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?"

She laughed just once. Perceptive, too, she thought, then said, "No. Not at all."

"Want to talk about it?"

"That's why you're here," she said.

He shot her a questioning glance.

"Why don't you sit down," she said, motioning toward one of the two kitchen table chairs.

Max sat, and watched her intently. He couldn't take his eyes off her. A part of him believed he would never want to.

Paige pulled the other chair close to his and took a seat. Then, exhaling loudly, pulled out the black leather case that contained her standard issue Federal Bureau of Investigation I.D. and badge, flipped it open, and held a few inches from Max's face. "F.B.I., Max," she said, so softly.

His heart skipped a beat, maybe two, and he swallowed hard, a little saliva flavored with vile. According to the I.D., she was twenty-seven, five foot-eleven, and had green eyes and brown hair. That all seemed about right. But her name. Paige Turner?

"I thought your last name was Thompson," he said.

"I'm working undercover," she explained. "My real name's Turner. Paige Turner."

He couldn't stop the slight smile creeping into the corners of his mouth.

"My mother's a huge mystery fan," she said, explaining.

He nodded. "I . . . ah . . .," he took a deep breath. "Wow."

She reached out and placed a hand on his arm. He could feel a slight electrical shock at her touch. He looked up into her eyes and she seized the moment.

"I need your help," she said. "Desperately."

CUT TO:

Paige placed the first tape into her VCR, then stepped back, taking a seat on the sofa next to Max. Picking up the remote control from her coffee table, she took aim and pressed PLAY.

Max was looking at her, not at the TV.

"Meet Cynthia Gwinn," she said, motioning with her chin toward the small color set.

Max turned. What he saw was a bad dub -- fourth or fifth generation, he guessed -- nonetheless, the lighting and composition were surprisingly artistic, and the sound, some classical piece he'd never recognize in a million years, was clear. The first thing he saw was a bizarre gold pendant in the shape of an elephant -- an elephant with four diamond tusks and three emerald eyes -- which apparently hung from a gold chain around a woman's neck. The shot pulled back to reveal more of the woman, who was naked, tied down spread eagle on a bed. She was young, beautiful, with long dark hair, and obviously very frightened, her eyes screamed pure terror. A man wearing a black ski mask appeared and sat down on the corner of the bed. He began fondling the woman, who, despite the binds, bucked and resisted his touch. The cameraman zoomed in for various close-ups of the woman's anatomy, then the shot again lingered for a moment on the elephant, as a hand entered the frame. The man in the ski mask held the pendant. He caressed it, then with his other hand reached into his back pocket and pulled out the switchblade . . .

Paige turned away from the TV. She had seen it so many times before, too many times. And yet she still was not numb to the violence. How could anyone ever become numb to this?

Yet, Max, despite his revulsion, could not take his eyes from the screen. He was paralyzed with visions of Sarah -- there was no video camera to capture her death, and all Max had seen, all he needed to see, were the bruises on her neck, and her face. He would never forget the look forever frozen on her face. He would never forget the tattered condition of that long black dress. He would never forget.

CUT TO:

When the tape was over, Paige picked up the remote, hit STOP, then REWIND. Then, placing the remote down, she turned to Max. "I'm sorry you had to see that," she said. "I'm sorry anyone would need to see a film such as that. But there are people who'd pay a great deal of money for an authentic snuff film."

A snuff film. Max had heard the phrase, but never in his life expected to see one. A real murder, preceded by sex. No special effects, no make up. Just the brutal end of a human life, captured on film so some sick son-of-a-bitch can get off.

"This particular film was discovered about two and a half years ago," Paige explained. "A rich Japanese businessman was found murdered in his San Francisco mansion. The cops found this tape in his possession and turned it over to us. We had no clue as to where it came from. We knew nothing. Then a year later, we found another in a locker in Chicago's O'Hare International Airport. Like the first one, it was labeled only X -- hand painted in silver where the label should be."

She pulled a file from the top of her coffee table, opened it, and displayed to Max a color photo of an authentic tape and it's black leather case.

"It came in a black leather case, and was found in a locker that went unopened for over a week. Finally the airport's maintenance department pulled the contents of the locker. Someone in the department found the tape and brought it home, presumably to check it out. He must have been really surprised, because he turned it over to the Chicago police that night." Paige paused, placing the still open file folder back down on the coffee table. "One more was found before I was brought onto the case. That was about six months ago. Since then we've found four other tapes."

Max stopped staring at the blank television screen -- a ghost of the violence remained on the dark gray tube, an image of deep red, a flash of sharpened steel -- and turned once again to face her. He was shaking, in rage, in fear, at what the human race had been reduced to.

"I don't understand," he said, the words coming slowly. "What does this have to do with me?"

"We believe the videos are being made by someone in the film industry," Paige said. "They almost have to be. The quality is too high, the production too consistent, for amateurs. And, well, let's face it, Max, the industry's loaded with corruption. Drugs, money laundering, prostitution . .. name your poison, Hollywood's got it for sale." She shook her head sadly. "The bureau's been watching for years, but could never get close. That's sort of where you come in."

"The movie police," Max muttered.

"Our guess is that the women were actress wannabes who lived in the greater Los Angeles area."

"Your cover," he said.

"Exactly," she said. "All we've got so far are the tapes.

We have no bodies, we have no body parts. And only two positive I.D.'s."

"Who's the other?"

Paige pulled another file folder from the coffee table and opened it atop the photo of the leather cassette case. "Melissa Tremaglio of Auburn, Kentucky. We found her tape three weeks ago last Friday."

"I was at Sundance," he said, his voice but a whisper as he gazed at the photo of the once happy young woman.

"It was the last thing William Neely watched before blowing his brains out."

"The writer?" Max asked.

"Yeah," she said.

Max sighed. "Can I have another beer?"

"Of course," she said, beginning to stand.

He stopped her. "I'll get it." He walked over to the fridge, opened the door and poked his head inside. He took a few long deep breaths of fresh air, before asking, "Want one?"

"Sure," she said.

He retrieved two, popped their tops and returned to the sofa. "I still don't understand what you want from me."

Paige cleared her throat. "Max, we believe someone at Theilgard Studios is behind these films, possibly Jeffrey Theilgard himself."

Max stared at her in disbelief.

She pulled out another file and handed it to him. "Take a look at this."

He placed the file flat on his lap and opened it. It was confidential report on Theilgard, the man. It listed twenty-six different incidences of rape, attempted rape, or sexual assault, of which he was accused over the past decade.

"So why isn't he already in jail?" Max asked, reading over the list, each crime and its alleged details.

"In every single incident the victim dropped the charges," Paige said.

"Why?" he asked.

"Usually for a part in a Theilgard production."

Max didn't know how to respond.

"They were actresses, each and every one of them. None older than twenty-three. All looking for that big break. How could they refuse a date with one of the most powerful men in Hollywood?" She pointed out one name on the page. "One's even gone on to make a real name for herself."

"Christ!" Max said, recognizing the name of one of the most bankable females stars in Hollywood. "What about the others?"

"They got their shot," Paige said. "A few settled for cash. And then I'm sure there were many who never bothered reporting it at all."

"But," he said, searching for the words. "There's a difference between rape and . . . murder . . ." He stopped himself short, Sarah once again clouding his thoughts. No, on second thought, maybe there wasn't.

"From the evidence we've been able gather, we believe the videos special ordered, costing a half million dollars each, or there abouts. Neely cashed in that amount in stock options two weeks prior to killing himself. And no one seems to know what he did with the money."

"But how does that point to Theilgard?" Max asked. "Did he suddenly deposit five hundred thousand in cash into his passbook saving account the next day?"

"That would make it easy," Paige said. "But no . . . we got his name from an informant. One of the tapes was being screened in Thailand to rich businessmen and politicians for ten thousand dollars a pop. We questioned the man who scouted prospects for the screenings." She pulled yet another file folder from the coffee table, opened it and read aloud. "And I quote, 'It comes from Hollywood. United States. Made at big studio over there. Theilgard Studio.' End quote."

"And where is this . . . informant now?" Max asked.

She shook her head. "Vanished."

"And that probably wouldn't exactly hold up in court."

"Max, it wouldn't even make it to court. No prosecutor would ever issue an indictment based on what little we have." She turned to face him. "We need hard evidence."

"And that's where I come in?"

"No, Max. That's where we come in."

CUT TO:

She played for him the other videos, all six. He watched, listening as she pointed out similarities, the differences, turning away often when it was just too much to stand, and crying once, when Melissa Tremaglio's terrified eyes filled the screen. He knew her name. He knew her mother's name for Christ's sake. And her frozen fear was too familiar, and all too fucking real. And all her tears, solitary and otherwise, saying goodbye to life, I have no choice now but to die.

As the last of the videos -- Melissa Tremaglio's video farewell -- rewound, Max, his voice dead, void of emotion, asked "What's the deal with the elephant?"

"I wish I knew," Paige said. "Some sick trademark," she shrugged, "like the Shostakovich piece."

"The what."

"The soundtrack. Dmitri Shostakovich's Symphony No. 5, Opus 47, as conducted by Ashkenazy."

"Oh," Max said, nodding. Then, exhaling loudly, he stood, suddenly nervous, antsy. The images kept flashing-flashing-flashing strobe-like, and he couldn't shut his eyes to them. They were in his head, locked inside, cuddled up next to Sarah, morphing with Sarah, not the blood, but the fright, the too-frightened-to-scream. The knowledge that it was over, the knowledge that they had made a terrible mistake, the knowledge that they'd never laugh again.

"Are you okay?" Paige asked.

"I need to get out of here."

"Where would you like to go?"

"Anywhere," he said. "I don't care. For a walk. Anywhere."

She grabbed her purse and keys and led him out. Thought it was after one AM, Melrose Avenue was busy, it was loud, it was crowded with Friday night revelers headed here from there, and visa-versa.

They walked in silence for a few moments, side-by-side, but not touching. The images had been suffocating, and Max just needed to breath.

"Why me?" he said finally.

"I knew Theilgard would go after you," Paige explained. "He prides himself on getting the best new talent. And I knew you were different. You weren't after the glamour and glitz. Sarah proved that."

"You know everything about me don't you?"

"Just about," she explained, thinking about the one very thick file she hadn't shown him. The file labeled "John Maxwell." Everything was there, even his whereabouts during those four or so lost years after Sarah was killed. She knew the names of his lovers, the places he worked, his hangouts.

She knew it all. It was why she was so sure he'd be willing to help. Here was a man not out for fame, but out to make a difference.

"And the other night?"

"I followed you."

"Christ!" he said, "You lied to me."

"I had to."

"What about . . .," he searched for the right words, "the things you told me. Were you just saying what you knew I'd want to hear?"

"No, Max."

"You like the Replacements?" That would have been the worse lie of all. He'd have left, bolted away right there and then.

"Max," she said, in all seriousness, "I love the Replacements."

He exhaled loudly. They walked on, in silence, down Melrose, toward nothing in particular.

"Christ!" he muttered.

"Look," she said. "You don't have to do this."

"Do what? I'm not even sure I know what you're asking me to do."

"Keep an eye on Theilgard. See if anything strange is going on at the studio."

"That's it? That's all?"

"I'm not asking you to play cops and robbers. I'm not asking you to do anything dangerous. I just want you to be my eyes at the studio."

"You're forgetting one thing," he said.

"What's that?"

"I don't want to work for Theilgard," he said. "I don't want him touching my film."

"We can't do it without you, Max," she said. "Theilgard's a God in Hollywood. They say he's one part bastard, one part genius. I say he's all bastard." She stopped walking and grabbed Max's arm so he'd turned to face her. "No one else out here will take him down. The film industry protects their own. They all respect him too much, no matter what the fuck he does. But not you. You don't even want his money."

"You're right. I don't."

"Goddamnit, just let the Sonofabitch distribute your movie," she said. "It'll be seen. Isn't that what matters?"

"I don't know what matters right now."

"And take his deal. Make a movie for him. You'll get close. You'll be inside."

"I'll be selling my soul to the devil."

"No," Paige said. "Just the opposite. You'll be helping me make sure this never happens again."

CUT TO:

SEVENTEEN

Max was sitting at the little kitchen table, sipping a Tab, when Paige awoke. He had spent the night reading his file. She showed it to him after convincing him that it would be wise to spend the night.

"This is our second date," Paige had explained. "They know I dropped you off at your hotel the other night. And you went up to your room alone."

"They know this?" he asked.

"I'm sure of it," she said. "And last night?"

"Go on."

"What did you do?"

"I thought for a minute you were going to tell me."

"Uh-uh."

"I picked up some cartons of Chinese and a couple of videos at the rental shop around the corner." He shrugged. "Stayed in."

"Anything good?"

He smiled. "Yeah. Animal Crackers and City Lights."

She smiled back. "If you don't spend tonight with me, Theilgard's going to assume there's something wrong."

"I don't get you," Max said.

"Heterosexual males," she explained. "Unless you're blazingly straight, he won't hire you. There isn't female or gay male on the Theilgard lot with power. Never has been."

"But why would he care?"

"Theilgard's of the opinion that you enter this business for one reason, the quirks."

"Meaning sex, I assume."

"A lot of it," she said. "And he wants to make sure he understands which side of the plate you're hitting from."

"That I'm not light in the shoes?"

"Hmm?"

"Something my uncle Bill once asked me. Was I light in the shoes?"

"Gay?"

"Yeah."

"Was he relieved when you told him your weren't?"

"I'm not sure if he really believed me."

"Well, I know for certain you're not," Paige said, thinking it was in the file, it was all in the file. "But now, if you don't mind. I'm beat." She began taking pillows off her sofa, piling them neatly in a corner by an end table, then pulling the sofa open to its queen-sized bed form.

He watched her as she pulled two pillows and a blanket from a closet shelf, and as she was tucking in the end of the blanket, he asked, "Can I see it?"

"What?"

"The file you have on me."

She paused for a moment, then nodding, going over to a corner desk -- really nothing more than an old door resting atop two office-beige two-drawer file cabinets -- she retrieved a thick file from one of the drawers. She walked over to where he stood and handed it too him.

"Sweet dreams," he said.

"You, too."

CUT TO:

Peeking from underneath the covers, she watched him for what seemed like a while. He had not only his file, but all of the others relating to the case spread out before him on the table. He'd read something, put it down, and search frantically for something else.

She glanced over at the clock. Damnit, she thought. It was after 11 AM. She looked at the windows, the shades had been drawn. Paige never slept late. She never slept peacefully. She hardly ever slept.

She stretched, trying to remember the last time she didn't toss and turn and wake up in a cold sweat from horrific dreams, the last time she actually went to bed feeling safe. It really wasn't all that hard to remember when. It was back, many years ago, before the first weekend of November of her freshman year in college. The date was easy, it was remembering the feeling, the freshness, the security, that alluded her.

"'Morning." His voice was so low in tone that she almost couldn't make out what he said.

"Good morning," she said, sitting up. She had gone to bed in sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt, not her usual attire -- usually she'd have worn a lot less, but then, usually she would have been alone. In fact, Paige couldn't remember the last time a man, anyone for that matter, had spent the night with her. "I can't believe I slept this late."

"You were out like a light," he explained. "So, I pulled the shade and resisted the urge to blast the stereo."

"Thanks," she said.

Actually Max had resisted a number of urges that night. Once, after a trip to the fridge for a Tab -- he had wisely picked up a six-pack at a 7-Eleven during their late night walk -- he noticed that her blanket had been mostly pushed aside. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he pulled it up over her, tucking her in. He sat there for a while, watching her sleep, resisting the desire to reach out and touch her face, brush the hair away from her eyes, trace a finger lightly against her lips, over her nose. Resisting the desire to cuddle up next to her, to spoon her, hold her, shelter her from the images he had just seen, to shelter himself and fall so soundly asleep with her in his arms. "What is it about you?" he whispered at the time.

"You having fun?" she asked, pulling back the covers, getting out of bed.

"Actually," he said, "I'm fascinated."

"Good," she said, heading toward the kitchen area and the gleaming coffee pot. "You have any questions?"

He held up a yellow legal pad and flipped through pages filled with scratches of ink. "Hundreds," he said.

"Coffee first," Paige said. "Want some?"

He held a Tab can high. "I'm all set. But thanks anyway."

CUT TO:

"That is James Utz," Paige explained, pointing at an eight-by-ten black and white surveillance photograph. The hairless man was standing in the background, Max was walking past in the foreground. Utz's eyes were obviously on Max. "He works for Theilgard. Checks out the recruits, the skeletons in their closets, their sexual preferences, their work habits."

Max shook his head in disbelief. "I never even noticed him." They had just eaten a late breakfast. Paige insisting on feeding him something after causing him to miss dinner the night before. Though he assured her that after viewing the videos, his appetite had vanished.

"You weren't supposed to."

"Just like he's not suppose to notice whomever it was that took this shot."

"You got it," Paige said.

"Round and round we go," he said, then, "Okay . . . now, tell me about something that wasn't in any of these files." He laid a hand atop the pile of folders, then turned in looked into her eyes. "Tell me about Paige Turner a/k/a Thompson. How is she involved in all of this? Why is she involved? And what was the we she kept referring to last night?"

She smiled. "It's a long story," she said.

"I thought the more time I spent locked in this apartment with you the better it looked."

"Absolutely."

"Well, then . . . I've got no other plans. Do you?"

"No," she said.

"Good. Then tell me your story Paige Turner. And after that, explain to me exactly how we're gonna put this mother-fucker away for good."

CUT TO:

END OF INSTALLMENT #3

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

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Gorman Bechard