SLOW FADE TO BLACK:

a novel by

Gorman Bechard

Installment #5

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:

TWENTY-TWO

"Baloney," Uncle Bill said.

Max had been trying to explain that a Hollywood studio would be paying him five million dollars up front for the right to distribute his film. He had flown back east after accepting Theilgard's offer, to pick up his belongings in Michelle's and in his uncle's basement, and to see them both, before delving into the making of Healer, before diving head-first and blind into whatever it was Paige needed.

"Five million bucks," the elderly gentleman hollered. "I may be old, but I'm not senile . . . yet."

"I serious," Max explained. "And they're going to give me the money to make another movie."

"If they're paying you five million bucks, what the hell you wanna make another movie for?" his uncle wanted to know "Retire, for Christ's sake. Or go to school to become a doctor or a lawyer. You ain't that old."

"I think I'll stick to movies," Max said. "For now." Then he attempted to explain to his only living relative that he wanted to buy him something . . . something nice. A house, perhaps?

"You think I wanna mow a Goddamn lawn at my age?" Bill said.

Okay . . . a new car?

"Ain't nothing wrong with my Ford," he said, referencing his seventeen year old LTD with only eleven thousand miles on it. "I never go any where, anyway."

Okay . . . what then? "Isn't there anything you want?"

"I wouldn't mind a new TV," Bill said, grinning wildly. "A big one. One of those Mitsubishis with the forty inch picture tube, maybe. Yeah! Not of those rear projection things. The picture stinks. Too Goddamn dark. Gotta be a picture tube. My eyes ain't what they used to be, y'know?"

"Thought you hated TV," Max said, wondering how his uncle even knew that Mitsubishi made a forty inch TV.

"I like Cross Fire," Bill said. "Love that Buchanan kid."

"Okay," Max said, thinking that if his uncle wanted a new TV to watch Pat Buchanan argue politics on, then so be it. Maybe he'd order two, ship one over to Michelle's apartment in lieu of the rent money she never asked for, never mentioned. He'd tell her it was an early thirtieth birthday present.

"Anything else?" Max asked, figuring for once he could afford to treat someone he cared about to something nice.

"Yeah, what about a wife?"

"You want me to get you a wife?" Max said, confused. Hell, his uncle had it made. There were at least a dozen widows in his building who seemed to have nothing better to do than bake for the old man.

"Not me," Bill hollered. "You."

"Oh," Max said, thinking, not again.

"Meet any nice girls out in California?"

"Ah," Max said, wondering if he should. Oh, what the hell. "Actually, yes. I did."

"What's her name? What she look like?"

Max told him most, but not everything. Not once did he mention the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

"Then go get married and have a lot of babies."

Max wasn't so sure how to respond, but said finally, "It's not that easy."

"That's the problem today. Nothing's easy. In my day, you met a nice girl, you got married, you had babies."

"So, how come you never had kids?"

Uncle Bill shrugged sadly. "Sometime the nice girl's plumbing don't work so right. Sometimes it just don't happen." He forced a smile, his mind lost in memories of his long dead wife, a woman named Clara who died before Max was born. "And it's not like we didn't try. Believe me, we tried every chance we got. Ain't nothin' else to do when you're poor."

CUT TO:

Utz scurried past Russell into Theilgard's office, slamming the door shut behind him. None of the usual, "'Morning, Randy," just a curt, "I'm here to see, Theilgard."

He was carrying the black briefcase -- Russell observed that Utz was always short whenever he carried that case. Deep down, Russell wished he carried the case more often.

"It's all here," Utz said, placing the case down upon the marble slab. "Five hundred thousand dollars cash from the," he cleared his throat, "Senator."

Half a million was the production fee Theilgard charged for one of his videos, made to order, of course. Supply the details, and Theilgard delivered. A thirty minute epic of which only one copy existed. It was a specialized service, to be sure. But one that the studio boss thoroughly enjoyed.

Theilgard, standing by the window, was watching a beautiful actress wannabe walk from one end of the lot to the other. She wore a flower print mini skirt and a halter top. She had long brown hair and wonderful legs. He strained to memorize every detail. She was twenty, maybe a few years younger. She disappeared around the building, from his point of view. He made a mental note to find out her name, to have Randall get a copy of her headshot from the casting department.

Utz walked over to the bar and poured his usual. He sipped and waited for Theilgard to take notice, to pull his attention away from whatever was holding it in rapture. Utz sat on the leather sofa and kicked his feet up onto the glass coffee table. He loved the opulence of Theilgard's office suite. He worshiped the excess.

Theilgard turned toward Utz. He placed a giant hand upon the closed black briefcase. "Keep it," he said.

Utz dropped his feet to the carpet, and bolted upright. "Come again?" he said.

"It's yours," Theilgard said. "A bonus for a job well done."

Utz downed the vodka. "You mean for Gina?"

Theilgard smiled at the mention of her name. She had been wonderful. But no, not for Gina. "For Mr. Maxwell."

Utz walked to the bar and poured a refill. He wasn't sure what Theilgard was getting at, and said as much.

"Mr. Maxwell is ours."

"Healer?" Utz asked.

"He'd sell his soul to film that book," Theilgard said.

"Told you he worshiped it."

"You also told me he worshiped blondes."

"And brunettes and redheads," Utz said, a scowl. "Thing is, they gotta be wearing black." He downed the second drink.

Theilgard sat down behind the massive marble slab.

"So, what's next?" Utz asked.

"Find me next year's model," Theilgard said. "I hear there's a kid at U.C.L.A. who's causing quite a stir."

"Rufus Matz?"

Theilgard grunted a yes. "Get me the lowdown."

"Already working on him," Utz said. "What about Maxwell?"

"Mr. Maxwell will be fine," Theilgard said.

"So, shut down the surveillance?"

Theilgard nodded. "No need for it. He's mine now." He motioned over toward the shelf of Oscar statuettes. "He's going to win me a lot of those."

"Whatever you say." Utz walked over to the desk and picked up the black briefcase. "Thanks again."

"Don't mention it."

Utz headed for the door. A smile was plastered to his face. He almost couldn't wait until the next filming session. He squeezed the handle of the briefcase. Maybe I'll use this money to order a film of my own, he thought. His personal fantasy. Shit! Theilgard's jaw would drop when he read those specifications. Utz slipped past Randall desk without saying a word. But by the elevators, he suddenly began to laugh. A sinister laugh that made Randall's skin crawl. Fuck, Utz thought, Theilgard's jaw would drop.

CUT TO:

TWENTY-THREE

Paige pulled her rent-a-car up to the small ranch-style house on a quiet street in Auburn, Kentucky. It was a faded green, and looked much like the houses next to it, a faded blue to one side, a faded yellow to the other, all simple boxes on tiny patches of lawn. Here and there mounds of hard brownish snow hinted that winter was a recent guest. Old Fords and Chevys confirmed that it wasn't the wealthiest of neighborhoods.

Maria Tremaglio was expecting her, and greeted her at the door. She was a forty year-old woman who looked fifty-five. Her hair was dyed blonde, its dark roots showing. Her fingers nicotined stained, her nails and cuticles chewed well beyond recognition. She wore a simple dark green dress, also faded from a few too many wash cycles, much like the house was faded from a few too many storms.

Paige had called, identified herself, and said that she had information about Melissa.

"She's dead isn't she?" Maria said that afternoon on the phone. Her voice was calm, even. She expected the worst, she knew the worst was reality. She repeated the question as Paige entered her home.

Paige glanced around at the faded furnishings, and faced the woman. This wasn't easy. How could it ever be easy? "I'm afraid so," she said. She was hoping that Melissa had contacted her mother, at some point, any point. She was hoping for anything.

A breath caught in Maria's throat. She sniffled a few times. She was a woman who had shed a lot of tears. She knew how to control them. "Sorry," she said, as if mothers weren't supposed to cry when their children died.

"Don't be."

Over a cup of coffee, Paige explained everything as best she could. She showed Maria a few still photographs of Melissa's face -- the least graphic she could find -- taken from the video.

"That's my Melissa," Maria said, not able to control the tears this time.

"Have you heard from her?" Paige asked. "Anything since she ran away?"

Blowing her nose into a tissue, Maria nodded. "At first I heard nothing, then, I don't know, eight months must have went by, and I got a letter. Then another. She wrote a lot after that first time." She looked up into Paige's face. "She was such a bright girl. She had looks and brains," she added proudly, then, "I got my last letter just about a month ago."

"Could I . . .," Paige said, trying to hide her sudden excitement. ". . . please, see it?"

Maria nodded. She stood, and walked out of the kitchen, toward the back of the house. She returned with a shoebox. Placing it on the kitchen table, she removed the lid, and lifted the top envelope from a stack of many. She handed it to the special agent.

Paige held it in her hands. The postmark was from Hollywood. The date, late January. She opened the envelope, pulled out the letter, unfolded it and read:

Dear Mom,

I'm so excited, I couldn't wait to tell you. It looks like all the acting classes, all my work, has finally paid off. I've met someone who's very impressed with my abilities. He's very important in the movie business and I believe he wants to help me and my career. I don't want to tell you too much in case nothing happens. But please, keep your fingers crossed. And say a prayer for me. I'll write again as soon as I know for sure.

Love you,

Melissa

"She sent a picture with it," Maria said. "Would you like to see it?"

"Very much," Paige said.

"It's in her room."

"Melissa's room?"

Maria nodded. "It's the same as the day she left."

"May I?" Paige asked, motioning toward the back of the house.

"Of course," Maria said. "Follow me."

The room contained the most elaborate decorations, the most expensive furniture in the entire house. There was a pink-stained antique four-poster twin bed, a matching chest and dresser, over which was hung a matching mirror. On the bed, a pink and white and baby blue quilt. A few teddy bears were propped against the pillows.

Photos of Melissa, at every stage of her seventeen years of development, adorned every surface of the room. There was one shot of her as a young girl, standing between two adults, a man and a woman. The woman was beautiful.

Paige looked from the photograph over at Maria.

"She was four," the woman explained. "That's me and her father, my first husband. He left us when she was nine."

Maria reached toward the matching mirror and pulled a four by six inch snapshot from the glass. "This is the one you asked to see."

Paige took the photo from the woman. She held it in her hands, gazing down at it, examining every detail. Melissa was in the forefront, smiling, waving. She wore a white shirt tied as a halter top, and a pair of tight faded jeans. She looked happy, and was honestly beaming. The day was one of those hazy L.A. affairs, would have been blue skied and sunny if only the smog would burn off. In the background, behind the traditional palm trees, was a simple wall, tall, unadorned, of gray cement. It was like any wall that surrounded too many private areas of southern California. Except that way over on the left side of the shot was a pillar, one which obviously connected to a gate of some sort -- hinges were just visible. And atop the pillar was a familiar design, in cast iron script. The letter T, just as it appeared at the beginning of countless feature films, just as it would appear at the beginning of Healer. The T of the infamous T.S., the Theilgard Studios logo. Paige knew it all too well.

CUT TO:

A door slammed. Maria looked up and over at the source of the sound. "That's my husband," she said. "You should probably get going."

"That's . . . ?" Paige said, a question in her tone.

Maria cleared her throat, nodded, said, "He's all I got left now," then, head bowed, walked out of the room. Paige followed her.

"Who the fuck is this?" asked the man standing in the kitchen. He was tall, ragged, wearing oil-stained work clothes. His hands were as calloused and dirty as Maria's nails were chewed.

"This is Special Agent Turner," Maria said softly. "She's with the F.B.I." She turned to face Paige. "This is my husband, Ed."

Paige nodded once.

Ed looked her over, a leering gaze half disgust, half lust.

A quick chill ran down Paige's spine. She hated him immediately. Hated him to the very marrow of his existence. Give me a reason to shoot him, she begged the God of Justice. In the name of Melissa, give me a reason to blow of sonofabitch away.

Ed turned toward his wife. "What's the F.B.I. want with us?"

"It's Melissa," Maria began to explain, her voice cracking. "She's . . ."

"She's been murdered," Paige said, looking Ed square in the eyes.

He actually blanched, swallowed hard, and turned to Maria. "Are you okay?" he asked, in a surprisingly comforting tone.

The tears gushed forth. She ran into his arms and buried her face against his shoulder.

Paige watched for a moment, then let herself out. She walked slowly back to the rent-a-car. Once inside, once back on the highway that would take her to the airport, she heard Maria's voice, a ghost voice really, nothing more. It was repeating one line over and over and over again.

"He's all I got left now," that voice said, defeated, despondent, dead. "He's all I got left now."

CUT TO:

TWENTY-FOUR

On Max's first day back on the west coast -- the two monster TV sets having been delivered, his business back east was said and done -- Randall had informed him that he had an appointment with a real estate agent who would show him a number of mansions in his price range, and once they were through he should stop by Luxury Motorcraft on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills and see a Mr. Louis Wentworth III about arranging a method of transportation.

The first house the real estate agent brought Max to see was a six thousand square foot, seven room contemporary on Elm Drive. Seven large rooms, each grand in its own special way, with high ceilings, lots of windows and skylights. Seven rooms flooded with light. There was a pool -- rectangular in shape, a hot tub, sauna, but no courts -- tennis or basketball.

Max had wished that Paige could be with him. He had called her apartment, but got only her answering machine. He left a message: "How do you say, 'I'm going house hunting,' to an answering machine?" His voice would let her know immediately how thrilled he was by the prospect of spending an afternoon with a real estate agent.

But that was something Max really wouldn't have to worry about. The moment he set foot into the foyer of the Elm Drive house, he turned to the agent and said, "I'll take this one."

The perpetual smile on the agent's face faded away. "But . . .," she said. "Wouldn't you like to hear all about it first?" She had prepared a speech for each of the fifteen houses she was prepared to show Max, with each speech highlighting the various and sundry details of each.

"No," Max said. "It looks fine." He just wanted to get it over with. And this looked, well, as he told the real estate agent, fine. It was sunny, large, and with only seven rooms there wasn't much of a chance of getting lost.

The real estate agent followed him as he finally began to walk around, to explore. Smiling, she began to tell him about the imported ceramic tiles in the foyer, when he shut her up.

"You don't have to tell me about it," he said. "I'll find out for myself."

He looked from the gleaming hardwood floors of the living room to the seemingly endless white walls. He walked from the ultra-modern kitchen to the outrageous master bedroom suite -- ten skylights, a fire place, and a thirty foot high cathedral ceiling.

Finally, when there was nothing left to see, he turned to the real estate agent.

"You sure this is the one?" she asked. "I've got a lovely fifteen room Tudor that I was going to show you next." She smiled, then added in a sing-songy tone, "Eleven thousand square feet."

"This is fine," Max said, glaring at the woman as if he wasn't quite sure what planet she was from.

"Okay," the real estate agent said, handing him the keys.

"Nothing to sign?" Max asked.

"It'll all be taken care of through Mr. Theilgard's office," the real estate agent explained, taking her leave.

Juggling the keys in his hands, Max took another look around, then headed out to the driveway, where Joe the Chauffeur was waiting patiently, the limousine stuffed to the gills with all of Max's possessions, everything of value that he had ever stored in his uncle's attic, all of his clothes from Michelle's hall closet.

"This the one, boss?" Joe the Chauffeur asked.

"This is home, Joe."

"It's big."

"Yeah," Max said, eyeing the structure that seemed to tower before him. "Real big."

CUT TO:

Anatole Laferriere detested Los Angeles. He hated the mansion lined boulevards, the Rolls Royces equipped with plain paper fax machines and all those Goddamn health food restaurants. There were no bars in L.A. Not real bars anyway. Just a lot of places that sold alcohol -- you couldn't call it booze in L.A., and there were no joints either, or at least not many. The whole place gave him the heebie-jeebies, the willies, and the whatnots. As for Carrie, well, she thought it was cool.

"Cool?" Anatole barked, his big red bullshit warning button being pressed. "Los Angeles is the essence of all that is uncool."

Carrie had never been out west. She had never been anywhere really, except for Key West, and Disney World once. Iowa certainly didn't count -- nothing in the mid-west did, at least not when you were from there. So, to her, L.A. was cool.

Anatole had leased, with an option to buy, a fifteen room, twelve thousand, five hundred square foot, mansion on Elevado Avenue in Beverly Hills, just a few mansions from where it intersected with Elm Drive -- just a hop, skip and jump from Max's contemporary abode. It was a sprawling sort of thing with duel staircases leading from the foyer to the upstairs. It had an in-ground pool shaped like an Absolut vodka bottle, a tennis court, a hot tub that seated twelve, a sauna, steam room, complete gym, an indoor basketball court, and a master bedroom suite the size of an airplane hanger. He figured Carrie could keep herself occupied while he was busy doing whatever it was Theilgard would be paying him to do, i.e. writing his script. Not that she'd have to dust, mop or cook, a maid and a butler would see to that. And a chauffeur would take either of them where ever they needed to go. To Carrie, the mansion and all that came with it was, "Out-fucking-rageous!"

"That's a shitload better than cool," Anatole said with a grunt and a smile, "Any ol' day."

CUT TO:

Luxury Motorcraft on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills specialized in Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Aston Martins, Rolls Royces and Bentleys. In fact, the least expensive new car on the lot was a loaded Porsche 911 priced at around sixty-five thousand.

Max asked for Mr. Louis Wentworth III upon his arrival at the showroom. He was escorted to a mahogany pannelled office, and introduced to a meticulously groomed man of about forty, dressed in an Armani suit.

Mr. Louis Wentworth III glanced disapprovingly at the grungy customer dressed in old jeans and a faded-to-grey black silk shirt, untucked and severely wrinkled. The disapproving glance faded immediately when Max introduced himself.

"Oh, yes," Mr. Louis Wentworth III said, standing, suddenly kissing up. "Mr. Theilgard called and asked me to personally assist you."

Max nodded. He didn't want to be personally assisted by this man. But did he really have a choice?

Mr. Louis Wentworth III showed him around. He opened doors, revved engines, beeped horns. Max listened to his prepared speeches for each of the overpriced automobiles in the showroom, each, of course, highlighting the various and sundry details of which Max had no interest.

When nothing inside seemed to grab his customer's attention, Mr. Louis Wentworth III escorted Max out onto the back lot. Six acres of mostly luxury cars, surrounded and protected by a tall, unadorned wall of grey cement.

They strolled down rows of Mercedes, avenues of BMWs, roads of Lexuses, and were just about to turn the corner on Ferrari Way when a little red sports car caught Max's attention. It was a two decade old MG Midget convertible. It seemed in mint condition, the exterior anyway sure looked clean.

"I like this," Max said, opening the door, dropping down into the cramped interior.

"Yes, well," Mr. Louis Wentworth III said, eying the price tag of less than twenty grand, trying to seemed enthused, "It's a classic, for sure."

Max stepped out of the MG, popped open the trunk, kicked the tires -- he had always wanted to kick the tires of a car he was considering, though he hadn't a clue as to why. He was about to ask for a test drive , when a glint caught the corner of his eye. He turned, and shading the sun with his hand -- of all times for the sun to break through, it had to be an omen -- he stepped past the MG, around a Viper, and suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, a huge grin tattooed onto his face.

"That one," he said pointing.

Mr. Louis Wentworth III gulped hard. He tugged at the collar of his shirt, as if needed to breath. Well, yeah, he did suddenly need to breath. What he had assumed would be sale in the six figure range, first nose dived to the low five figures, and now seemed on the verge of disintegrating altogether.

"That, um . . . is a trade-in. We'll be wholesaling it out this afternoon," Mr. Louis Wentworth III explained, as he dabbed at his forehead with a perfectly starched hanky. "A writer . . . sold a spec script for a million five, figured it was time to trade-up. Drove away in a new Range Rover. Maybe you'd like to test drive one of those."

"No," Max said. "I take this one."

"I really don't think a man of your stature would want to be seen driving this," Mr. Louis Wentworth III insisted. "Think of your image."

"Louie," Max said, circling the vehicle, then stopping, opening the door, climbing in, taking a seat, and grabbing hold of the fifteen year-old Jeep CJ7's equally old steering wheel as if it were an even older best friend, "Fuck image."

CUT TO:

TWENTY-FIVE

"Nice car," Paige said. She was standing in the open doorway to the Elm Drive house.

Max walked over to her. He took a loving look out at the army green Jeep in his circular driveway and said, "Yeah, I thought so."

They exchanged smiles. The warmth of his made her feel good, alive, especially after that jaunt to Kentucky.

"So, this is home," Paige said, stepping into the foyer, looking left, looking right, looking up.

Max shut the door behind her. He had left it open knowing that she'd arrive soon. "Something like that," he said.

"Care to show me around?"

"Hmm," he went, scratching as he often did at the stubble on his face. "Let me get the map."

CUT TO:

"What now, boss?" Max asked, mimicking Joe the Chauffeur. The tour was over, Paige approved wholeheartedly, though sarcastically admitted it might be tough getting used to such a small place after living in such grand Melrose Avenue studio style.

"Well," Paige said. "We make like we're the Hollywood item of the hour."

"The cover of People?"

"The cover of Star!"

"Ooh."

"And we'll begin by shopping for some furniture," she said.

"And I was just getting used to sleeping on the floor."

"You can sleep on the floor all you want. Me, I'm primed for a king-sized bed." She held out her arm, bent at the elbow. "Shall we?"

"Where to?" he asked, laughing, taking her arm.

"How about Ikea for starters," she said. "I hear that's where all the papparazi hang out."

CUT TO:

Over the next few days, Paige and Max played the part of lovers when out in public, dining together, shopping, taking in a film, going for long walks, always discussing those trivialities which only partners in love could ever find fascinating.

But in the Elm Drive house, things were vastly different. The trivialities were replaced by hard fact and disturbing conjecture . . . and a plan. She had it all worked out, like an outline for feature film script, act one, act two, act three, and hopefully the climax would fall in her favor.

The living arrangements were anything but lover-like. Paige stored all of her clothes in one of Max's two walk-in closets, though she slept in a bedroom -- the guest bedroom -- all her own. It was in a closet in this bedroom where she had moved all of her files, her copies of the videos, and most of her possessions from the studio apartment she had for six or so months called home.

"I want to show you something," she said, pulling a wooden box from the top shelf of that closet. Taking the box to the bed, she opened it, revealing the two standard issue Smith and Wesson model six-six-nine 9mm automatic pistols with twelve-round capacity. These were her big guns, ones she rarely, if ever, used. Instead she had a Colt Mustang Pocketlite, a small 380 that weighed only twelve and a half ounces. It didn't bog down her knapsack, and it fit perfect in most any purse. She pulled out that gun as well, and likewise showed it to Max.

He let out a silent breath and stared down at the pistols. "You know what I think about guns."

"Yes," she said. "I know. And personally I agree with you, that the world would be a better place without them. But unfortunately, the world is a terrible place. I'm trying to make it better." She picked up the Pocketlite. "I wouldn't be alive if it weren't for this thing." She explained the incident with her partner, how she was shot, then pulled up the side of her shirt and showed him the scar, a little round hole, not even dime sized, on the extreme left side of her stomach, just an inch or so over the waist band of her leggings.

Max leaned close for a better look. He wanted to touch it with the tip of his index finger, but resisted. Instead he asked what he knew was a stupid question. "Did it hurt?"

"Not as much as you'd think," she said. "It got numb real fast. It hurt more the next day, and the day after that."

"Where'd you shoot him?"

She held up her pistol, and took aim at a spot of nothing on the far wall, squinting down the barrel. "In the face."

He cleared his throat.

She put the gun down and turned toward him, then said, matter-of-factly, "I didn't want him to have a second shot." She turned to face him. "Ever shoot one."

Max picked up one of the Smith & Wessons and bounced it in his hands. It as a lot heavier than he expected, and cold. Cold and hard and heavy. Maybe it was exactly what he expected. He shook his head finally, no, and handed the gun back to her.

Okay, then . . . time to show him how they worked, how to load, cock, where the safety was located, etc., etc., and so forth, ad nauseam and repeat. Then, after if seemed as if he had the basics down, she placed the pistol back in the box, returned the box to its place on the shelf, then returned the Pocketlite to her knapsack.

"I want you to know where these are," she said, motioning with her chin toward the closet.

"Why?"

"In case," she said. "You never know."

"But I'd just get myself killed."

"You might surprise yourself."

And, as usual, through it all, Max listened, asked questions, made comments. But it was more than just about Sarah and Cynthia and Melissa now, because with every passing moment felt his heart slipping away, giving way to . . ., he felt his head, he was losing it, over heels . . ., feelings, confusing, confounding. Goddamnit, did she have to like the Mats! He needed to keep them, those tugs at his heart, to himself. There just didn't seem to be any room in Paige's plans.

CUT TO:

TWENTY-SIX

When Max arrived at Theilgard Studios for his first official day as a filmmaker under their employ, he pulled into a parking space upon which the words: RESERVED FOR JOHN MAXWELL, had been recently spray painted. To one side of his Jeep was parked a Jaguar XJ6, to the other a Mercedes SL500. How glad he was, right at that moment, that he had found the CJ7.

With a knapsack filled with his director' viewfinder, a note pad, some pens, and not much else, slung over his shoulder, Max walked from the Theilgard parking lot into the Theilgard building and hopped a Theilgard elevator to the twelfth floor. He was bopping his head to the version of Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" that played on the tinny Theilgard elevator Muzak speaker, when the door opened, and he came face-to-face with Randall.

Randall cleared his throat. "All ready to make movies?" he asked, shooting him a look.

"Something like that," Max said.

"Good. Good."

Randall gave Max directions to his office on the seventh floor. "Your secretary's name is Alice," Randall explained. "She looks like an Alice," he said in all seriousness. "But don't worry, if you don't like her, she's replaceable."

"Nice to know," Max said.

Randall smiled. "Yes, well. Here are your keys. The gold one's for your office, the silver one'll get you into this building after hours." Randall sat down and began working on some of the papers that cluttered his desk. "Bye," he said, not bothering to look back up.

CUT TO:

"Alice Turpentine," said the forty-five year-old, or so, woman as she stood and introduced herself to Max.

"Nice to meet you, Alice," Max said. She had a nice smile, he thought. She was Mom-like. If Mom happened to be gum chewing diner waitress with a bee-hive doo and a voice like turpentine.

"There's some man in there to see you, Mr. Maxwell," Alice said. "Wouldn't take no for an answer." Her voice suddenly blared toward Max's office door, "I would have had him wait out here, but he wouldn't shut up." She lowered her voice, and cracked her gum, "Want me to call security?"

"I don't think that'll be necessary," Max said, also whispering. "Let me see what he wants."

"Well, if you want me to call security, Mr. Maxwell," she said, her voice back to sonic boom level, "just buzz."

"Okay, Alice,"

"Coffee?"

"Tab."

"Tab?"

"Yeah, Tab."

"I don't think we have Tab. Coke?"

"Uh-uh."

"Pepsi?"

"Never."

"Hmm, how 'bout some Coffee then?"

"Yeah, I guess. Sure."

"How do you like it?"

"Extra light, two Sweet 'N Lows."

"How do you taste the coffee with all that junk in it?"

"I don't. I hate coffee. I like Tab."

"Tomorrow you'll have Tab."

"I can't wait."

CUT TO:

"May I help you?"

"I sincerely doubt it." The man had his back to Max. He was standing by the window looking out over the Theilgard lot. It was a window much like the one Theilgard himself constantly gazed through, only less majestic. No one at this studio was allowed a view like Theilgard's. That was his privilege. The visitor cleared his throat. Max noticed he held a glass in his hands -- half filled with bourbon, Max correctly guessed. The man took a swig, then continued, "Unless you know the answer to the every question in the universe."

Max knew this answer -- what he was expected to say. It was an exchange of dialogue from the last chapter of Healer. "First show me someone who knows every question," he said.

The visitor laughed. "What a crock of bullshit," he said. Then turning, he smiled and said, "And I'm allowed to call it bullshit." He extended a hand toward Max. "Anatole Laferriere," he said, then, "So, you're the bum who's gonna turn my book into a movie?"

Max nodded his head slowly, then smiled and shook Anatole's hand. "I'm going to try," he said, trying to grasp that there, in his office, was a hero, in the grandest sense of the word. One of Max's few living heroes. He introduced himself and said, "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Of course it is," Anatole said, a roguish smile playing on his lips. "So, have you read Healer?" he asked, half expecting a no or a not really or a not yet.

"A half dozen times."

The author scratched at his chin. "That's four times more than me." He finished off the bourbon. "Y'know, it's not as bad as I remember. I just reread the damn thing." He chuckled. "Wanted to get the script right."

"The script?"

"You didn't hear? I'm the scriptwriter. Wouldn't sell the thing otherwise. I figure I'm the only one who's got a right to fuck it up."

"But," Max said, confused, "You've never written a script before. Don't you hate Hollywood?"

"Can't fucking stand it," Anatole said. "But, hey. What the hell, right? It might be fun. And besides, from what I hear, we've got that in common. You're not too fond of the place either."

"Where'd you hear that?" Max asked.

"Word gets around." He slapped his hand on a manuscript that sat on the corner of Max's rather massive desk. "The first draft."

"How long is it?" Max asked, examining the one or so inch-thick collection of paper between maroon vinyl covers.

"Too long," Anatole snorted. "Hundred eighty pages." He held up his hand in mock protest. "Yeah, yeah. I know. Hundred twenty pages is gold, or so I've been told. So, we'll trim. You take a look at it. We'll meet tomorrow, begin working on it."

Max nodded. "I'll read it tonight."

"Enjoy." Anatole headed toward the door. "Nice to meet you, Max." He saluted, sort of. "Catch ya later."

"Bye," Max said, as he watched Anatole Laferriere disappear through his office door. He took a seat behind his desk, and sat back with a sigh, interlocking the fingers of both hands behind his head. He starred down at the script that now sat in the center of the desk top -- dead center.

Alice knocked at the door and peeked in. "Your coffee." She entered and placed the mug on his desk.

"You know who that was?"

"No, sir," suddenly huffy. "He wouldn't tell me."

"That, Alice, was Anatole Laferriere."

"Oh." She was unimpressed.

"He wrote Healer. Have you ever read it?"

"No." Alice Turpentine, like most Los Angelinos, actually read as little as possible. She figured she worked in the movie business, so she'd see the movie. And if no movie was made, then it probably wasn't worth reading to begin with.

"It's a glorious book."

"I'm sure it is, Mr. Maxwell." She turned to leave his office.

"Alice."

"Yes, sir." She looked back.

"Call me Max."

CUT TO:

Max's phone buzzed. He examined the buttons and key pad, picked up the receiver, then finally pressed the one button that seemed to be twinkling above and beyond its call of duty.

"Hello," he said.

It was Alice. "Mr. Theilgard wants to see you in his office -- pronto," she said.

"Thank you, Alice."

"Are you kidding," she said. "I live for stuff like this."

CUT TO:

"Mr. Maxwell," Theilgard said. He was standing in the center of the office suite. No cigar. "Welcome to Theilgard studios." He extended a massive hand which Max shook. "Have a seat," he said, motioning toward sofa where Randall and two other men sat.

Randall handled the introductions. "John Maxwell," he said, "I'd like you to meet Karl Svenwall and Bill Wendenstein." Both men leaned forward and shook Max's hand. He knew of both. And of their standings in the film industry.

Svenwall, a lanky Swede in late-fifties, was generally considered one of the finest cinematographers of all time. Max greatly admired his work, and had even shot Best Friend in a way that would appear an homage to this master of the slow motion zoom -- a Svenwall trademark actually, a long lingering dolly that began as a long shot -- a head-to-toe framing of some character -- and over the course of two, three, sometimes even five or six minutes would move almost imperceptibly to an extreme close up of that character's face. Once even, in Svenwall's first feature film, the Swedish classic The Dying Angels of Arvidsjaur, he went so far as to fill the screen with a dead angel's left eye -- a little freeze frame, followed by the slowest of all slow fades to black. Roll those end credits.

Wendenstein, at forty-two, was one of the prime movers and shakers in Hollywood's ever changing producer game. Tall, slightly alcoholic -- half his deals were made at AA meetings --with a string of lovers that read like the Who's Who of Vogue magazine cover models, he had a string of box office successes under his belt -- good films, that came in on time, under budget, and made money. He had power and prestige, and at Theilgard Studios he called his own shots. Jeffrey Theilgard trusted Wendenstein's instincts implicitly. And he paid him an exorbitant salary -- rumored to be in excess of five million per film, plus a solid percentage of the dollar one gross. And considering Wendenstein averaged two films per year, he was not only one of the most powerful, but one of the richest men in the entertainment business -- a perennial inclusion to the annual Money magazine listing, and a regular top-ten-with-a-bullet member of Entertainment Weekly's list of the hundred most influential people in showbiz.

"It's a pleasure to meet you both," Max said, taking a seat.

"Mr. Maxwell," Theilgard said, taking a seat, his seat in the high back olive green leather chair of Swedish origin. "Meet your producer and cinematographer. I assume you've already met your writer."

Max nodded. He had certainly entered the big leagues . . . to go from doing everything himself by himself, to this, a producer who could handle any problem, a cinematographer with eyes of silk.

Randall cleared his throat, but it was Theilgard who spoke. "Mr. Maxwell, I want production on Healer to begin immediately."

Wendenstein motioned toward the half ream of paper in Max's lap. "The script?"

"Yes."

The producer laughed slightly. "A trifle long. Have you read it yet?"

"I just got it fifteen minutes ago."

"Something to do tonight."

"We'll meet tomorrow to begin some preliminary discussion on casting and locations," Wendenstein said.

"I've found the perfect spot for the opening scene," Svenwall said. "I'll bring some Polaroids."

"Good," Wendenstein said.

"I want this to be my Christmas blockbuster," Theilgard said.

"This Christmas?" Max asked.

Theilgard nodded.

"But it's March," Max protested, thinking of the year he spent just editing Defeated at the Paradise Hotel with One Last Request. And in Hollywood didn't everything take three times as long? "How can we possibly . . ."

Wendenstein held up his hand just slightly, "It'll be a stretch, Jeffrey," he said. "But I think we can finish it in time."

Theilgard grunted. He hated being called Jeffrey, but how could he tell that to his star producer, a man who annually earned him hundreds of millions in box office revenues. He couldn't. He wouldn't. So, he'd grin and bear it and take it on the chin -- one of those little humiliations he'd grown to tolerate. He stood, walked over to the massive marble slab. "I'm having a party on Saturday evening to celebrate the acquisition of the most popular book of our generation." He smiled in their direction and lit up a cigar. "To Healer, gentlemen."

The meeting was over. Randall stood, and said, "Thank you for coming." He led them to the door, waited as they filed out, followed, then watched from behind the security of his own desk as they disappeared to points unknown in the first available elevator.

CUT TO:

END OF INSTALLMENT #5

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

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Gorman Bechard