SLOW FADE TO BLACK:

a novel by

Gorman Bechard

Installment #7

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:

THIRTY

By Monday, all of Hollywood was a'buzz about Healer -- the announcement made the front pages of the Daily Variety, the Hollywood Reporter and the Los Angeles Times -- each story complete with photographs of Anatole, Heather, and Max. It had been the lead story on Saturday's eleven PM news, and again got coverage on each of Sunday's and Monday's broadcasts. All of the respective entertainment programs began their Monday episodes with news of the book's acquisition, that morning's Today Show featured a via-satellite interview with Bill Wendenstein, and even that evening's edition of Nightline was devoted to a piece Ted Kopple called, "What Price Hollywood?"

CUT TO:

By Wednesday, Max and Anatole had the script down to a workable one hundred, twenty-two pages.

"I thought they wanted one twenty . . . even," Anatole said.

"They'll live," Max said, tired of cutting. Wishing he could have kept in more of the courtroom evidence that led to the acquittal of Leanna's attackers. Arguments from a sharp attorney, Paxton G. Rowe, that if his clients had never raped Leanna, thousands of people would have died. That his clients were, in effect, responsible for saving thousands of lives.

"If you say so," Anatole said. "You're the expert."

"I'm hardly an expert," Max said, "But let's show it to them anyway. What have we got to lose?"

CUT TO:

The meeting took place the following morning in Theilgard's office. Wendenstein was there, as was Stern, Svenwall, Anatole and Max. All eyes were turned toward Theilgard as he puffed away, his eyes roaming the studio lot twelve stories below.

"The first time I read it," the studio boss said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "I rushed through it, thinking, you mean to tell me I spent that much money for this piece of crap?"

Anatole stood. He seemed to be fuming. "I don't fucking need to listen to this shit."

Theilgard held out a huge hand to quiet the author. "Then I gave the script to my daughter," he looked over at Anatole. "She adores your book."

"Tell me something I don't know," Anatole said.

Theilgard ignored him, and turned back toward the window. "I watched her as she read the script. For two hours, I sat there in silence as she cried, laughed, went through just about every emotion in the Goddamn book. When she was through I asked her if she liked it." He turned to face Anatole. "You know what she told me?"

Anatole shook his head.

"She told me it was perfect." He took another long drag on the cigar. "So, I reread the son-of-a-bitch. I tried to clear my mind of that," he cleared his throat, "ten million dollar price tag."

Anatole wanted to correct Theilgard -- a ten million and one dollar price tag. But he let it pass.

"I read slowly," Theilgard continued. "Trying to visualize every scene. Trying to hear every word of dialogue. And you know what?" He looked first at Anatole, then at Max. "I love what you guys have done." He walked over and shook Anatole's hand. "I love this script." He shook Max's hand. "Love it. Love it to all good Goddamn hell." He shook Wendenstein's hand. "Love it!" he yelled, a beaming smile. "I fucking love it!"

CUT TO:

In Wendenstein's office, the group reassembled minus the studio head.

"That guy's a fucking loony-tune," Anatole said.

"And that's what makes him the king of the mountain," Wendenstein explained.

"That he's more fucked than everyone else?" Anatole asked.

Wendenstein shrugged. "Something like that." He shot Anatole a glance. "But you never heard it from me."

"I'm sure it ain't much of a secret," Anatole said, then, "Shit! I was ready to belt him. No one talks to me that way. I don't care if they are paying me ten millions dollars."

"Ten million and one dollars," Max said.

"Right," Anatole said, beginning to laugh.

"What the hell do you do when one of your books gets a bad review?" Wendenstein asked.

"Find the son-of-a-bitch who reviewed it and beat the crap out of him," Anatole said.

"You're kidding?" Stern said.

"Not at all," Anatole said, smiling like a vet about to recall his favorite war story. "Once some asshole from the Daily News called Healer a, and I quote, 'trite, preposterous, piece of fluff.'"

"What'd you do?" Stern asked.

"I found him one night, he was out drinking in this West Village saloon. I broke his arm in two places, and fractured his jaw."

"Didn't you get sued?" Wendenstein asked.

"Hell, yeah. But the judge threw it out of court. He agreed with me -- critics are assholes."

"That's too funny," Svenwall said.

"That was only the first time."

"There's more?" Stern asked.

Anatole nodded. "Got to the point when even the mighty New York Times would only assign my books to little old ladies. They knew I wouldn't go after them."

"But you put down your books all the time," Max said.

"That's cause I can. They're my books. It's like you got a brother, and everyone knows he's an asshole. But only you can say it, cause he's your brother. Know what I mean?"

Nods all around.

"So," Anatole said, abruptly changing back the subject, "the script's okay."

"It's better than okay," Stern said.

"So, let's make a movie."

"We need stars," Stern explained.

"What about Heather?" Max asked.

"She's hardly a star," Wendenstein said. "But you should set up a meeting with her. She's going to need a lot of supervision."

"Done," Max said.

"We have a script," Stern said. "That's step one. Now we can work on filling in the other leads."

"Any ideas?

The briefcase was open, the head shots passed around.

Step two.

CUT TO:

Heather Theilgard walked into Max's office. It was late, by Hollywood standards. A little after five.

"You wanted to see me," she said, then lowering her voice to mimic her father, added, "Mr. Maxwell."

"Have a seat," Max said.

"You're probably not too happy about this casting decision," she said, sitting.

"What makes you say that?"

"Oh, I don't know. Just thought that you'd probably prefer to work with someone like Sharon Stone."

She seemed nervous. Uncomfortable, Max thought. "No," Max said.

"No, you wouldn't prefer to work with Sharon Stone?"

"No, she wouldn't be right for the part."

"Since when do considerations like that matter in Hollywood?"

"They matter to me."

"So, what you're saying is I'm right for the part?"

"You have the right look," Max said. "And you don't bring with it any unnecessary baggage."

"Other than being Theilgard's daughter."

"But that doesn't matter outside of L.A.," Max explained. "Do a good job and no one will care. Do a great job, and even the regulars at Spago will forgive you your genes."

Heather nodded and looked down. A smile formed on her lips, slight at first, then beaming. "Until I turn my back."

"Never turn your back in this town," Max said, thinking, or so I've been told.

"Wise advice," she said, "Coming from a New Yorker."

"You think it's that different in New York?"

"Yeah," she said. "I do. This place is different from everywhere else. It's not real, but it's real vicious. And that's coming from someone who was born here. And, as you probably know, very few people are born in L.A."

CUT TO:

Heather opened the script. "May I?" she said.

Max nodded. He was curious as to what sort of reading she'd give. And what the hell, he figured, what better time to find out than now.

She turned to the back of the script. A scene where Leanna is reunited with her finance, Gary -- a high school sweetheart, a man she once loved, a man she now doesn't remember. "It's the scene where Gary approaches her in Washington Square Park."

Max knew the scene well. Washington Square Park was the place where Gary originally asked Leanna to be his wife.

"Read with me," Heather said, standing.

Max opened his copy of the script.

"Page one-oh-four."

"Got it," he said, then, standing, moving from behind his desk to face her, "Leanna?"

"Yes?" Heather said, her voice suddenly different, suddenly Leanna.

"You don't remember me, do you?"

Heather starred into his face. "Should I?" she said, a slight trace of bitterness for all she'd been through.

"You were going to be my wife."

Heather bit down slightly on her bottom lip, tears began to well in her eyes. "I don't know you," she said.

"You used to love me," Max said, little emotion -- just feeding her the lines.

"I used to do a lot of things," she said, the tears turning to anger. "I used to be a lot of things." She yelled out the words. "I used to have a mother. I used to have a father. I used to have a life." The anger turning to fear. "Or, so I'm told."

"And I'm telling you . . ."

She cut Max off. "And you're telling me, I used to have a fiance. And we probably used to dream. Dream about a life together, a family. Tell me, did I want a family? Did I want to have kids?"

Max nodded.

Her voice became a frail yell. "Did I want a dog? Or, maybe I had a dog." She laughed. "Some cute little puppy somewhere is wondering why I haven't come home." Her tone became bitter once again. "So, tell me, Mr. Fiance. Did I like chocolate ice cream?" She moved close to Max, yelled into his face. "Did I like the Beatles?" Closer, louder. "Was I a baseball fan?" Closer, louder. "Was I good in bed?" Closer, a pain-filled whisper. "Did I know how to kiss?"

Max said nothing. He had no lines. He was just supposed to look hurt.

She pulled away. "I'm sorry," she said, staring into Max's face with tear stained eyes. "'Cause I don't want to know."

CUT TO:

THIRTY-ONE

Alice buzzed Max to inform him that he had a visitor, a Miss Paige Thompson, and also, seeing it was quite late, that she was going home, and wanted to know if there was anything else he might need before she left.

"No, I'm fine," he explained, stepping from his office. "See you tomorrow." And when Alice was gone, he turned to Paige and said hello.

The time was six-fifteen. Heather and her script had long since departed, and now Alice, and aside from a few janitors, and maybe a handful of writers, Max and Paige were alone. And the time had come to get down to work.

The Theilgard building was the cornerstone upon which the studio was built. A twelve story art deco, glass and granite structure that towered over the two hundred acre back lot. A back lot comprised mostly of facades -- the turn-of-the-century hotel, the New York City street, the New England village, an outdoor corner cafe in Paris, the spaghetti western frontier town, the European villa -- as well as three airplane hanger sized sound stages, and a couple of storage facilities -- one containing props, the other wardrobe.

Jeffrey Theilgard's inner office, combined with Randall's outer cubical, took up half the building's twelfth floor, with the rest being devoted to a lavish rooftop deck/tropical garden that could be used and enjoyed by any of the Theilgard executives or stars. The key to the building's main entrance, was the same key that allowed all favored sons access to the roof.

It was there that they began their exploration. Max had been on the deck only once, and then for just a few moments, when Randall had given him a ten cent tour, the day of his first visit to Theilgard Studios.

"Everyone adores it up here," Randall had explained. "Unfortunately, no one has the time to lounge around in the sun."

How right you are, Max thought, as he and Paige stepped into the early evening sunlight. He walked over to the edge of the roof and looked out over the lot. It was mostly quiet except for a TV movie of the week, an M.O.W., shooting on the New England street facade.

The garden was designed by Akihiko Takei, world renowned for his floral designs. Max knew this only because Paige spotted the a brass plaque with Takei's signature, and a short bio -- he was commissioned to create private gardens for the Emperor of Japan, as well as the King of Norway. Like most artists he signed his work. Named it as well. This rooftop canvas was called, Jayne Mansfield's Left Nipple. Max looked about and nodded. A goofy thought came to mind. "It looks more like a rain forest," he said.

"You've never seen a rain forest up close," Paige said. "Have you?"

"Uh-uh."

"Then trust me," she said. "It looks more like a nipple."

Max nodded.

Paige walked over to another set of sliding glass doors, opposite those through which they entered the garden. "What's through here?" she asked.

"Theilgard's office," Max said.

Seriously doubting that they'd be unlocked, she gave the handle a what-the-fuck tug, and was more than surprised when the door slid silently open.

"Too easy," she said.

They stepped into the office, with Max sliding the door shut behind him.

Theilgard's office seemed even more inhibiting when it was empty. The massive marble slab sat menacingly in the center of the room like an aberrant offspring of one of the trilithons of Stonehenge. Max approached it. No drawers. A leather bound date book sat dead center. He flipped open the tome. The pages were blank except for the preprinted day and date. Max figured the book was for show -- that Randall took care of Theilgard's schedule. There were no drawers or shelves in the office. Nothing cluttered or strewn about. It looked as if the photography team from Elle Decor was due at any moment -- where exactly were all the electric cords in those magazine shots? -- and everything was just so. Max checked the waste basket. Empty. Paige came over to the desk. She immediately began examining two stacking letter trays off on the far corner of the marble slab. The top "Out Tray" was empty, though the bottom "In Tray" contained a number of head shots -- all women. She looked them over, with Max watching over her shoulder.

What Paige saw a few headshots into the pile, made her gasp. "Whoa!"

"How'd that get there?" Max asked.

They were both staring at a headshot. There in all its black and white glory . . . Paige Thompson.

"Guess Theilgard took notice," he said

"Or he just wanted to keep tabs on who his prize director was playing with," she said, feeling a cold stabbing sensation screech down her spine.

They exchanged a look, both thrilled and worried. Thrilled that the path they were traveling would lead them to the person responsible for those videos, and that that person was a very dangerous man, that that person was Jeffrey Theilgard. Worried for the exact same reason.

Paige continued flipping through the eight-by-tens -- she needed to get past hers, past the dread that had taken root in the pit of her stomach. Maybe she wasn't playing with a stupid greedy partner this time around, one who couldn't even shoot straight. Maybe this time she around, on this case, she was flirting with death, and not just the deaths of Cynthia and Melissa and the others, but quite possibly her's . . . and Max's.

"Wait," Max said, a half-dozen headshots later.

"You know her?" Paige asked.

He shook his head at first. She looked familiar, incredibly so. Her name was Gina Stone.

"Right," Max said, it finally coming to him. "The Hammermill." He explained how she had come on to him. Really come on to him. "Then you were standing by my side."

"I remember now," Paige said, starring down at the photo. "Wonder if Theilgard set you up," she suggested. "A little perk, perhaps."

"Would you put it past him?"

"Not at all," she said, suddenly concerned for this young woman, hoping to God that a perk for Max was the extent of it.

CUT TO:

The eleventh floor contained six offices, all identical in size. These belonged to Theilgard's most prolific producers and directors, minus Wendenstein. Those who had earned the big man's respect. Those who had earned the big man a lot of money. Max had met all six at Theilgard's Healer announcement party --cordial nods, polite greetings, most wondering if they slipped, would it be Max who would be next occupying their eleventh floor office suite.

All of the doors, except one, were locked. Max and Paige entered the unlocked office and closed the door silently behind them. It belonged to Wendel Hargrove, the cute actor-turned-writer-turned-director -- the triple hyphenate who won a handful of Oscars for Hops, his turn-of-the-century epic about the non-union Milwaukee brewery workers and their efforts to unionize. Max had seen the film just before taking on the writing of the script for Defeated at the Paradise Hotel with One Last Request. He vaguely remembered falling asleep during its third hour and being pissed at having wasted close to four hours of his life.

The office was much like his own -- a little larger, perhaps -- though Hargrove's decorating tastes seemed to veer toward the Victorian. Max remembered an aunt -- married not to Bill, but to another uncle -- he visited often as a child. She had furniture just like this, only it was all covered in clear plastic. He looked about, half wanting to wrap most of what he saw in Saran Wrap.

CUT TO:

The tenth floor, Wendenstein's floor, was locked off. The ninth contained the development and casting departments -- Wendenstein liked being close to the action, the ideas. These were rooms full of secrets, rooms full of dreams. The former, a collection of meeting rooms and small soundproof offices; the latter, walls of files cabinets, a lot of desks and phones, as well as two audition and four changing rooms.

They entered one of the black walled rectangular audition rooms. A video camera was perched on an old O'Connor 50 fluid head tripod. It caught Paige's attention. She motioned toward it.

"Could that have made the videos?" she asked.

Max moved closer for inspection. It was an old Sony tube camera attached to a three quarter inch portable video deck. Good in its day, as he told her, but hardly the type of equipment that would yield the quality they had witnessed on the video tapes.

They checked out the other audition room, a similar camera, an identical room, identical except for a pair of royal blue lace panties partially hidden by a stack of chairs. He picked up the panties.

"Some actress," Paige commented, "who'd do anything for a part."

"Most likely," he said.

"I meet so many girls at the casting calls who think they can blow their way to the top," she said sadly.

"The problem is," Max said, "A few do."

CUT TO:

The seventh and eight floors were each divided into eight office suites, Max's was a corner office on the lower of these two floors. And, like his, fourteen of the other fifteen were occupied by those relatively new to the film business, one, and in a few cases, maybe two or three films under the proverbial belt.

The one remaining office was empty. White walls, a dust-covered hardwood floor, and an empty wall of empty shelves. It was probably being saved for next year's model. Or maybe Theilgard just liked having an extra office around. In case.

CUT TO:

The sixth floor was the writer's colony, or the ghetto, as it was referred to by those who operated in the building's top three floors. Twenty-two soundproofed rooms, each equipped with a personal computer, which itself was loaded with WordPerfect 6.0. Here a variety of young men and women toiled, writing, re-writing, then re-writing again and again and again. Development never ended. And no one's words were safe on this floor. The screenwriter or author was just someone to get fucked over by the producer, the director, the star. They had to learn to bend over, spread 'em and say, thanks. An old saying called producers, directors and stars, "writer fuckers." It was the way it had always been, and with those self-same producers, directors, and stars in charge, the way it would always remain. There were exceptions -- Anatole Laferriere was one. But they were few and far between.

Max told Paige that if they ever did find a black ski mask on the sixth floor, it was used in bank robberies, not snuff films. Such was the screenwriter's pay scale, such was their determination to escape.

"But what I really want to do is direct," was embedded in the walls, echoing, reverberating, longing for release.

CUT TO:

A cold chill ran down Max's spine as he and Paige prowled the cluttered hallway. Lights poured from a half dozen offices. She peered into one. Bucky Gold, a young writer with really bad hair, leaned back in his chair, his feet propped on the edge of the small desk. He held a few pages from a script in his hand. He was reading aloud from his work.

"You had no right, you son-of-a-bitch. I said, no. I told you to stop."

Max appearing right behind Paige, cleared his throat.

Bucky looked up at Paige, then at Max, pulled his feet off the desk, spun around in his chair and stood up in a motion so swift that they would have needed to see a slow motion instant replay to catch it all. "Mr. Maxwell," Bucky said, extending his hand, "Bucky Gold. Is, um . . .," he glanced at Paige, seemed to lose his train of thought, then found it, "there anything I can help you with?"

Max smiled, stepped forward, and shook the writer's hand. "Just showing my girlfriend around, Bucky." He nodded toward Paige. "This is Paige Thompson."

"Nice to make your acquaintance," Bucky said, first wiping his hand against his pant leg, then offering it to Paige.

She shook his hand. "It's a pleasure."

Bucky nodded, and looked so damn uncomfortable it was making Max's skin itch.

"What are you working on?" Paige asked.

"A cable movie," Bucky explained. "HBO. Doing a little polishing."

Max nodded. Cable movies were at least a notch or two above M.O.W.'s.

"It's about date rape."

Paige swallowed hard. "Really?"

"Yes."

"Then try mother-fucker," she said.

"Excuse me?"

"The line you were working on."

"Oh," Bucky said. "Right."

"Well," Max said, eyeing his partner cautiously. "We should get moving on." He turned to Bucky. "Good luck with it."

"Thanks."

Bucky watched as they continued down the hall, then sat down and turned back to his script. He read the words, "You had no right, you," he stopped, then smiled. "You had no right, you mother-fucker," he read. "I said, no. I told you to stop." He smiled and nodded to himself, then turned toward the friendly whir of his computer.

CUT TO:

A state of the art screening room, complete with a small concession stand, took up all of the fifth floor of the Theilgard building. Max and Paige bypassed the lavishly equipped theater and made their way to the fourth floor where the studio's editing suites and sound mixing studios could be found.

Karl Svenwall had lectured Max about the virtues of editing in the grand old tradition -- editing with film versus editing on video. Svenwall called video "evil," insisting that it could never and would never replace the glories of film. There was no reason to lecture. Max agreed. He was a film purist of near fanatical proportions.

The editing suites were divided. Two were fitted with Steinbeck eight plate flatbeds -- state of the art film cutting machinery -- while the other two were packed with monitors, computers and every video editing accessory known to man.

The sound mixing studios were identical. They resembled small screening rooms where a fine cut of a film could be screened while its sound was improved, added and mixed. Footsteps, the slam of a car door, gunshots, and a lot of dialogue, were all just dubbed in later, dubbed in after.

"It's the way movies are made," Max explained.

"All an illusion."

"Exactly."

CUT TO:

The second and third floors of the Theilgard building housed the business end of their movie making world -- accounting and distribution, respectively. The series of small offices and cubicles were filled with nine-to-fivers in Brooks Brothers suits and Ann Taylor dresses. Some crunched numbers, some spoke Japanese, a few specialized in ancillary rights -- video, cable TV, broadcast TV, etc., etc., and so on, ad nauseam -- while others made sure that the check from Taiwan arrived on time. It was tedious, confusing, and nothing Max really understood, or ever cared to -- that was Michelle Bialer's job. It baffled the filmmaker how a movie could gross two hundred and fifty million dollars and still lose money. That just didn't make any sense.

"The money's an illusion," Paige suggested. "Remember . . . everything is."

CUT TO:

They hopped the elevator -- Muzak version of the Ramones' "I Wanna Be Sedated," this time around -- and pressed the button marked "B."

There was nothing on the first floor other than the oversized reception area, security, and more Goddamn plants -- million dollar plants -- courtesy of Akihiko Takei. Jayne Mansfield's Labium Majus, if you please.

The elevator door slid open and they stepped into the darkness. Max fumbled against the closest wall and found a panel of light switches. The first one gave him the illumination they needed. The elevator door slid shut, the car moved up, probably to the sixth floor, to take Bucky Gold one step closer to home.

The basement of the Theilgard building was filled with rows upon rows of identical file cabinets. They walked over and began opening drawers jammed with folders. Paige pulled one out and scanned over it. It contained the South American distribution and revenue breakdown for Hargrove's Hops. The illusion, she thought, glancing at the figures, then returning the file to its rightful place.

Moving beyond the rows of cabinets, Max discovered the fireproof, temperature-controlled vault where the original negatives from every Theilgard production was stored. And beyond that nothing. Just space. Space for more file cabinets, or for an addition to the vault.

Max turned and headed back toward the rows of cabinets. There was nothing in the basement that either of them could use. It was time to go home. They walked back to the elevator, and he was about to press the button that would drag the car back down to the basement, when suddenly it began moving all by itself.

"Wait," Paige said, touching his hand, stopping it from pressing the button.

They watched as the elevator descended, from six, all the way down to one, where it stopped, and then began descending again.

"Shit!" she said, then grabbing hold of the top button of her 501's, Paige yanked, popping open the fly of her jeans. She ripped her shirt out, untucking it, popping a few of the buttons. It wasn't in any sort of slow motion at all, as Max might have expected, but in a hyper-space sped up version. The details were there, every pop, snap and yank.

Christ!

Then what she did next almost gave him a heart attack. Turning, one eye up at the elevator lights, she pushed him back against the wall, then flung her arms around him, burying her face against his neck. He stood rigid, frightened, this had happened so many times as he fantasized himself to sleep, but what was this, here and now, in the Theilgard Building basement? Not at all like his fantasy. The touch of her body, pressed up against his. Her soft breath on his neck. He began to sweat, to die a thousand deaths, in a thousandth of a second.

"Make it look real," she said, grasping his hands, slapping them onto her behind.

Goddamnit, he thought. Maybe he whispered it as well. He wasn't sure about that, about anything. How could he be? He wanted it to be real, had she any idea how this was melting him alive?

Then the elevator door opened, and the meltdown came to a crashing halt, as there stood James Utz, grinning ear-to-ear. "Going up?" he said, "Or, should I perhaps say, 'Going down?'"

Paige pulled away from Max, pretending to be embarrassed, tucking, buttoning, shooting her supposed lover dirty glances.

"Working late, aren't we?" Utz said, holding the door.

Max just sort of grunted his reply, then he and Paige got onto the elevator in red-faced silence.

The door closed, but Utz did not choose a floor, he just stood there and smiled. Max finally pressed seven. They rode in silence, except for a version of "Me So Horny" on the tinny speakers. Then, on the seventh floor, Max and Paige exited the elevator, Utz did not. They turned and took a few steps in the direction of Max's office, but once the elevator door was shut, Paige turned back and watched to see what floor Utz would travel to. It didn't surprise her to see the elevator make an extended stop on the twelfth floor.

"You okay?" Paige asked, when they got to his office. He hadn't said a word since she popped open her jeans in the basement.

"Fine," he said. Though Paige knew he wasn't. She could tell what was going on in his mind. She knew enough about him, and even if she didn't, she'd have to be blind not to read the signs. He was falling for her, or maybe had already fallen, but that wasn't the problem. The problem was that the feelings were mutual. And for her to fall, to get emotionally involved, would only compromise their investigation, it would only put Max, and her for that matter, in jeopardy. Right, she thought, just keep telling yourself that, Paige.

"I think we passed," she said, finally, and after a long pause during which Max didn't look at her, but instead, stared off at a corner of the office, taking long, deep breaths.

"Passed?" he said, his voice but a whisper.

"As a couple who can't keep their hands off each other."

"Oh," Max said. "Yeah . . . sure."

He was dying inside. He was dying.

CUT TO:

Seated in Theilgard's chair behind the massive marble slab, Utz pulled the stack of head shots from the bottom "IN" letter tray. He flipped through the photos, grunted when he saw Paige's, then came upon Gina's. He shook his head. How sloppy, he thought, folding the photo in half, then in half again, and placing it in his pants pocket. How sloppy of Theilgard to leave her photo around. He continued his search, and came upon a photo of a pretty freckle faced girl. Reading from the resume tacked onto the backside of the eight by ten, Utz learned that she was twenty-one years-old, five feet two inches tall, weighed ninety-nine pounds and had red hair. Perfect, he thought. Exactly what the customer ordered. He noted her name, Jillian, then placed the stack of head shots back in the "IN" letter tray, except for Jillian's which he placed in the "OUT" tray. Leaning forward he picked up the receiver of Theilgard's telephone and punched out seven numbers.

In bed, reading that day's issue of Daily Variety, Theilgard grunted, then reached over to answer the phone.

"Yes," the big man snapped.

"Her name's Jillian," Utz explained.

"Oh, yes," Theilgard said. "The little redhead. A cute girl. I'll set it up."

"Good," Utz said, then, "There's something else."

"What's that?"

"I found your Mr. Maxwell working late."