocaine numb and nauseous -- like he want to throw up and kill someone all in the same moment. Like he had joined Sarah on the other side. Like he was dead.

And in the morgue, looking down at her bruised neck, at her blue lips, at the long black dress ripped and tattered, he said, "Yeah, that's Sarah." And though he tried to listen as the cop explained that they'd do their best to catch the son-of-a-bitch, etcetera, etcetera, and so on, all he could think about was that Sarah would never laugh again.

He gave it all up that night.

He gave up everything.

Tossing his films, those Goddamn meaningless ribbons and award certificates, and that mother-fucking bronze doohickey that made a great paperweight into a heavy-weight cardboard box, he mailed it out to his Uncle Bill, with a note to, "Please put this in the attic with the rest of my stuff." Then he threw what clothing he had, really just a few pairs of jeans and some old shirts, into a suitcase, and he disappeared.

Seemingly from the face of the earth.

CUT TO:

SEVEN

James Utz worked for Jeffrey Theilgard in a unspecified capacity. He would stop by Theilgard's office two maybe three times a week for a private closed door meeting that would last anywhere from five minutes to three hours.

Even Randall Adams, who arranged his boss's schedule and appointments, wasn't sure what duty exactly Utz performed. He just knew that beyond any doubt or reason, he disliked and distrusted the mean, putrid little man.

But to Jeffrey Theilgard, Utz was, well, a friend, of sorts. A confidant, a partner. Utz understood Theilgard better than any man or woman alive -- it was as if he could read the big man's mind, as if he knew his pressure points and the location of his emergency shut-off valve, as if he accepted the boom-chick-a-boom, don't-you-just-love-it? that made him tick.

Utz had done a relatively extensive background check on John Maxwell. He knew all about his college career, he knew why Max disappeared, though he didn't know to where -- though the absence of a police rap sheet inferred that he had kept his nose mostly clean. The hairless man even managed to meet with a few of the production assistants from Defeated at the Paradise Hotel with One Last Request, who were more than willing to share anything and everything they knew about their director for a fifty dollar tip.

"He checks out," Utz reported, more than once. "As well as any of 'em. He's a hard worker who just wants to be the greatest fucking filmmaker of all time." He nodded Theilgard's way. "Just the way you like 'em."

Theilgard laughed. "Indeed."

"He's got no family . . . to speak of."

"Is he gay?"

"Why," Utz asked, with a repellent smile. "Looking for a companion for Randy?" More than anything in life Randall Adams hated the nickname Randy.

"Hardly," Theilgard said.

"No," Utz smiled. "In fact, he seems to really love women. And I mean women in the most plural of ways. But the weird thing is, they stick around. He's got like a hundred best friends, all broads. And I mean some real lookers, like that hotel maid in his movie. Jesus-fucking Christ!"

"And here I thought you were beyond women," Theilgard said.

"I like to watch, remember?"

"How could I forget," the big man said, waving suddenly with his hand for Utz to go on. "You were saying."

"Yeah, all these broads. And he's fucked 'em all, or most of 'em, from what I could gather. They're like his little fuck buddies. His drinking buddies . . ."

"Does he have a drinking problem?" Theilgard interrupted.

"Like that would matter in this town?" he said, continuing, "But no, there doesn't seem to be a problem."

"Good."

"It's just the broads, they adore the fuck out of him, let him stay at their apartments. He's got a love shack in virtually every state." He shook his head. "Go fucking figure."

"You sure he's not gay?" Theilgard asked.

"That I'm positive about."

"Good," Theilgard said. "That'll make things easy."

"I'd say so," Utz said, nodding. "I'd most definitely say Mr. Maxwell will be eating out of your hands before you can say, 'one hundred million dollar gross.'"

Theilgard laughed. "That's the problem with you, Utz. You think small."

CUT TO:

Randall Adams was surprised, gratified even, when Michelle Bialer called to inform him that her client would be interested in meeting with Mr. Theilgard in regards to a distribution deal for his film, and a possible production deal with the studio.

The big man would be pleased.

Randall then, per instructions, offered for Theilgard Studios to pay for Max's flight out to L.A. -- first class of course -- and to arrange his lodgings.

In her New York office, Michelle covered the mouth piece of the telephone receiver with her hand and whispered to Max. "Theilgard's willing to foot the bill for your trip to L.A."

"No strings," Max asked, thinking Miramax was it. Period. They were distributing his movie.

She spoke back to Randall. "No strings?" she asked.

"None," Randall said. "We just want Mr. Maxwell to experience a little of the first class treatment he'll receive if he should decide to make films for Theilgard Studios."

She looked over at Max and shook her head. He shrugged, then quietly added, "I sure as hell can't afford to fly out there."

She nodded. "We'll accept your offer," she said into the phone.

"Great!" Randall said. "Any preference between the Beverly Wilshire or Le Bel Age?"

"Um," Michelle said, glancing over at Max. "Le Bel Age," Her thinking was that her client might make a scene upon venturing into the Wilshire's lobby of blue-haired old ladies in furs. He might finally hurt someone.

"You've got it," Randall said, explaining that a limo would be picking Mr. Maxwell up at the airport. "It'll take him wherever you needs to go."

"Even to other studios?" Michelle asked.

"It's his for the duration of his stay."

"That's very kind."

"It's our pleasure, really."

Details were arranged, pleasantries exchanged, and the conversation was over.

Randall hung up the phone. From a file cabinet he pulled out a stack of eight by tens and flipped through the faces -- all wannabes to the umpteenth power. But only a knockout would do, of that he was sure. A blonde. Yes! A statuesque blonde -- that was what the boss ordered. A blonde for Mr. Maxwell! The name slapped him across the face immediately, she was as alluring as she was perfect. New in town, and anxious. Anxious for a part in a Theilgard production. She wanted to be an actress, or so she had explained to Randall when she dropped off her headshot. And she was willing to do anything for a break. Well, here was a little part she'd most definitely be able to handle. A little perk for John Maxwell. A little guarantee. "See what you get Max baby, when you're working for Theilgard? It don't get any better than this." Randall laughed to himself as he dialed her number. Straight men were so absurdly predictable, so remarkably easy. She'd wiggle her little butt, or maybe just smile, and old Max would follow blindly like a dog in heat, howling raa-ooh at the moon. Yeah, she was the one -- a perfect little flesh-plated charm to help lure John Maxwell to Theilgard Studios.

CUT TO:

EIGHT

Paige Turner was preparing dinner in her small studio apartment in the Melrose Avenue section of West Hollywood. She had spent most of the day, as she seemed to have spent a lot of the past year, up in the Federal Bureau of Investigations facility in Altedena, California -- Quantico West, it was often called -- just north of Los Angeles proper, going over those countless missing person files. Five years worth in all, and growing every day. But five years back was enough. She was certain that this latest video was fresh, a recent production. And the young victim was just that, eighteen, nineteen, twenty at best. A photo more than five years old would hardly be recognizable at this point.

So far she had come up with zilch. But she hardly expected to find a match on the first day. So, after printing out still photograph after still photograph from the various freeze framed video images -- shots of the pendent to see if it was the same, any glimpse of the ski-masked man, eyes, mouths, wrists, and, of course, shots of the victim -- she approximated her height to be five-five, her weight to be one, fifteen, give or take a few pounds, she was female, obviously, and Caucasian, with light blonde hair and blue eyes. Unfortunately there were no tattoos, or visible scars, no body piercings or birth marks. Still, what she knew narrowed the possibilities. Only about twelve thousand missing girls matched that description.

The phone in Paige's apartment rang countless times before she actually heard it, such was the volume at which she played her stereo, especially when she was cooking. Today's disc du jour was an oldie. The Replacements' Pleased To Meet Me -- the album that got her through her freshman year in college. The album had the power to heal. And one song in particular, "Valentine," still brought her heart to a standstill.

"Well you wish upon a star, that turns into a flame . . ."

Sing it, Paul.

During the break between when it faded out and "Shooting Dirty Pool" crashed in, she heard the persistent ring. Aiming the remote control at her stereo, she zapped the volume down low, and picked up the cordless receiver, pressing the TALK button.

"Hello," she said, putting her cooking utensils aside in exchange for a just-opened Rolling Rock beer.

"It's Selden."

"Someone confessed?"

"Someone's always confessing."

"Just not to our crime."

"Never to our crimes."

She took a long sip. "What's up?"

"He's on his way."

She smiled.

"Wipe that smile off your face," he ordered.

"Can I at least say, 'I told you so.'"

"You just did."

"What did you expect?"

"The worst," he said. "And for everything to go wrong." But after two years of working together on some of the bureau's toughest undercover cases, Paige knew that.

"He's broke, in debt up to his ears," she said. "And besides, he wants people to see his film. He didn't spend that sort of energy to have it sit on a shelf."

"Right," Selden said. "Just like he didn't spend that sort of energy so he could play cops n' robbers."

"It's more like good guy/bad guy," she corrected.

"Whatever. I suspect you'll soon discover that Mr. Righteous Filmmaker will be more interested in million dollar contracts and blonde starlets than in helping our cause."

It was the same argument over and over again. Selden had nothing but distaste for the movie industry. And Paige felt it went beyond the snuff films. She felt, somehow, that it was personal. Though Selden never said, and she wasn't about to ask.

"We'll see," she said finally. Though deep down, she felt Max would be on their side. She had studied him for almost six months. She knew everything. Everything. And there wasn't a chance in hell that he'd just close his eyes to such horror.

She'd bet her career on it.

She'd probably bet her life.

CUT TO:

The stubby chauffeur held a hand written sign that read: John Maxwell. Reluctant, almost embarrassed, Max walked over to the man and nodded a hello.

"Mr. Maxwell?" the chauffeur asked in an obvious Brooklyn accent.

"Yeah," Max said softly.

"I take it your flight was satisfactory?" he asked, reaching out for Max's suitcase.

"I got it," Max said.

"You sure?"

The filmmaker nodded.

"We'll pick up the rest of your luggage and be one our way," the chauffeur said.

"This is it," Max said, tugging at the shoulder strap of the bag he carried.

"Okay, then," the chauffeur said. "This way."

Max followed him a few steps, through the bristling American Airlines terminal of LAX, then said finally. "You got a name?"

The chauffeur, who was by this point sweating profusely, said, "Um . . . yeah, Joe."

Max held out his hand as if to shake the chauffeur's. "Nice to meet you, Joe. Call me, Max."

"Sure thing, sir," Joe the Chauffeur said, shaking his hand.

"Max."

"Right."

"Thanks."

"No problem."

Max followed Joe the Chauffeur to a parking area reserved for VIP's, and up to a black stretch contraption, a Mercedes, whose back seat was the size of Max's apartment during his NYU days.

Joe the Chauffeur pointed out the perks of the back seat -- the wet bar, TV and VCR, CD player, phone, fax machine and pull-out bed.

"Condoms," Joe said with a slight cough, "Are in here." He opened a small somewhat secretive compartment and revealed the collection of pain relievers, bandages, antacids, hairspray, combs, tooth paste, a tooth brush, dental floss, mouth wash, a complete manicure kit, and, yes, condoms -- a selection of lubricated, non-lubricated, ribbed and multi-colored, glow-in-the-dark and non-glow-in-the-dark varieties.

"I don't think I'll be needing any right now," Max said, not sure what else to say.

"You never know," Joe said, adding, "This is Hollywood."

"So I've heard," Max said, thinking, what the hell am I doing here?

CUT TO:

The lobby of Le Bel Age was everything that Michelle explained it would be, and, unfortunately, more.

"What's going on?" Max asked Joe the Chauffeur.

Joe the Chauffeur shrugged and asked a bellman.

"Some rock star's getting married," he explained to Max.

"Which one?"

Another shrug.

Long haired heavy metal types looking left-of-natural in black tuxes lingered about the lobby with MTV music video girls dressed in prom gowns. It was like the Twilight Zone meets the Playboy channel on some Head Banger's Ball acid trip -- weird, really weird.

"Ya gotta check in," Joe said.

Max nodded, gave the front desk clerk his driver's license, and signed a form of some sort. Then once again he followed Joe the Chauffeur, this time to the elevator, which arrived quickly, a Muzak version of Liz Phair's "Fuck And Run" playing at a reasonable volume. Once on board, Joe the Chauffeur pressed the circled eight, and they were off.

Room 812 was a one bedroom suite with jacuzzi, steam room, full bar, thirty-five inch video monitor with VCR and laser-disc player, a complete stereo system with five CD changer, and a balcony overlooking West Hollywood, Beverly Hills and most of Los Angeles. It was imposing in an Okay, I-want-to-be-imposed-upon sort of way.

Max searched his mind for something to say, but all that came out was a long exhale.

"Will you be needing my services further this afternoon?" Joe the Chauffeur asked, suddenly very formal.

"I'll walk around," Max said. "Get a feel for L.A."

"Sir," he said, "If you don't mind me saying so. No one walks around in L.A."

Max seemed perplexed.

"People will think you're homeless," Joe the Chauffeur explained.

Max shrugged. "Fuck 'em," he said.

"You might get arrested."

Max laughed.

"I'm serious, sir," Joe the Chauffeur said. "This isn't New York."

Max patted the stubby man on the shoulder and walked him over to the door. "You can say that again, Joe," he said, showing the chauffeur out. "Now take the rest of the night off. And meet me back here tomorrow morning at ten."

"No power breakfast?"

Every one of the chosen film studio executives had suggested meeting over breakfast. But Michelle knew better.

"I don't eat breakfast," Max explained. "Now get out of

here."

"But . . ."

"I promise, if I get tossed in jail, you'll be the first one to know."

CUT TO:

Max looked around the room. A sudden feeling of fear, or boredom, or what the fuck am I doing here? tickled the ends of his every nerve. He stuck his hands deep into his pants pocket, meandered over to the balcony, checked out the view, then over to the bathroom, checked that out too.

"Okay," he said, focusing on the stereo system. He wondered if the hotel had provided any discs for that CD changer. Opening a drawer quite close to the changer, his question was answered as he spotted the suspect collection: Whitney Houston, Mariah Carey, Harry Connick Jr., the Eagles, and Michael Bolton.