SLOW FADE TO BLACK:

a novel by

Gorman Bechard

Installment #4

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:

EIGHTEEN

Jeffrey Theilgard was seated in the back yard of his Bel Air home, on a marble deck overlooking an olympic-sized swimming pool. He glanced over the Sunday Los Angeles Times. His fingers were ink stained. He smoked a cigar. A maid emerged from the house carrying a silver tray. She removed two plates from the tray, placed one in front of Theilgard, and the other across the table from where he sat. She did the same for two glasses of orange juice and two cups of coffee.

"Will that be all, sir?" she asked.

He nodded and waved her away. He sniffed at the omelette, bacon, home fries and seven-grain toast on the plate before him, then smiled. It smelled good, and he was certainly hungry. He yelled out without looking away from the food, "Heather."

"I'll be right there," she said. The beautiful eighteen-year-old pulled herself from the pool -- she rarely got a chance to swim in this pool, she rarely spent any time at this house at all. Just these Sunday morning breakfasts -- she'd arrive, pass some time with Theilgard, and be off.

"Your food'll get cold," he said, watching her as she walked toward him.

Heather wore a deceptively skimpy bright red bikini bathing suit designed by Darling Rio -- having just seen it on the cover of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, she just had to have one. She dried herself off with an oversized white terry cloth towel -- first her long dark brown hair, then her back, and legs -- then wrapped the towel around her waist and walked over to the table, where she took a seat opposite Theilgard.

He smiled at her. She's radiant, he thought, gazing into her wild blue eyes.

Heather picked at her food and squinted at the sunlight gleaming off the water in the pool.

"I've got a surprise for you," Theilgard said.

"What's that?" She was far away and disinterested.

"I'm not going to tell you just yet," he said.

She looked at him, into his big face. She glanced at his huge hands. He had done this to her before. Hint at a surprise, then hint again. It got tiresome quick. No car, no vacation, no shopping spree, was worth it.

"I want everything to be in place, then I'll tell you."

She nodded, downed the orange juice, and stood.

"Aren't you going to finish your food?" he asked.

"Not hungry," she said, heading for the house.

Theilgard nodded. He knew he had let her down, in so very many ways. But this little plan would make up for it, would make up for everything. It would make his little girl happy. It would make Heather his loving daughter, once again.

CUT TO:

Heather Theilgard was relatively reserved for a spoiled Hollywood rich kid. She had few friends and rarely went to parties, though she did enjoy the bar scene -- copping a do-you-know-who-I-am attitude to get past bouncers. She liked to drink and she loved to fool around, averaging a crush a week. Not Beverly Hills pretty boys of the 90210 variety, either. Heather preferred off-beat types, the grungy, the long haired. Older guys as well. As long as they weren't fat, hairy or stupid. As long as they were someone her father would somehow disapprove of.

Heather also enjoyed quiet nights at home -- alone. She loved to read -- a book a week, to go along with that crush. A classic of Russian literature, followed by some current legal best seller, followed by something sci-fi, then maybe a mystery. Didn't make much difference, what she started, she finished.

Despite some apprehensions -- mainly the one that said it was what she was supposed to do -- she aspired to be an actress, an actress in the grand tradition of the word, and had studied diligently for going on three years -- day classes with coaches preaching Stanislavski, night classes at downtown repertory companies where anything went. She had a look, her teachers insisted, and she was talented, in a quirky, off beat, couldn't-take-your-eyes-off-her sort of way.

She had timing, a walk, and an outrageously sexy smile, a melt your crotch sort of grin, that always got her what she wanted, that always seemed to get her in trouble.

For over a year, she had begged her father to give her a break. Any role, in any film, at any time. The other studios wouldn't touch her because of her name, that mighty Theilgard name. And her father, well, he had his excuses as well.

"Every actress your age has to take off her clothes," he'd argue, despite that such wasn't always the case.

"So, I'll take off my clothes," she screamed. Heather didn't care. What was the big deal about showing her tits? There wasn't one. She had nice tits, or so she figured -- might as well show them off now. It didn't matter. She just wanted to act, and taking off her shirt was but a small price to pay.

But Theilgard refused. He gave other excuses. "When the right part comes along," he promised. But it seemed that script after script and script and still the right part never materialized. But deep down, the reason was simple, the big man didn't want to see his little girl crushed. He didn't want to see her fall prey to the critics and cynics and others who'd love to see the great Jeffrey Theilgard's daughter fail.

Then, shopping late one afternoon, Heather bought a used copy of Anatole Laferriere's first novel, Healer, and read it in one sitting. It meant everything to her, immediate and sudden, her outlook had changed. Her everything had changed, because she had found it, the role of lifetime. Her role. If only she could get her father to agree. If only she could get him to read the damn thing.

CUT TO:

Healer was a publishing phenomenon. It told the story of a beautiful young woman, a young woman who has everything to live for, who is chosen randomly to be humiliated, stripped, beaten, and raped by a group of young men following initiation rituals -- specific orders that would gain them membership into an ivy league college fraternity. They took her clothes and left her for dead, covered only by bushes and some leaves in New York's Central Park. But she didn't die and instead emerged with no memory of the rape or her past, but with the power to heal the terminally ill.

The book portrayed the media's manipulation of this remarkable woman known only as, Leanna, and delved into the hurtful relationship she develops with a seemingly loving man, a doctor, Stephen Franklin, interested, not in her, but in how he can best exploit her.

Healer explored the painful loss suffered by both Leanna's parents, her father was a prominent New York politician, and her fiance, the son of a billionaire developer, who are all suddenly forced to live first with the loss, then the knowledge that she is no longer the person they once loved.

The book followed the trial of the four young white men accused of the rape, all from influential families, all represented by the finest attorneys money could buy, and their ultimate acquittal -- a not guilty verdict based on the defense that the accused rapists are responsible for Leanna's miracle, her ability to heal. And that because of them, because of what they did, hundreds of lives were spared.

Once freed, the young men became inexplicably ill -- terminally ill -- as if the combined cancers and heart attacks and organ failures, the remnants of Leanna's miracles, had somehow found a way into their bodies.

The hardcover edition of Healer stayed on the New York Times Best Seller list for sixty-one weeks, and sold an estimated three million, two hundred thousand copies. The mass market paperback edition remained on the list for almost two years, selling close to nine million copies. The novel had been translated into twenty-seven languages, and had sold over thirty million copies worldwide since its publication in October 1981.

Writing in the New York Times Book Review, author Norman Mailer called Healer, "The single most important novel since The Great Gatsby." While the Los Angeles Times said, "Our generation finally has a voice. Its name is Anatole Laferriere." Newsweek magazine ran a cover profile of Laferriere. And not to be outdone, Time named the cranky author its Man of the Year.

CUT TO:

Healer was Heather Theilgard's favorite book. One she read, re-read, then read again -- each time experiencing different feelings, each time crying or laughing or wishing the world was a better place. She even gave a copy to her father. "I'm Leanna," she said.

Theilgard ignored the book for months -- it gathered dust on his night stand, when not covered by spec scripts demanding a seven figure offer by 9 AM the next morning, or hot about-to-be-published manuscripts from agents at CAA, ICM or William Morris.

"Did you read it yet?" she asked Sunday morning after Sunday morning.

"I'll get to it," he said. "I promise."

And on a recent Winter evening, at home on a Saturday night without any sort of female companionship, Theilgard put aside the spec scripts and hot manuscripts he would normally have read, and picked up the Laferriere novel. He read it all that night, in one sitting. Every word on every page -- no skimming, no wishing for coverage -- sitting up until almost four A.M. It made him laugh out loud, it made him cry. It made him wish he had been a better parent, a better husband to Heather's mom, a better human being. It made him wish for a lot of things that weren't in his control. But this was. He vowed to himself then and there that he'd acquire the film rights and make Healer into the movie that would launch his daughter's acting career. That would make his little girl a star. It was the least he could do, he figured. He owed her that much.

CUT TO:

NINETEEN

"Where to, boss?" Joe the Chauffeur asked.

"Theilgard Studios." Max got into the back seat of the limo and put on one of the previous day's compact disc purchases, a Paige suggestion, Live's Throwing Copper. He punched up track twelve, "Pillar of Davidson," and cranked it LOUD! Then he watched as L.A. sped by, the blonde California girls on roller blades, the young executives on car phones, a concoction of corner 7-Eleven's, tanning salons, palm trees, and stucco.

Randall met Max in the lobby of the Theilgard building. "Can I get you something before your meeting?" he asked.

"Tab," Max said. He had been told by Michelle to take control immediately by requesting something, anything -- even if he wasn't thirsty. "That's ridiculous," he argued, but finally gave in. It was a small concession.

Randall nodded. His boss had warned him. "Mr. Maxwell's drink of choice is Tab," Theilgard said. "Make sure you have some handy."

They rode in silence in the elevator up to the twelfth floor, Max trying hard to ignore the Muzak rendition of R.E.M.'s "It's the End of the World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)."

Randall stood just slightly behind and to the left of the director. He glanced occasionally his way. Max was most definitely his type -- a man so straight it made his groin ache -- the dangerous, rebel type, tall, silent, and very sexy. If only I were in Theilgard's shoes, Randall thought, then guys like this would be mine.

They stepped from the elevator, and Randall walked over to a small refrigerator that hummed quietly not far from his desk. Inside he found two of everything: Coke, Diet Coke, Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, every Snapple, every sort of water, fruit juice and soda pop known to man, and of course, Tab. The fridge was a veritable Noah's Ark of beverage. And in his dozen years of manning that fridge, Randall had never once not been able to fill a request.

He pulled out one of the hot pink cans and handed it to Max.

"Thanks," Max said, popping open the top, taking a quick sip.

"My pleasure."

CUT TO:

Theilgard was waiting in his office. He stood by the window, looking out over his empire. He held a recently lit cigar in one hand, a tall glass of bourbon in the other.

"Mr. Maxwell," he said, turning to face Max. "Drink?"

"All set," Max said, hoisting the aluminum can. A confident smile.

"I assume your weekend went well."

"Very well," Max said, thinking not exactly as I expected, but well.

"Good," Theilgard said. He motioned toward the chair in front of the marble slab.

Max sat down, as did the studio boss, who puffed on the cigar, turning it around and around between his huge index finger and his even larger thumb. Theilgard glared at Max. He took a sip of bourbon, then one long final drag and stubbed out the cigar in a hand-cut crystal ashtray. "Ready to make movies for my studio, Mr. Maxwell?"

Christ! Max thought, this guy thinks he's so fucking smooth. Any maybe he was. He had, after all, turned Hollywood on its ear in no time flat. Yeah, Jeffrey Theilgard knew what he wanted and he knew how to get it. Max repeated that last line over and over in his head until it almost sounded like the Sex Pistols' song. He nodded. "Maybe," he said, glaring back at Theilgard. If Max was going to do this, and he had mostly convinced himself that he should, the terms would have to change. He didn't want to be locked into a four picture deal with Theilgard Studios. One would be more than enough. "Maybe not."

Theilgard grinned. He reached over to one side of the marble slab and pulled a book from the titanium briefcase that sat open and waiting on that side of the desk. He slapped the book down hard in front of Max. "Are you familiar with this?"

Max glanced down at the book, then picked it up. Healer, by Anatole Laferriere. "I've heard of it," Max said, trying his best to hide the sudden rush of . . . of . . . what the fuck was he feeling? Nausea? Yeah. Fear? Definitely. Confusion? You bet. Christ! Healer! What the fuck was Theilgard doing with this book? What right did he even have to so much as flip through its pages, to so much as fondle its cover?

"Good," Theilgard said, watching the beads of sweat suddenly appear on Max's forehead. Utz had this one pegged. He promised his boss that Max revered Healer and had even lent it to one of Utz's sources on the crew of Defeated at the Paradise Hotel with One Last Request. His favorite book, Utz had promised. His favorite writer. Perfect, the big man thought at the time. It's all just so fucking perfect.

"Why?" Max asked. He turned the book over and over in his hand. He opened to the copyright notice. This was a trade paperback edition in its nineteenth printing.

"Cause it's yours," Theilgard said. "If you decide you're ready to make movies for me."

Max let out a long deep breath. Flashes of every great idea he ever had for turning Healer into a film put on a little kinestasis light show in his head. He squeezed his eyes shut to close down the presentation, but it was to little avail. After Sarah's death, the thought of filming Healer had kept him alive, had kept him going, until one afternoon, on an otherwise forgettable day, he got out of bed, picked up a pad and a pen, and, pushing aside the dreams of filming the unattainable, he began to scribble down script notes for what would become Defeated at the Paradise Hotel with One Last Request.

Theilgard smiled. "I've just acquired the movie rights."

"How?" Max asked, his voice quiet, his thoughts rushing past at Indy 500 speed. He had read that Laferriere said no movie would ever be made from Healer, that no movie would ever be made from any of his novels He knew Laferriere hated the film industry. He knew and had read a lot about his favorite writer. "I mean . . ."

Theilgard raised a mighty hand and cut his sentence short.

"I have my ways," he said.

Max nodded. His fingers traced the raised lettering on the cover of the book. "You want me to direct this?" he asked. Where had all the confidence gone?

Theilgard nodded. "Yes."

Nodding slowly to himself, sucking in a long breath, Max stood suddenly. He slammed the book down on the marble slab. He slammed it down hard, the clack echoing in the vast office. "Well, Mr. Theilgard. I can't."

Theilgard backed away a little, from the desk and the now towering Max. "And why not?" he demanded.

"Because I'm not happy with what you're offering." Max began to walk about the office, to pace really.

"You want more money?"

Max laughed. "No," he said.

"What then," Theilgard asked, "if it isn't about money?"

"It's about control," Max said. "Artistic freedom." He turned and glared at the big man. "It's about final cut."

"We've already had this discussion Mr. Maxwell," Theilgard said.

"And it wasn't resolved to my satisfaction," Max said.

"To your satisfaction," Theilgard said. "Do you know how many directors out there would give their balls to be in your shoes right now?"

"No," Max said, though he knew better. Anyone one of his old film school buddies would have, as would everyone he'd met on the long road to Sundance, probably the population of the whole fucking world, for all he knew. "And I don't really care."

"Maybe you should care, Mr. Maxwell. Maybe there are other directors just waiting behind you in line."

"No," Max said. "I'm who you want. Otherwise why offer me Healer? You had to know it was my favorite book."

"It's a favorite of many," Theilgard said, thinking of his daughter, wondering if it was coincidence, fate, or just dumb blind luck.

"I have a counter-offer," Max said.

"I'm listening," Theilgard said, shocked at filmmaker's nerve, his audacity, his . . . his . . . balls.

"You'll distribute Defeated as previously discussed. Those terms are agreeable. And . . ." Max stopped to choose his words carefully, despite that it was all he had thought of the day before, running the offer over and over and over again, until even Paige couldn't stand it any more. "I'll make one movie for you," his eyes drifted down toward the book atop the marble slab. That book wasn't a part of his original speech, but he'd be damn if he'd risk losing it now. "Healer," he continued. "For which I'll be paid nothing up front. If I go over budget, you can pull me. If the dailies aren't up to satisfaction, you can pull me. But . . . if I bring it in on time and on budget, I get final cut."

Theilgard stared at the filmmaker for a long moment before speaking. "You mentioned you get nothing up front," he said. "What about on the back end?"

"One percent of dollar one gross," Max said, though he really didn't care.

Theilgard shook his head slowly, lowering his gaze from Max's face to the book atop his desk. If only you knew what I paid for that book, Mr. Maxwell. If only you knew. "No," he said finally. "I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"You haven't proven yourself . . ."

"What about . . ."

". . . to me."

Max closed his eyes. Healer, why Healer? "You don't have to give me five million up front for the distribution rights to Defeated," he said.

"What?"

"You heard me. No five million dollar advance."

"Are you crazy, Mr. Maxwell? You want to give me your film for free."

"Well, for ninety-six thousand, three hundred, fifty-seven dollars and thirteen cents actually. It's yours for that."

"Why?"

Theilgard couldn't believe what he was hearing. He didn't understand John Maxwell . . . not as well as he had assumed. Where was this passion coming from? This integrity? This bullheadedness? He had never seen such a thing in all his years in Hollywood.

"Because I want to direct the adaptation of that book. And I want to do it my way."

Theilgard starred at Max for a long time. He gazed at him, through him, around him, inside him. He wondered if he had what it took to make it in Hollywood. He wondered if he had what it took . . . period. Finally he spoke, "Can you guarantee to deliver a film shorter than one hundred, thirty minutes in length?"

Max gave it gave some thought, then began to nod. Theilgard wanted to be assured that he wouldn't have a four hour long, hundred million dollar, catastrophe on his hands. "Yes," he said. "Absolutely."

"And I control the cast."

Max ran through a catalog of Theilgard productions in his movie guide of a mind, every leading actress in particular. Nothing stood out as ridiculous or vulgar. "I, ah . . . I can live with that," he said.

Theilgard began to laugh, he shook his head a few times, then smiled. "Okay," he said.

"We've got a deal?" Max said.

"I pay you five million up front for Defeated at the Paradise Hotel with One Last Request." He jotted down notes of the deal onto a pad as he spoke. "And you sign a four picture deal with my studio. The same deal we discussed last Friday, with one alteration. I'll grant you final cut on Healer. Fuck up and I'll pull the movie from you. Fuck up and I'll be watching you like a hawk on the next three pictures. Fuck up and you won't be able to order lunch around here without first clearing it through me." He looked over at the filmmaker. "Is this agreeable."

Max eyed the cover of the book. He had to, otherwise he'd never be able to answer, otherwise he probably couldn't have agreed. "Yes," he said. "It is."

Theilgard stood and held out his mighty hand. Max pulled his eyes from the Healer cover to look up into the face of Jeffrey Theilgard, then shook the man's hand.

"Welcome to the Theilgard team," Theilgard said, a huge smile.

"Thank you," Max said, forcing a smile, holding back the urge to vomit, holding back the urge to run and hide.

CUT TO:

Theilgard informed Max that the contracts would be drawn up and Fedexed to his agent in New York. "If there are any problems with anything," he said, walking Max out of the office, "please don't hesitate to give Randall a call. Also speak to him regarding your office and those bonuses."

"Bonuses?"

"The house and car," Theilgard explained.

Max had totally forgotten about the bonuses. They weren't priorities, but then maybe they needed to be. He wasn't sure, about anything. But then, was he ever, really?

As he rode down in the elevator toward the lobby, barely noticing the Muzakified version of Aerosmith's "Crazy," he wasn't even sure what he had done there in the Theilgard building. What he was going to do. Here he was, about to live out his dream, to turn Healer in the greatest fucking film of all time -- he hoped, he knew -- yet somehow it didn't even matter. It didn't matter at all. It did not matter! The videos flashed in his head, blood red images in rapid heavy metal cuts that made him dizzy. And Sarah . . . why the fuck did she have to die? Sarah and Cynthia and Melissa and the others. They were all one in the same, helpless. Christ! And he just sold his soul to the devil . . . how helpless was that?

CUT TO:

Seated back behind the massive marble slab, Theilgard smiled to himself and took one last drag from the cigar. Then, he ran a hand through his head of blonde hair, and reaching forward, he pulled Gina's photo from one of two letter trays on top of his desk -- the IN tray. He glanced over the headshot. She certainly was a looker, he thought, a very beautiful young lady. Turning the photo over, he scanned her resume, then picked up the phone and dialed her home number. He was feeling powerful, all mighty, and that power made him happy. That power made him dangerous. That power made Jeffrey Theilgard do some very peculiar things.

CUT TO:

TWENTY

A date was the term used by Jeffrey Theilgard, though Gina hardly thought of it as one. A career move, she preferred to call it, making a few last make-up adjustments in her bathroom mirror. He was, after all, one of the most powerful men in the film business. He was single, and not that bad looking. Oh, well, she smiled, one last dab of lipstick, she had blown it with John Maxwell. And there were certainly worse things a girl could do to get a break in movies.

A limo driven by a short hairless man brought her to Theilgard's small house, a sixteen room stucco and field stone mansion on a five acre parcel of land at the end of one of Bel Air's most private dead end streets. The studio boss met her at the front door. He smiled and was gracious enough. They drank a glass of wine, then another. "Let's go to bed," he suggested. She gulped hard and nodded.

Gina was nineteen. She had left her home state of Montana two years earlier to seek fame and fortune and her name in lights. She had come to Los Angeles. Audition after audition got her nowhere. And though she was gorgeous and sexy, she was just another one in ten thousand gorgeous and sexy young women who wanted to be a star.

As Theilgard undressed her, she thought about how so many other girls would give anything to be in her shoes -- well, her shoes were long off -- in her place. Anything! The wine certainly helped. She could have used another glass, maybe two. But Theilgard hadn't offered. Maybe he liked his women sober. Maybe he liked them conscious.

As he did his thing, she fantasized about her career. It would probably start out with a small supporting role in a comedy. She'd have to take off her shirt, of that she was sure. She'd live. Taking off her shirt really wasn't any big deal -- hell, she had been on enough topless beaches in her young life, and had even worked a few shifts at a local topless joint to pay the rent. No biggie. But she'd be recognized for more than her boobs, critics would rave about the pretty blonde with the great comic timing. That would lead to a co-starring role. Something arty. Maybe even an Academy Award nomination -- best supporting actress. She wouldn't win, not yet anyway. But the nomination would be enough. Then she could pick and choose. Whatever roles she desired, she thought with a smile, whatever leading men.

Theilgard grunted and groaned. He took her smile as a sign that Gina was having the time of her life. He chuckled slightly. Why not, he thought. Enjoy it while you can, honey. Enjoy it while you can.

CUT TO:

Gina sat up in Theilgard's huge bed, she lifted the sheet to cover herself. She looked about at the furnishings: antiques, oriental, and lots of gold. Everything oversized -- like Theilgard himself -- and though not particularly appealing to her sensibilities, it was all so obviously expensive. She chuckled, remembering this hideous bracelet a lover once gave her. Why did expensive things have to be so damn ugly?

Theilgard entered the room wearing a silk bathrobe and carrying a silver serving tray upon which was placed two glasses of wine and a purple velvet-covered box. Sitting on the side of the bed he placed the tray down beside him, then reached over and pulled the sheet away from her. She bit her lip, then smiled.

"I like looking at you," he said.

She nodded.

He handed her the purple velvet-covered box. "A little present for you, my dear."

Gina smiled. She took the box from the big man. It was jewelry-sized. "What is it?" she giggled, as she felt he would like her to.

"Open it and see," he said.

She cracked open the box and tried to peek inside. The sparkles gave her a sudden rush. She flung open the cover and stared, first in wonderment, then in immediate disappointment. It was a pendent, elephant shaped. Made of engraved gold. It had diamond tusks (the source of the sparkles) and three brilliant emerald eyes. Connected to it was a polished gold chain.

"It's . . . beautiful," she said, forcing a smile. And though she knew it was probably very expensive, it just reinforced her belief about cost versus ugliness.

"Put it on," Theilgard said.

She placed the purple velvet-covered box down on her lap, then lifted the pendent from the box. Raising her hands over her head, she dropped the chain around her neck, and gently placed the elephant between her breasts.

"So lovely," Theilgard said, as he reached out to stroke the pendent, to hold it in his palm, while the back of his hand pressed against her baby smooth skin.

"Thank you," Gina said. "I love it." She smiled at the big man.

He smiled back, warmly, then handed her the glass of wine. "Thought you could use this."

"Yes," she said. And though the wine seemed surprisingly bitter, anything was better than the current taste in her mouth. It was funny, she thought, the older the man, the mustier the come. Maybe aging had some sort of mothball/attic effect on sperm. Then again, maybe it was just her imagination.

Theilgard touched her. Gina tried to smile, tried to say something witty, but her mouth wouldn't seem to work, and her eyes suddenly felt heavy. Very heavy.

"Tired?" Theilgard asked.

She would have answered -- at least a nod, yes. But Gina couldn't, she was out cold. The drug worked that fast. It always did, at least in the dosage Theilgard used.

Very pretty, the studio boss thought. He rolled her over onto her stomach and admired the view. He checked his watch. He had at least twenty minutes, maybe a half hour to kill. And his friends were rarely early. "So nice," he said aloud to no one. There was something special about teenaged girls, at least to Theilgard. Something very special indeed. Something about their skin, their thighs, their . . .

Theilgard shivered as he squeezed her buttocks. A few beads of spit dribbled out of the side of his mouth. Mr. Maxwell was a fool, he thought, a fool for choosing a twenty-something over a fine morsel such as this. He shook his head sadly, then stood, took off his robe and reached into the top drawer of his night table. He pulled out the half empty tube of petroleum jelly and squeezed some into his hand. He would need some sort of lubricant for what he was about to do.

CUT TO:

It was a party -- that's what they liked to call it -- held in a large and very secure room in the basement of the Bel Air mansion few people had ever seen -- a wine cellar of sorts. The guest list small. The studio boss liked it that way. Only his closest friends were there. James Utz, Larry Moore and Donald Bush. Gina was the guest of honor.

Donald Bush was a camera operator of no equal. He had been behind the scenes, handling every technical aspect -- it was argued by the best in the business, that no one knew the workings of a camera, the delicacies of a lens, like Donald Bush -- on three of the most recent Academy Award Best Cinematography winners. All, of course, for Theilgard Studios. He was German born -- his accent immediately gave that away -- and stocky. His eyes were wild, his fingertips nicotine stained.

They sat about the cinder block-walled room on folding chairs or a well-worn sofa. Moore sat on the edge of an unmade bed. A betacam video camera rested on the floor by Bush's feet. He held a cigarette in one hand, a half glass of scotch in the other. Theilgard sipped from a tall glass of bourbon straight up, Utz his usual vodka, Moore was not drinking.

Lights were placed meticulously about, all aimed at a metal cage in the middle of the room. The cage was seven feet square -- made by criss crossing black metal tubes. Gina was standing in the middle of the cube. She was still unconscious. Her arms were chained high over her head, her legs chained, one each to opposite corners of the cage. She was dressed in the obnoxiously colorful uniform of a world famous fast food chain, complete with apron, and one of their silly little hats. The gold jeweled elephant pendant hung from its chain around her neck, and dangled still between her breast. She was dressed as ordered, right down to her underwear, except for the pendant -- that was Theilgard's signature, Theilgard's touch. And he made sure everything about it was just-so, tucking the back of the chain under her collar, buffing the gold with a soft cloth. Then, he stroked her face gently. "Eleanor," he whispered, kissing her flush on the mouth one last time. "I love you, Eleanor."

Utz had supplied Gina's costume and the props Moore would use. The customers were always very specific and at a half million dollars a pop, with no chance for a reshoot, it was understandable why they might be. This shoot had been a particular pain in the ass, having to first find a cashier at said fast food chain who matched Gina's anatomic proportions, then having to bribe said cashier into giving up said uniform. It cost him a grand for the uniform, another two hundred for the silly little hat.

"Shall we?" Bush asked, picking up the camera, placing it onto his right shoulder.

"Might as well," Moore said, standing, walking over to the cage. He removed a black ski mask from his back pants pocket and pulled the mask over his face. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a tube of smelling salts.

Theilgard watched as the porn star held the salts under Gina's nose. Her head snapped back, away from the smell. Her eyes opened wide. The look in her face was priceless -- not exactly would you like fries with your burger?

"Action," the studio boss whispered.

The video tape rolled, the thousand dollar fast food chain uniform fell to the linoleum floor, but outside that cinder block-walled basement room -- outside that sound proof room -- no one could hear Gina scream.

CUT TO:

ACT TWO

LET THE GAMES BEGIN

TWENTY-ONE

Anatole Laferriere did not want to sell the film rights to his novel Healer. That's what a lawyer in the Theilgard Studios legal department informed Jeffrey Theilgard a few months back when the initial contact was made. "I told him I represented you," the lawyer explained, "He said, I don't speak to lawyers,' and hung up."

Theilgard laughed at this account. He asked Randall to try. "He hung up on me, sir," Randall said, adding, "He was quite rude. Told me and all of Hollywood to go fuck ourselves, in no uncertain terms.

"Get me his number," Theilgard barked. He'd speak to Mr. Laferriere, of that he was sure.

"Yeah, what?" the author said, picking up on the thirteenth ring.

"Mr. Laferriere. This is Jeffrey Theilgard of Theilgard Studios in Hollywood, and I'm willing to pay you a half million dollars for the right to turn Healer into a movie."

"Big fucking deal," Laferriere said, emphasizing each syllable above and beyond its call of duty. "It's not for sale."

"Seven hundred and fifty thousand," Theilgard said.

"Bite me."

"A million dollars, Mr. Laferriere. A million dollars."

Click.

A dial tone.

CUT TO:

The next morning, Theilgard tried again.

"Mr. Laferriere?"

"Yeah." He stretched out the one syllable into three or four. "What the hell you want now?"

"Name your price."

"Are you fucking deaf? I told you yesterday, my book's not for sale."

"Everything's for sale, Mr. Laferriere."

"Okay," he said, a slight chuckle, his tone switching from caustic to amused, "I'll grant you that." Then, "Tell me, Jeff, what's the most that's ever been paid for a book?"

Theilgard swallowed hard. He wanted to lie, make up something. But Laferriere would catch him, and he'd be worse off. "Ten million dollars," he said, "for Scarlett."

There was silence on the other end of the line.

"Mr. Laferriere?" Theilgard said.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm here. Just doin' some calculatin'." There was a long pause. Theilgard broke out in a cold sweat. "Okay," the author said.