SLOW FADE TO BLACK:

a novel by

Gorman Bechard

Installment #3

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:

TWELVE

James Utz was waiting for Jeffrey Theilgard when the studio boss arrived at his office. Utz had made himself comfortable, an early morning vodka eye-opener which helped cover up the salty taste in his mouth.

"He didn't bite," Utz said, surprising Theilgard by his presence.

"What do you mean, he didn't bite," Theilgard said, slamming his office door shut behind him. He had been expecting a report. But this was hardly the report he expected. "I thought you told me Mr. Maxwell loved women. That Mr. Maxwell couldn't keep it in his pants."

Utz pour another shot and downed it. "He does and he can't."

"I thought you said this babe, as you called her, was irresistible."

"She is," Utz said, taking seat. "But our boy fell for another babe."

"Who?" Theilgard demanded.

The hairless man smiled. He lifted an eight-by-ten black and white photo that had been lying face down on Theilgard's desk. A headshot, Paige's. "Let's see," Utz began, reading from the resume on the back side of the photograph. "Her name's Paige Thompson. Says here she's twenty-three, but I'd add four or five years to that. She's five foot, eleven; a hundred nineteen pounds . . . that sounds about right." He handed the headshot over to Theilgard. "Found that in casting last night."

The big man stared at the headshot. He grunted.

"Basically," Utz continued, "Some tall skinny broad with a big nose and small tits. She's okay, I guess. Kinda pretty. If you like 'em that way. Looks better in the picture, if you ask me." He scratched at his wrist. "Probably should'a had Randy tell the chick to wear black. The guy's from New York, y'know, they all got this thing about black out there." He shrugged again. "Who knew?"

Theilgard placed the photograph aside. He was pissed off. He so liked having a promising new director in his clutches. He so liked asking, "So, did you enjoy your little treat," knowing full well in advance every sleazy detail. He loved watching the knowing smile when he delivered a promise of "there's more where that came from if you come make movies for me." Theilgard believed no one made movies just for the sake of making movies. There were perks, wonderful perks, and the most wonderful perk of all, at least to Theilgard, was the numerous young women who would do anything at all for a chance to break into films.

"What about tonight?" the big man asked.

"If he didn't go for Gina," Utz half explained, shrugging.

"Maybe next time."

"Keep an eye on him," Theilgard said.

"I will," Utz said. "But don't worry . . . he's happy. Him and flatsy stayed out all night. I'll bet you they're living together by next week."

Theilgard nodded slowly.

"You'll have him eating out of the palm of your hand before you know it," Utz promised, standing.

"I hope so."

Utz turned and left the office. Theilgard punched at a button on his phone, and screamed, "Randall. Get in here."

A moment later, Randall Adams entered Theilgard's office.

"Your girl fucked up."

Randall had already received a call from a sobbing Gina, who explained that she gave Max everything she had, but to no avail -- he obviously wasn't interested. Randall told her not to cry, that she did the best she could. She sniffled and asked if she'd still get the promised movie role. Randall said he couldn't commit to anything but that he'd speak to Mr. Theilgard on her behalf. She thanked him many times over and hung up. A few minutes later, almost like clockwork, Theilgard buzzed.

"I know," Randall said, lowering his eyes. He too knew how his boss enjoyed supplying directors with their first taste -- so to speak -- of life at the top in the movie business. "She said she came on real strong. Everything was going great. She went to the ladies room, came back and Max was gone."

Theilgard grunted.

"She was pretty upset. So, I told her I'd asked you about that walk on."

Theilgard smiled. He had a part in mind for this Gina, whoever she was. And it was a lot more than a walk on. "I'm sure I can think of something," he said.

Randall nodded. "She'll appreciate that."

"I know she will," Theilgard said.

"She's very beautiful," Randall said. "and very nice."

Theilgard nodded, but he was no longer listening to his assistant. He was thinking about Gina and the fun she'd have in her first acting role. Theilgard loved discovering new talent. "Would you like me to set her up with the casting department?" Randall asked.

"No," his boss answered. "Leave it to me."

"I'll get you her photo and phone number," Randall said, turning to leave.

Theilgard nodded, a far-away look appearing in his eyes. "You do that."

CUT TO:

THIRTEEN

Federal Bureau of Investigation Special Agent Wesley Selden answered on the first ring. "Selden," he barked into the receiver.

"It's Paige," came the voice on the other end of the line.

"Good morning," he said. "Let me guess. You got the deodorant commercial after all."

"I wish," she said. "Could use the residuals."

"Damnit, and here I thought I'd finally get to see your pits," he joked.

"All you have to do is ask, Wesley," she joked back in a very sexy tone.

"Ooh," he said, caught just slightly off guard by the sound of her voice. "I like it when you call me Wesley."

She cleared her throat, enough with the frivolity. "So, wanna guess again?"

"Let's see. Um . . . you made contact?"

"Bingo," she said, thinking he made it sound as if she were investigating extra-terrestrials.

"And?"

"He's everything I thought he would be."

"And more, right?"

"You could say that."

"Good . . . I think," he said. "When are you going to pop the question?"

"Tomorrow night," she said. "Right after he meets with Theilgard."

"Want me there?"

She thought for a moment. "No," she said. "I think I can handle him better alone."

"I won't ask what you mean by that."

"It's not what you think."

"Didn't say I thought anything."

"Right."

There was a brief pause. Selden broke it. "Good luck," he said.

"Thanks. I'll be in touch."

"I'll be waiting by the phone."

"Breathlessly?"

"It's the only way to wait."

CUT TO:

Paige Turner grew up in the suburbs of Portland, Oregon. Her dad was an English professor at the University of Portland, her mom worked for Greenpeace. They were exemplary parents, loving, supportive, living breathing examples of a republican's nightmare, liberals with family values.

And while her childhood was filled with normal childhood memories, her grade school years filled with normal grade school memories, fond, funny, endearing, her high school years were filled anything but. As her best friends blossomed into quote-unquote desirable young women, she just got taller. At fifteen she'd have given anything to be able to trade an inch or two of height for an inch or two of boobs. At sixteen, the same. And at seventeen, an inch or two of boobs just wouldn't have been enough. Guys didn't want gawky, and in high school she was the epitome of the word, tripping over herself, with braces, the baggiest of clothes to hide her toothpick of a body, and not the greatest complexion in the world. But she realized soon enough -- soon enough meaning by her senior year -- that guys really didn't know what they wanted and that she honestly didn't care. The braces came off, the zits went away, and suddenly the very same body went from being gawky to model-esque.

It was her grades that got her into a legendary East Coast ivy league college. And things started out well. She was enamored by the quality of the education, and the desire shared by most of her fellow students to learn. But then everything changed the first weekend in November of her freshman year. Everything blacked out, fucked up, exploded in her face.

On Saturday, November 2nd, one the way back from a what had been a pleasant first date -- some original brick oven pizza and a movie -- Paige was raped, not by a stranger in a dark downtown alley, but by her date, in the front seat of his father's Lexus SC400 coupe. Her date was the son of one of the universities most prominent professors.

That night, shivering with fear, shaking with rage, she reported it to the campus police. They did nothing, except make her feel like a tramp. The next morning she reported it to the school's powers that be. They did nothing, except tell her that a scandal wouldn't look good on her transcripts.

So, she told no one else about the incident, not her parents, not any of her friends. Instead, she took matters into her own hands, more or less. Switching her major from political science to law, Paige dug into her books with a passion that even she was surprised she possessed. Let anyone try to fuck with her again.

She was twenty-five and armed with a masters degree -- backed by a 4.0 grade point average -- when she finally made it to Quantico, the FBI's training facility on the beautiful Potomac River in Virginia. And in four very long months she would leave. Four very long months that made the seven years of college seem like pre-school. Four very long months of the most rigorous training a human could receive.

There were days when she was wired, when everything was perfect, on line, in line, when the face on the target was the face of that sonofabitch who told her, 'C'mon, babe, you know you want me." Then there were nights when she cried herself to sleep, aching in places she never knew existed, wondering if maybe she had made a mistake, rushed into something she wasn't ready for. Wondering if maybe she wasn't, for want of a better phrase, good enough.

But no, she had to be good enough. She was good enough. And if she could prevent one person -- a single soul -- from suffering through the humiliation, the terror, the pain, then it would be worth her effort. It would help her face herself again, to see her reflection a little less lop-sided in the mirror of life.

It was shortly before graduation from the FBI academy when she met Special Agent Selden. He was looking for a few recruits, rebels, bohemian types, people who looked comfortable in black. "I need fucking artists," he said in his caustic way. "And you seem to fit that bill."

"I can't paint," Paige said at the time.

Selden laughed. "That's not what I mean."

Her first case was to pose as one half of a husband/wife art smuggling team. It was successful in that she recovered a half dozen impressionist masterpieces. It wasn't in that she got shot. Shot by her partner, the husband half of the team, who had been bought off by the other side. But his aim was off, Paige's wasn't.

It was while she was undercover that the first of the snuff videos surfaced. Then, once that assignment was over, after the recuperation and paperwork, after the guilt of killing someone had passed, after the knowledge that she was most definitely good enough had finally sunk in, the another video appeared -- Paige had never even heard of snuff film, she had no prior knowledge, no clue, that such a thing could ever exist, ever be given a name, a value. She woke up to the agonizing reality fast when the third video appeared, and Selden felt it was time she get involved, it was time to move to move from her small apartment in Gaithersburg, Maryland -- where she had lived since graduating from Quantico -- to an even smaller apartment in L.A.

"Pose as an out-of-work actress," Selden ordered. "Get a feel for the area. Get yourself noticed. Pass a lot of headshots around."

"Anything else?" she had asked at the time, picturing herself as a victim, herself at the tip of the ski-masked man's switchblade.

"Yeah," he said. "Stay alive."

CUT TO:

FOURTEEN

Shooting on the latest Larry Moore epic, an X-rated romp called Forest Hump in which the aging porn legend played a mildly retarded man who attracted women's sexual advances for no apparent reason, then ran away every time he climaxed (Which, according to a few women working on the set, was a typical male reaction whether that man was mildly retarded or not.), was finished for the day. Moore walked over to James Utz, who was waiting and watching on the side of the set, and said, "So, what'd you think."

Utz glanced over at a large-chested blonde -- both the body and the hair color were mostly fake -- and said, "Very nice indeed."

"I don't mean her, asshole," Moore snapped. "I meant my performance. Did you like the little stutter." He reenacted one of his favorite scenes in the slightly retarded drawl. "It's just like my mama used to say, life is like a box of multi-colored condoms . . . you never know which color's gonna end on on your wiener."

Utz just sort of stared at him for a moment, expecting him to laugh, crack a smile, something. But Moore stood proud, as if he had just delivered the soliloquy from Hamlet in a way that would have made Sir Laurence Olivier jealous.

"Like it?" Moore asked finally.

"Fucking brilliant," Utz said.

Moore chuckled. "Yeah," he said. "My best performance yet."

Larry "Mr. Fourteen Inch" Moore was the most famous man in porn, having made close to thirty-five hundred films over the past twenty-five years, and having slept with over thirty thousand women. He was a ragged forty-six, tall, beginning to bald, yet, as always, incredibly well endowed. His closest man friend in the world was James Utz.

"Wanna grab something to eat?" Moore asked, as they headed off the set.

"Don't you want to take a shower first," Utz said. "I mean, she was all over you." He shook off a skeeved-out chill. "Gross."

Moore shook his head sadly. "You always gargle afterwards?"

"No," Utz said, matter-of-factly. "I never gargle. But what does that have to do with anything?"

"Never mind," Moore said, pushing open the door that would momentarily flood the set with bright California sunlight. "And you call me gross."

CUT TO:

Max spent another day playing drive and meet -- forty minutes in the limo followed by a hour long meeting followed by sixth-five minutes in the limo followed by a ninety minute meeting followed by close to an hour and a half in the limo followed by a two hour meeting. And he was beat. After taking a short nap and a long shower, he gave Michelle another telephoned play-by-play:

Warner Brothers was willing to pay three quarters of a million up front for North American theatrical and ancillary distribution rights to Defeated at the Paradise Hotel with One Last Request, and offered him the chance to replace a recently-fired director on the new Steven Segal action thriller.

Not in this lifetime.

Universal offered a million for North American theatrical distribution rights, as well as another of those development deals at the studio. They mentioned the possibility of him meeting with their development people as to what projects needed directors attached.

He just wasn't sure he wanted to be attached to anything.

Miramax, on the other hand, offered a million dollars up front for North American theatrical distribution rights, and another three hundred thousand for ancillary rights. They promised to bankroll his next project up to eight million dollars, and give him freedom to not only choose the vehicle and cast, but promising him final cut -- the guarantee that the film that played theaters was, in every way, shape, and form, his.

Where should he sign?

"Don't sign anything just yet," Michelle advised. "You've still got Theilgard tomorrow morning."

"Theilgard won't give me final cut."

"Maybe they'll offer something better."

"There is nothing better," he said. "You know that."

And unfortunately . . . she did.

CUT TO:

FIFTEEN

The meeting with Jeffrey Theilgard was scheduled last -- in this case number seven out of seven. The studio boss preferred it that way. See what the others have to offer, he reasoned -- a shop around theory -- then come to Theilgard for the best deal in town. He was a grand used car salesman bar none: the biggest car, the best deal, everyone was happy. That image made the large man chuckle.

"Have a seat," the studio boss said as Max entered his office. He waved a huge hand toward an expensive looking leather chair situated before that massive marble slab. "Having a good time?"

Max smiled. "Yes," he said, thinking, well at least I had had a good few hours at Smalls the other night. "Thank you."

"No need to thank me," Theilgard said. "Just my way of showing you, that when you work for Theilgard Studios, you're treated like royalty." It was hardly his usual line. By this time, Theilgard would have already had the candidate blushing about the past few nights of extra curricular activities with Gina, or someone of her ilk. But never mind. Mr. Maxwell had his bimbo. It was perfect. Almost. And Mr. Maxwell was happy.

"Thank you, nonetheless," Max said.

Theilgard nodded. "Let's get down to business, Mr. Maxwell. We both know why you're here. As you know, Theilgard Studios is the most successful independent studio in the history of the movie business." He walked over to his glass case of Oscar statuettes. "In twelve short years, Theilgard films have won over three dozen Academy Awards. We had two of the five Best Picture nominees this past year alone." He cleared his throat. It hurt him to think he had lost out on the Best Picture Oscar by what was obviously a political move on the part of the Academy's voters. He approached his desk and took a seat. "The most talented directors in the business are making movies for me. And I want you to be a part of that group. And I want to begin our relationship by distributing your fine film."

"What are you offering?" Max asked.

Theilgard lit up a cigar and took a long, slow drag. He swiveled in his chair and gazed for a moment out the window. Max watched him intently, trying to reach his mind -- how much do you want it, big man? he thought. How much do you want ME?

Theilgard turned toward Max. "Five million cash up front for worldwide distribution rights to Defeated at the Paradise Hotel with One Last Request."

"Ancillary included?" Max asked.

"Everything," the big man said. "And I'll give you points."

Michelle had been blunt. "Percentage points of a film's net profits aren't worth shit," she had said. Only dollar one gross percentage points were worth talking about, and the only people who could talk about them were Steven Spielberg, Jack Nicholson and Arnold Schwarzenegger.

But Theilgard wasn't playing by those rules. He said the magic words -- dollar one gross percentage points, two of them. In his opinion, the deal was a no-brainer. He had a completed feature, ready to go, for a fraction of what one would cost to film on his lot. And Defeated at the Paradise Hotel with One Last Request would make a hell of a lot more than five million -- it would gross three times that alone during its opening weekend, what with the campaign the Theilgard advertising department would design.

"Plus," Theilgard said, "I'll give you a production deal, four pictures."

"What sort of budgets are you talking about?"

"Depends on the project, but to give an idea, last year the average Theilgard film cost just over twenty-three million to make."

Max nodded. He couldn't imagine having twenty-three million dollars to spend on a movie . . . not after making one for ninety-six thousand, three hundred, fifty-seven dollars and thirteen cents.

Theilgard continued. "We'll pay you a salary of two million five for your first Theilgard feature. Three million for the second. Three five for the third and four million five for the fourth. One gross point on the first film, two on the second, three on the third and five on the fourth."

Max listened. It astounded him that anyone could toss off figures like that so casually. These budgets could feed staving nations for years, but no. Americans needed their entertainment. They needed to be enter-fucking-tained. What am I doing here? What am I doing here? What am I doing here? reverberated in his head. What the fuck am I doing here!

"Incentive clauses," Theilgard said. "You'll get a five hundred thousand dollar cash bonus for every Best Picture Oscar you bring home. Half that for a Best Director award. And a hundred grand for every acting Oscar."

Max began to speak. "Okay . . .," he began, not sure what he was going to say, but sure that if he had said what was really on his mind it would have sounded something like this: you're grotesque, the way you throw around money is grotesque, I'm grotesque to even be sitting here listening to your offer.

"I'm not finished," Theilgard said, cutting him off, holding up a big hand in a stop-sign motion. "As a signing bonus, I'll buy you the house of your choice," his eyebrows soared skyward, "a two-point-five million cap. Which should get you a small mansion in this market. And . . . I'll even furnish it." He laughed. "Yours to keep. Hell, I'll even throw in a car."

A house! A car! Christ! Max had spent most of the last year sleeping on a blanket on the floor of his editing room, curled up against the base of the Steinbeck editing machine. And when not there he'd catch a few winks on the sofa in the living room of his agent's apartment, that's where he'd been spending most of his time since the completion of his film. And a car! He got $1,200 for his old CJ7. And it only had two hundred, twenty-four thousand miles on it . . . almost new. It was his first car, his only car. How he'd love to have it back.

"What about an office?" Max asked, suddenly finding it very difficult to breath, to think straight. Four of the other six had offered him office space on their lots.

Theilgard took another drag, sat back in his chair and folded his arms. "A suite on the seventh floor, plus secretary." He let the smoke ooze from his mouth and nostrils like a fire-breathing dragon about to take on Barney. He gazed at Max and said, "Well?"

"One question," Max said, thinking Miramax. I want Miramax.

"Shoot."

"Final cut?"

Theilgard expected that question. What filmmaker didn't want artistic freedom? The studio boss smiled. What a bunch of bullshit, he thought. "I don't know that I can give you that, Mr. Maxwell," he explained. "Here at Theilgard you'll have to earn your freedom," he explained. "The first time out, we'll choose the property and hand pick most of the cast. Do a good job, win me another one of those," he nodded toward the Academy Award collection, "and the artistic freedom will come."

"Then I don't know that I can accept your offer, Mr. Theilgard," Max said, closing his eyes, rubbing at his temples, his tone so deadly serious that Theilgard thought for a moment that he might be dreaming.

The big man took another drag. "Mr. Maxwell, you'll be working with the best writers and producers in this business. But tell you what, for your last two projects I'll let you pick the property and the cast."

Max just sort of stared over the desk at the studio head.

"Think about it, please," Theilgard said, clearing his throat. "I'd really like you on our team."

Max nodded. "I will. Can I, ah . . . let you know on Monday?"

"Of course," Theilgard said, a beaming gracious host sort of smile filling out his face. "And enjoy your weekend. If you need anything, please don't hesitate to ask."

"Thank you."

A second meeting between Max and Theilgard was arranged for Monday afternoon. Max stood, the two men shook hands, and he was gone, he was free, he was back in the limo with Joe the Chauffeur behind the wheel. And soon he'd be back in the hotel suite, on the phone giving Michelle the details. And soon after that he'd be with Paige, in her company, lost in her green eyes.

It was all too fucking surreal, he thought. As if he were suddenly stuck in a bad romantic comedy where only good things could happen. As if he were suddenly born again -- there was a thought -- given that proverbial new lease on life. And all he could manage to do was wonder, "Why me?"

CUT TO:

SIXTEEN

"Where we going?" Max asked as he stepped into the passenger side of the bright yellow Volkswagen Bug convertible.

"It's a surprise," Paige said, pulling the car out of the Le Bel Age parking lot.

She was tired, so very tired. Sure, she had worked a few hours the night before waiting tables, she needed to keep her cover alive. But it was how she spent her days that had taken the toll. Those Goddamn missing person reports, one photo after another and another then another -- it was all blurry and it gave her a migraine. But then, just before she was getting ready to pack it in for the day, one caught her attention, something about the face, the curve of the top lip. The girl's name was Melissa Tremaglio. She was seventeen when the photo was taken. Her birth date on the report told Paige she'd be nineteen now. She was born in Auburn, Kentucky, a little town just outside of Bowling Green. It was her mother who reported her missing. It was her mother who suspected that her husband, Melissa' step-father, had taken liberties with her daughter that weren't his to take. It was her mother who said that Melissa always dreamed of going to Hollywood. "She always dreamed of being a star." It was all there in the report, the height, weight, hair and eye color all matched. The only thing missing was the way Melissa died. At the hands of some unknown assailant in a video made for an English Professor who blew his fucking brains out.

Her name, her smiling seventeen-year-old face, her dream of being a star, haunted Paige as she drove over to the hotel where Max was staying. She hoped to God that the story of Melissa Tremaglio, and the story of Cynthia Gwinn, would have that same effect of the filmmaker.

CUT TO:

Paige slipped the Medeco key into the top lock and turned counter-clockwise. Some tumblers fell. She slipped the same key into the bottom lock and turned clockwise. A resounding click. She used another key of a generic variety in the second deadbolt from the top. Another click. And a third key, for the last lock. She turned the knob, and gently pushed the door open.

"A girl can never be too careful," she said, forcing a smile. "Welcome to my apartment."

Max followed her inside the small studio apartment, and watch as she shut and locked the door after him. He checked over the room. It was about twice the size of his Greenwich Village apartment back in his NYU days, but then two times nothing is still nothing. It had a cluttered, lived-in look, lots of posters on the walls, lots of books, all scattered about an odd collection of furniture.

She placed her purse and keys down on the kitchen table, and went directly to the fridge. "Beer?"

"Sure," he said, already looking over her compact disc collection. "Mind if I put something on?"

"Go right ahead."

He pulled Weezer's first CD from the end of her alphabetized collection and placed it in her player.

She popped the tops off two long necked Rolling Rocks, and handed him one.

"Thanks," he said, then, before taking a sip, "Are you okay?"