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.

He stared at the jewel boxes. A confounded look playing on his face. No one really listens to this music, he thought. How could they?

"Christ!" he said, slamming the drawer shut, picking up the room key Joe the Chauffeur had left in an ashtray, and heading for the door. He figured it was probably preferable to get arrested for appearing homeless, than it was for flinging those CD's off the balcony and out onto the busy Los Angeles streets below.

Then again . . .

His feet carried him back to the elevator -- the Muzak of choice this time around, "Cannonball," from the Breeders -- back through the lobby, and out onto Sunset Boulevard, where turning right he spotted a sidewalk lined with books and magazines. Inspecting, he discovered Book Soup, a relatively cool book shop, especially by L.A. standards.

Normally, or at least as was his custom during the past few years, he'd just walk past. Looking lost its charm when you couldn't afford to buy anything. But Michelle had talked the bigwigs that be at William Morris to advance Max a little on what would surely be a substantial advance for the distribution rights to Defeated at the Paradise Hotel with One Last Request. She had to guarantee that advance personally, as the big wigs argued that a contact had yet to be signed.

Max's finances had been stretched to unreasonable lengths -- he sold virtually everything he owned to get his film finished, this included his stereo, his entire music collection, his 35mm camera, and his beloved Jeep. There was just no other way, he had begged and borrowed from everyone he knew, and accrued close to thirty-five thousand dollars in credit card debt.

Pulling out his wallet now, he glanced inside for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. Yes, inside there really was five thousand dollars in travelers checks, and some odds bills in cash.

He didn't want to take it. He argued that he didn't need it. But Michelle insisted. She wanted to make sure he'd eat. She wanted to see him relax, and maybe enjoy his success . . . for a change.

Okay, he figured. He'd enjoy.

He began by purchasing a copy of J.D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye -- he sold all his books the same day he sold the stereo and CDs, very depressing -- figuring that in the land of facades, it would be the most appropriate book to read, or re-read as the case might be, during this fantastic voyage, along with a Los Angeles Access guide, and the current issue of Alternative Press.

Across the street from Book Soup was a Tower Record Store. He headed for it, waiting for the light to change, standing his ground patiently, glancing back and forth between the passing luxury automobiles and the traffic light, not at all like he would have back in his NYU days. But he had been warned, lectured even, by Joe the Chauffeur to only cross at crosswalks and always wait for the light to change.

"You're kidding," he said.

"Otherwise you'll get a ticket," Joe the Chauffeur explained.

Maybe Max was just destined for a run-in with the L.A.P.D.

Crossing finally, entering Tower Records, he made a bee-line to the R section, picking up Tim by the Replacements -- this was his desert island disc, and if ever he needed to hear "Here Comes A Regular" it was now -- along with R.E.M.'s Murmur, Archers of Loaf's Icky Mettle, the Swanson's Shake, and a 10-CD collection he only previously dreamed of owning, The Complete Billie Holiday on Verve. A collection of discs that was certainly an improvement over what he found in his hotel room.

After all that shopping, Max was hungry. He noticed that the infamous Spago was just a hop and two skips away from Tower, but doubted that he was in the mood for such a scene. Instead he opted for soup and a salad at a place called Old World. It was relatively empty, and kind of quiet -- he liked restaurants that way. He sat alone on the front patio. It was a warm February evening -- a beautiful night by any standards. He sipped from double shot of bourbon straight-up in a rocks glass, and began re-reading the story of Holden Caulfield, never suspecting, not even for a moment, that his every move was being watched.

CUT TO:

NINE

In his twelfth floor penthouse suite, Jeffrey Theilgard puffed away on a cigar. James Utz walked into the office and took a seat before the massive marble slab.

"Did our boy enjoy himself last night?" Theilgard asked.

Utz sighed. "He went shopping, bought a couple of books and some CD's, ate alone, then called it a night."

"I thought you told me Mr. Maxwell loved women."

"Last night he flew solo," Utz explained.

Theilgard shot him a look.

"And you should have seen the babe Randy had lined up for him," Utz continued, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "She waited in the lobby all night. Christ! I would have killed my mother to watch her in action."

"Thought you already killed your mother," Theilgard said.

"I would'a killed her again," he said, scratching at the tip of his nose. "She was hot."

"Randall knows what he's doing."

"For a queer," Utz said, with a sneer.

"What's Mr. Maxwell up to today?" Theilgard asked.

"Paramount, Fox, and one of the indies."

Theilgard grunted and took a long drag on the cigar. The world would be a better place without competition, he thought, as he gazed out upon his empire. "I want him to know we can make him happy," he said, thoughtfully. "Keep an eye on him. He'll probably bite tonight." He turned and gazed through Utz. "If your information is right."

"It is," Utz said.

"It better be."

CUT TO:

Max got back to room 812 a little after seven P.M., ordered room service, showered, decided against shaving, put on a fresh pair of 501's, and gulped down his food to the strains of the Swansons proclaiming that all these things would happen now. Max kept his fingers crossed.

While he ate, he gave Michelle a telephoned play-by-play of the day's meetings:

Paramount was offering a half million up front for North American theatrical distribution rights to Defeated at the Paradise Hotel with One Last Request, and asked if he would be interested in helming the film adaption of the newest novel from Tom Clancy.

He wasn't.

Fox offered a cool million for North American theatrical and ancillary (video, cable, et al) distribution rights, as well as development deal at the studio. But when pressed as to what he'd be able to develop, the answer was vague.

Too vague.

Propaganda could pay him two hundred and fifty thousand up front for North American theatrical distribution rights. They claimed they would open the picture in New York and L.A., and let work of mouth build from there. As for a production deal, well, they were a small company and they really didn't have much of a production budget.

Exactly, in every respect, as Michelle had predicted. She told him to hang in there, asked him if he was eating okay, then gave him some pointers for tomorrow's intended stops.

"Yes, Mom," he said, concluding the conversation, dabbing at his mouth with a crumpled napkin, grabbing that old Salvation Army sports jacket, and hitting the road.

"Where to, boss?" Joe the Chauffeur asked, waiting patiently by the limo.

"What do you suggest?" Max asked.

"The Hammermill," Joe the Chauffeur said, without hesitation.

"Never heard of it," Max said. "Not that that means anything."

"It's the hottest club in town," Joe the Chauffeur explained opening the lime door.

"Hmm," Max said, settling in, popping Archers of Loaf into the CD player, track one, "Web in Front," thinking that he always hated quote-unquote hot clubs. Had he actually ever been to one? Oh, yeah . . . once. He left after ten minutes. He left alone.

"Stuck a pin in your backbone," Max screamed, singing along.

Joe the Chauffeur listened for a moment, then shaking his head as if wanting to dislodge some pain, said, "If you don't like it, we'll go someplace else. Okay?"

"Okay."

The limo slowly pulled away from Le Bel Age hotel and turned right onto Sunset Boulevard. Joe the Chauffeur paid little attention to the bright yellow Volkswagen Bug convertible following only a car length or so behind. It was just another beautiful woman behind the wheel of a topless car on a gorgeous night in the land of stars.

No big deal.

CUT TO:

TEN

From the street, the Hammermill looked more like an about-to-be condemned factory than the quote-unquote hottest nightclub in Los Angeles. Only the line of a hundred or so trendies waiting to get in gave it away.

"How long is the wait to get in?" Max asked, stepping from the limo's back seat, thinking any wait is too long.

"Don't worry about it," Joe the Chauffeur said.

Accompanying Max to the burly, long haired bouncer at the club's entrance, Joe the Chauffeur nodded his head toward Max and said, "He's a guest of Mr. Theilgard."

The velvet rope was whisked aside and Max, a "what the hell am I doing here?" look plastered to his face, entered the club.

"Have a good time," Joe the Chauffeur yelled in his direction. "I'll be out here when you need me." He walked back to the limo, got in, popped open a Fresca, thumbed through the latest issue of Entertainment Weekly magazine, and promptly fell asleep.

Max was astounded by the excess. The center of the Hammermill's attraction, was an eight story atrium. A black hole of spinning, flying lights -- it was Space Mountain, minus the roller coaster. Balconies and multi-leveled dance floors and bars weaved their way to the open air deck on the roof. Music blared from every crevice -- loud, a house mix of sort. The DJ had an English accent.

Max ordered a beer, then walked around, walked up. He tried to figure out what a bar like this would cost to build -- upwards of ten million, easily. What a fucking waste, he thought.

He looked at the other customers. The beautiful people, well, a lot of beautiful women anyway, of all sizes and shapes and colors. Most were a little too dressed up for his taste, but still. He smiled at some of them. They smiled back.

Maybe I'm having a Federico Fellini dream, Max thought, laughing to himself. A little 8 1/2, a little Satyricon, with some City of Women thrown in for bad measure. He checked his bearing, figured he was at about the fourth floor level, and continued up, toward the roof.

The view there was sublime, the full moon and the stars somehow cutting through the Los Angeles smog -- crying out, "We're up here. Don't forget about us" -- at least for the time being.

Max leaned against the granite slate top of the rooftop bar. "Another," he said to the bartender, placing his empty beer bottle down. The bartender whisked the empty away, and in its place a fresh, frothing full beer magically appeared. Max threw his head back and took a long swig. He was about to head south, back down toward the exit, toward the limo, toward a bar where he maybe knew some of the tunes they were spinning, when suddenly a blonde appeared by his side. She ordered a beer and threw a smile Max's way.

"Hi," she said.

He nodded. "Hello."

She was about five-six, and shapely, dressed in a bright red mini dress, short and low cut, but she could handle it, she filled it out. Filled it full of those airbrushed Playboy curves -- breasts large, gravity defying, legs tight and long, hair styled in that perpetual just-fucked look. Dozens of men about the bar were praying to the Patron Saint of Girl Watchers for a pair of X-Ray Specs that worked.

"I'm Gina," she said.

"Max," he said.

"Hi, Max," she said, smiling rapturously, holding out her hand.

He shook it softly. "Please to meet you, Gina."

"I'm an actress," she said. "What do you do?"

This is a little too easy, Max thought, as he explained most of the reasons he was in L.A.

"I'm impressed," Gina said. "Very impressed," she repeated, a sexy whisper into his ear.

Max smiled, nodded, then took a swig of beer. That's when he first noticed her -- as he tilted back his head. She was standing ten maybe twelve feet away, on the other side of Gina, leaning against a railing, a brunette, tall, quite thin. Her face was beautiful, her eyes, mouth. A great mouth. And not much make-up. That was all Max could tell on first glance.

"I go to about ten auditions a week." Gina explained the struggling actress route. "I work as a bartender to pay the bills."

Max nodded. Gina took a long swig from her beer. He glanced over. The brunette was still there, scrutinizing -- didn't her mother ever tell her it's not polite to stare? Didn't her mother ever tell her it's not polite to look so Goddamn good? She caught his inquisitive glance and smiled. She held a beer bottle in her hand, a Rolling Rock. She was wearing a loose fitting linen top, and leggings -- all black. Max loved the way women looked in leggings, almost as much as he loved the way women looked in black.

Gina asked Max if this was his first time in L.A. He shrugged, nodded . . . does it really matter? he thought. She told him he was cute, then moved closer. He repaid the compliment, more or less, thinking all the while about the other woman. Gina leaned up and kissed him softly. Her tongue lightly brushed against his. She whispered into his ear. "I've got to go to the ladies room. Promise me you'll be here when I get back."

"Of course," he said, knowing now he couldn't get out of there fast enough.

"Then we can go somewhere and fuck." She smiled, added in a deadly whisper, "I really want you bad," then disappeared into the crowd. Max watched her walk away, then turned to see the brunette in leggings. He needed to see the brunette in leggings. But she was gone. The kiss must have turned her off.

"Shit!" he muttered, taking a long swig and a step toward the walkway that would lead him out. But the voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Looking for someone?" The voice was soft, a little brittle, horse even. Very low and sexy.

Max turned around. He was face to face with Ms. Leggings.

She smiled -- and up close it was a killer. A beautiful mouth, with lips you'd want to spend the rest of your life kissing. Her breath was sweet, her perfume intoxicating, a mixture of sweet sweat and Chanel Number Five. Max took a deep breath and gazed into her eyes -- her wide, wild green eyes. Nothing melted Max's heart like green eyes. Nothing.

"Let's get out of this dump," she said.

"You're reading my mind."

CUT TO:

ELEVEN

Joe the Chauffeur was still asleep. Fast asleep, with the magazine pressed against his chest. Max and the brunette peeked into the window of the limo, then glanced at each other.

"I hate to wake him," he said.

"I've got a car," she said.

"Then let's go."

Once inside the bright yellow Volkswagen Bug convertible, the brunette popped in a cassette tape and The Replacements's "Color Me Impressed" was suddenly blasting on the tiny sound system.

"You have a name?" Max asked, thinking cool car, great music, then looking at her, wow! Just wow!

She turned. "Paige," she said, and there was that smile again.

"Max," he said, his heart now nothing but gravy dripping onto his butterflied stomach.

"Nice to meet you, Max."

"Same," he said.

She drove away from the Hammermill, over to Melrose Avenue, then back seemingly toward the Paramount lot. Just across the street actually.

"Where we going?" he asked, thinking the area looked familiar.

"Smalls," she explained.

"Is it anything like the Hammermill?"

"It's the exact opposite."

"I love it already."

CUT TO:

Actually Smalls reminded Max of an old college haunt, a hangout over on the southwest corner of 7th Street and Avenue B in the extreme East Village. A little grungy, mostly dark, filled with a lot of ripped vinyl and wobbly tables, offering up cheap but very cold beer, and in its deepest corner a wet dream of a jukebox. Even the cliental seemed familiar, souls somehow lost and/or stuck in the unreal.

As Paige retrieved two long necked Rocks from the refrigerator-sized bartender, Max popped a five dollar bill into the money slot of the jukebox, programming in tracks from Pavement, Hole, Dinosaur Jr., and for old time's sake, Jimi Hendrix' "Purple Haze."

They settled into a corner table.

"This any better?" she asked.

"I can breathe for the first time in days," he said.

"Breathing is good." She smiled.

Max took a sip. "So what exactly were you doing at the Hammermill."

"A friend dragged me along," she lied, then, "I'm sure she's already arranged for a ride home." She took a sip. Her turn. "And what were you doing there?"

"My Chauffeur suggested it."

"Sleeping Beauty."

"That's him. Told me it was the hottest place in town."

"It is," she said. "This week."

The conversation continued. He explained his reason for being in L.A. She told him she was a waitress aspiring to be an actress, and dropped it at that. They drank slowly, glancing often at each other, smiling a lot. One subject morphed into another, with no seeming boundaries.

Movies: Her favorite was Woody Allen's Manhattan, his was Federico Fellini's 8 1/2. They both adored The Seventh Seal, everything Alfred Hitchcock, and most of the Marx Brothers. His favorite living actor was John Turturro, hers was Gene Hackman. She really liked Susan Sarandon and the movies of Pedro Almodovar. He preferred Uma Thurman and Quentin Tarantino. And their only real disagreement came over The Cook, the Thief, His Wife & Her Lover.

Music: It was a no contest, with each comparing notes as to whom was the bigger Replacements' fan. He had seen them live nine times, including four shows when Bob Stinson was still in the band. She hadn't seen them until the post-Bob days, and then only five times.

"But I've seen all four solo tours," Paige bragged, "Paul twice, Tommy twice, and Slim and Chris each once."

"You got me beat there," Max admitted.

Books: She adored mysteries, especially Carl Hiaasen, Patricia Cornwell, and Elmore Leonard. He loved eclectic satire, Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., Harry Crews, and especially Anatole Laferriere.

"One day I want to film his book Healer," he said, adding, "If only he'd ever agree to sell the rights."

Then there were politics.

He summed his feelings up quite simply: "I believe in the freedom of choice, the freedom of speech, and the freedom to worship or not worship any God you see fit. I believe that no one needs to wear fur, no one needs to own a gun, and that what people do in the privacy of their own bedroom is no one's business but there own."

"Anything else?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, after a bit of a pause. "Animal rights."

"What about human rights?"

He ran a hand over his mouth and the stubble surrounding it. "Sometimes I . . . I look at the atrocities we're capable of as a race, and think we've used up all our rights. We've fucked up a few too many times, and always in the name of greed, or power, or religion even. We kill in the name of God. We wipe entire species off the face of the earth for the sake of the almighty dollar. We rape and repress, and why? Because we need to feel that power . . . over, over something, anything."

He let out a long breath, and closed his eyes. His mind was on Sarah, hers was on Cynthia Gwinn -- they were all Cynthia Gwinns, all seven of them.

"We're on probation now," he continued, "every last one of us. And now is the time to make amends, to walk on egg shells. Or everything's just going to be taken away . . .it's all just going to vanish . . . go poof up in smoke. And God'll just laugh it off to better luck next time, to live and learn."

CUT TO:

Paige watched his every inflection, the animated movements of his hands, how he ran them regularly through his hair, or scratched at that stubble on his cheeks or chin. Never once did he move close. Never once did he place one of those hands on her knee, on her shoulder, on the back of her neck, as men always seemed to believe it was their God-given right to do. In fact, Max never touched her at all, unless an occasional and totally accidental bump of knee caps under the table counted. Never once did the conversation turn sexual. Never did he suggest going back to her place or his. Nor were their any insincere comments -- "You've got such beautiful eyes/lips/fill in the blank." They just talked, about everything, about nothing -- he even listened when she told him about a dream she had the night before. No man had ever listened to her talk about dreams, not even her father.

And the time flew by. The time really passed much too fast. And before Paige knew it, the refrigerator-sized bartender was turning on all the lights, picking up their empty beer bottles, and motioning with a subtle hook of his thumb toward the door.

"Closing time," that thumb said.

And they walked out onto the street.

"If it's not too much trouble," Max said. "Could you give me a lift back to the hotel?"

"Of course," she said.

Then once inside the Bug, he turned to her. "This was nice."

"Yeah," she said, and she meant it sincerely.

"Are you," he paused for a second, "doing anything tomorrow night?"

"Gotta work," she said. And she did have to work sometimes, the waitressing job had been a big part of her cover. Plus, she wanted for Max to meet with Theilgard before, well, this all went any further. And that meeting wasn't scheduled until the day after next.

He went to speak, to suggest that, well . . . maybe they could get together again sometime, but she cut him off.

"But I'm free the night after that," she said.

That seemed to brighten his spirits. "How 'bout dinner?"

She nodded once. "I'd like that," she said, thinking, a lot.

They drove for a moment, the out-of-tune strains of "Treatment Bound" filling the quiet L.A. night, then pulled off Sunset into the Le Bel Age lot.

"Should I meet you here?" she asked.

"Around eight?"

"Eight's fine."

"Room 812."

"I'll see you then."

Max turned to get out of the car, but stopped himself short. "Y'know," he said, not facing her, "In a parallel universe, this night never ends." He turned toward her, gave her a little smile, then shrugged and got out of the car.

Paige watched him for a moment, then put the car in gear, cranked up the stereo, and drove away.

As Max walked through the lobby and into the elevator -- The Rolling Stones' "Some Girls" was the Muzak song of the moment -- he suddenly felt a lot better about Los Angeles. He felt as if he could maybe get used to this place after all. It wasn't that bad . . . really. Not when he thought about it. Not with the driver of that bright yellow Volkswagen Bug convertible as one of its residents. He pictured Paige's face -- he had memorized every detail over those drinks and conversation. He loved her smile, the lines and dimples that lit up and seemed to have a life all their own. He loved her eyes, so green, so alive. And he loved her nose, there was something so perfect about it, how it could manage to so subtly draw attention from its neighbors north and south. She's so very beautiful, he thought, in every way.

CUT TO:

END OF INSTALLMENT #2

MAKE SURE TO COME BACK February 1st, 2000 TO CONTINUE.

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Gorman Bechard