SLOW FADE TO BLACK:

a novel by

Gorman Bechard

Installment #8

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-FOUR

Max pulled his Jeep into the half mile long private drive that led to Jeffrey Theilgard's Malibu castle. The parking lot was mostly empty now. No stretch limos, no chauffeurs, not even a Range Rover. Just a shiny new Boxster, parked up front, close to the main entrance, and an old Volvo station wagon parked by the servants' quarters.

A butler answered the door, an elderly man with a foreign accent. German, Max correctly guessed. "Miss Theilgard's out back . . . by . . . the . . . pool," he said, waving his hand game-show-hostess-like in the direction in which Max was supposed to walk.

"Thank you," Max said, disappearing into the bowels of the mansion. It seemed even larger, more oppressive, without the celebrity decorations.

He came, eventually, to the marble veranda which overlooked the pool -- though to call it a pool would be an insult to Mother Nature. He noticed movement under the water and figured it to be Heather taking a morning swim. He walked down the marble steps than led to the pool and his leading lady. It was at the edge of the pool that he noticed the familiar brass plaque. Christ! Another Akihiko Takei original. This one was called, Jayne Mansfield's Vulva. Max must have been too nervous the night of the Healer announcement to ever even notice. Too nervous and too pre-occupied. He looked about at the plants that surrounded the poolside. He was puzzled, but not about Takei's obvious popularity -- the man was talented. He knew plants, their personalities and their splendor. No, what bothered Max was the millionaire gardener's obvious obsession with Jayne Mansfield's most private parts. What was the deal here? He envisioned some rock n' roll oldies flora fantasy: part The Girl Can't Help It, part Little Shop of Horrors, by way of the most lurid chapters of Gray's Anatomy, all dubbed in English like some dreadful Godzilla flick.

Max was shaking his head, mostly out of confusion as to who'd play the Tom Ewell part, when Heather called out his name.

"Max," she said. "Over here."

He looked up. Heather waved from the edge of the pool. Her hair was slicked back. It reminded Max of the night she fell into this same pool, fainting away at her father's announcement that she'd be playing Leanna.

"Care to join me for a swim?" she asked.

Max walked a few steps closer. He gripped the script tightly in his hand and said, "We've got work to do."

"Suit yourself," Heather said. "I'll be out in a minute." She pushed off from the edge of the pool -- a flash of pink surrounded by the bluest of blue. Water blue and flesh pink, and nothing else. Heather wasn't wearing a bathing suit, she was naked. Max took a step forward, and watched as she swam toward the far shallow end. Okay, he thought, mouthing the word.

Her body emerged from the glistening blue of the water, the droplets clinging to her tight figure. She walked slowly, step by step, no hurry -- Heather knew she was being watched. And when she arrived at poolside, she bent slowly at the waist to retrieve the towel that rested on the ceramic tiled floor next to one of the numerous chaise lounges. Max shook his head, then looked away. He didn't want to see her like this, he didn't need to.

Toweling herself off, Heather turned and called to him, "Let's work over here. There's some shade."

Max walked slowly in her direction -- very slowly. She was tucking a tank top into her shorts, and zipping them up, when Max arrive by her side. She towel dried her hair and motioned toward a glass patio table safely hidden from the sun under a few transplanted palm trees.

"Will this do?" she asked.

"It'll be fine," he said, walking over, taking a seat, and crossing his legs.

"Something to drink?"

"Sure."

Heather yelled into the house. "Julie, can we get a pitcher of lemonade, please?"

Something resembling an answer came from the mansion, and in a moment, a maid -- Julie, or so Max figured -- placed a pitcher of ice cold lemonade and two clean glasses on the table top before him.

"Thanks," Heather said, tossing the towel aside, taking a seat.

"Will that be all?" Julie asked.

"For now."

The maid disappeared.

Heather grabbed her copy of the Healer script from a corner of the table. "Where do you want to start?"

"Y'know," Max said, "Usually rehearsals take place on a set, with other cast members, a script supervisor and the screenwriter present. Why here? Why alone?"

Heather pulled a cigarette from a pack of Marlboro Lights -- boxed -- that sat off to one side of the table along with some sunglasses and a Movado watch. She tapped the end of the cigarette against the glass table top, once, twice, then a few more times, then holding the cigarette between her index and middle fingers, placed it to her mouth, lit it and took a long, thought-filled drag.

"You smoke?" he asked.

"Leanna does."

It was the answer he expected, because as far as Max knew, smoking was a habit Heather didn't indulge in. But Leanna chain smoked. Lighting cigarettes, one after another -- Marlboro Lights in a box -- hands shaking -- more so, of course, toward the end of her story.

When Heather took another long drag, her hands began to tremble -- Max noticed -- just slightly. Finally she spoke, answered his first question. "Because none of the other cast members matter. You know that as well as I do. Leanna is the only important character in his movie. And I . . . am . . . Leanna. What good will a script supervisor do? Make notes in the margins? Feed me lines? She'd just get in the way. Even Anatole would, because he doesn't take it seriously. He doesn't take Hollywood seriously. No one knows this story like I do. Like we do. No one cares about it like we do. No one shares that passion." She looked away for a moment. Max could feel her heat -- the heat of her passion, not sexual, but a passion of an altogether different variety. An intellectual passion -- her passion for Healer. She turned back. Another long drag. "Where do you want to start?"

"Which are your problem scenes?" Max asked.

"There are none," she said, so very serious.

He nodded, then matched her seriousness, note for note, "Then let's start at the beginning."

CUT TO:

The Jewelry Mart on South Hill Street in downtown Los Angeles proper was a collection of small jewelry shops of varying quality and integrity, mostly comparable to New York's diamond district on West 47th Street. It was here Paige, armed with a photographic reproduction of the elephant pendant, courtesy of a video printer, began her quest to discover what mysteries that four-tusked three-eyed golden version of the endangered species might hold.

The first jeweler, a "certified" gemologist named Murray, told her it looked like cheap costume junk. "See the way those diamonds sparkle?" Murray said, pointing at the tusks. "Glass, nothing but glass."

The second expert told her much the same thing. He had never seen such a piece, and probably wouldn't have paid much attention if he had.

It wasn't until after lunch, Paige's seventh stop of the day, that she struck some sort of pay dirt. A jeweler named Gozal, told her the piece, did in fact, look very rare, but somewhat familiar, and if he could hold on to the photograph, he'd be glad to call her in a few days with whatever information he could unearth.

"That would be wonderful," Paige said, handing the man a twenty dollar bill for his efforts.

Gozal nodded graciously. "Might I ask, why you are inquiring about such a piece?"

"It was my mother's," Paige lied. "I'd like to know more about it. And maybe have a copy made."

"Of course."

CUT TO:

It took the better part of the afternoon for Max and Heather to get through the entire script. Most of the scenes were a breeze -- her press conference, her testimony at the trial of her four attackers, and especially her first healing -- a woman dying of cancer in the hospital room next to hers. Max was so impressed and distracted with the range of Heather's emotions, that repeatedly he forgot to feed her lines, and once found tears welling in his eyes to go with the goosebumps parading up and down his arms.

After he finally read the predictable FADE OUT, shut the script, and pushed it aside, he took a long, hard look at his leading lady. She seemed more than tired -- honestly exhausted, drained of passion, drained of life. She seemed as if she wanted nothing more than to sleep.

She looked up and smiled at Max. "Was that okay?" she asked.

"Better than okay," Max said. "You're there."

Heather nodded. "I feel it," she said, lighting a cigarette -- the last cigarette of her second pack of the afternoon. Julie had emptied the hand carved crystal ash tray countless times, like a waitress doing everything for that big tip.

"Ready to rehearse with the rest of the cast?"

She nodded.

Max understood what it was all about. Heather had never done this before. Her rich, powerful daddy had handed her the role of a lifetime on a silver platter. And she wanted to succeed. She needed to prove to the world, her co-stars, her director, the author, her father, even herself, that she deserved the right to play Leanna. That she was Leanna. She needed to prove that as badly as she wanted the part. And understandably, Heather was scared.

Max stood. "Tomorrow," he said. "We'll meet in my office at ten."

She nodded, then yawned. "Sorry," she said.

Max smiled. "You look like you could use a nap."

"Yeah," Heather said, suddenly wishing she had the energy to flirt, to say something like, care to join me? But she could only sigh deeply. The chaise lounge over by the edge of the pool looked too inviting -- more inviting, even, than Max.

"I'll see myself out," he said.

"Bye."

She walked over to the chaise and sat down, watching Max as he disappeared into the bowels of the huge castle. The sun felt warm -- hypnotic and warm. She slipped off her shorts, and out of her tank top, then laid back. She closed her eyes. It took no time, and Heather Theilgard was sound asleep. Sleep was what she needed now, more than just about anything else.

CUT TO:

Max revved the engine of the CJ7 and headed down the half mile driveway. He was too absorbed with thoughts of his life, his film, with thoughts of Paige, to notice that a fourth vehicle had joined his Jeep, the Boxster and the Volvo wagon in the castle's parking lot. A black Mercedes sedan was perched off to one side of the Volvo, its driver, James Utz, hidden behind the steering wheel and darkened glass of the windshield.

Utz smiled as the vision of Max's 4X4 disappeared down the long winding private road. The bald little man was tempted. He knew Heather had a penchant for sunbathing nude, and the thought of catching a glimpse of Theilgard's little girl's snatch made Utz want to blow himself. But that would have to wait. Right now, it was her private meeting with Mr. Maxwell that interested him most. Strictly work -- he doubted it seriously. Heather was too fine and much too foxy for that. And if anyone knew of Max's sexual addiction, it was Utz, who had studied his exploits during the making of his movie. No, Max was slamming the boss' little girl -- of that Utz was sure. And he had just the tool to catch them in the act. He started the Mercedes and eased down the driveway. He'd return the next day, or the day after that. Whenever the Boxster was in the studio parking lot and not there, in Malibu. He'd return with a suitcase or two filled with the finest high tech video gadgetry money could buy -- and that half million dollar bonus could buy a lot of gadgetry. He'd return, set it up -- the maid would buy the "it's for security" line -- and wait. And in turn, he'd get the video of a lifetime. One that would most likely make Jeffrey Theilgard blow his final fuse.

CUT TO:

THIRTY-FIVE

Kristine Jacobson had worked as an assistant director with some of the finest filmmakers in the industry. She was by Scorsese's side throughout the making and editing of Raging Bull, she was Sir Richard Attenborough's right hand on the Gandhi set, she assisted Terry Gilliam during his creations, Brazil, The Adventures of Baron Munchausen, and The Fisher King, and even worked with Robert Zemeckis on Forest Gump. But when Bill Wendenstein called and asked her to work on Healer, she felt apprehensive. It had been a long time since Kristine had worked with a novice director -- a real long time -- someone fresh from the romanticism of low budget labor-of-love filmmaking. Hell, she had even turned down Quentin Tarantino when asked to assist on his sophomore effort Pulp Fiction -- okay, everyone made mistakes now and then. And she wasn't sure that at the age of forty-four, with more than two dozen film credits under her assistant directorial belt, she wanted to deal with the pressure, insecurities, and general hassles of working with a Hollywood rookie.

Wendenstein convinced her otherwise. "Max is great," he said.

"They're all great," Kristine argued.

"He's talented, driven."

"Ditto," she said.

"I'll pay you four thousand a week, plus a twenty-five thousand dollar bonus if this thing comes in more or less on time and relatively on budget."

"More or less? Relatively?"

"Theilgard's daughter has got the lead."

"I remember reading that."

"Well?"

"Make it five grand a week, and spell out the more or less and that relatively, and you've got yourself an assistant director."

"Deal."

CUT TO:

Kristine expected the worst. She figured Max would be self-absorbed, pretentious, like most of the directors hot of a film festival smash. He'd have a vision, and use a lot of French terminology. Healer could never be called a movie, it would always have to be referred to as a film. But before long, when the pressures of unions and working with millions of dollars instead of hundreds of dollars all came crashing down on his head, he'd run to Kristine and she'd kiss the boo-boo and make it all better. She thought about a few of the other first-timers she worked with -- Man, what some rag like the National Enquirer or Star wouldn't pay for her stories. But the inquiring minds of the world would have to wait for the eventual retirement and that resulting autobiography. Holding Hands in Hollywood, she'd call it. Or maybe, Cry Babies, Concubines, and Crooks -- My Life Behind the Scenes in the Land of Dreams. Would that book ever set old Hollywood on its ear? Yes, she thought to herself, it most certainly would.

But when she met John Maxwell in Wendenstein's lavish office suite, she was immediately and pleasantly surprised. He seemed humble -- well, as humble as any film director could ever hope to be. He seemed nice, friendly, and -- could it be? -- anxious for her input. It was as if he really had the best interest of Healer in mind.

"You've done this more often than I have," Max said to her during that first meeting. "I'll probably look to you for a lot of hand holding."

Kristine didn't know what to say. So, she just smiled.

"I told you he was different," Wendenstein said later.

"Let's see how things are once the cameras roll."

CUT TO:

While Max spent the afternoon rehearsing with Heather in Malibu, Kristine was busy working with the film's production manager, Buck Milani. First they checked with the location scout on the progression of the numerous sets which were being built to Max and Anatole's specifications, then they visited the costume department where Leanna's wardrobe, as well as the clothing of every cast member, from walk-ons and extras to the most important supporting players, was being compiled.

Kristine was to meet with Max late in the afternoon to give him a run down and help devise a shooting schedule.

Max arrived at the studio a little after four. His secretary, Alice, handed him a small pile of those pink while-you-were-out message sheets and informed him that Kristine was waiting in his office.

"How'd it go?" she asked, as he entered and took a seat behind his desk.

Words of praise for Heather's performance ran through his head, but they all sounded phony somehow, as if phrases like amazing, stupendous, or the ever popular fabulous lacked real meaning in Hollywood. Movie advertising blurbs ran through his mind, If you see one movie this year . . . So, he shrugged and smiled, and simply said, "Real good." His tone actually said it all.

Kristine liked Max. She wondered to herself for a moment, how long before he and his leading lady were an item. Two weeks, she'd give it -- once the cameras rolled, once he yelled "action," that's when the sexual chemistry would begin to boil. She had seen it so many times before, and it never mattered if the director or the leading lady were married, otherwise engaged, or even gay, they always ended up in the sack -- no matter what. It was an undeviating occurrence, the greatest of all foreplay -- it just had to happen. And nothing seemingly, not even a distaste for the other's sex, could stop it.

"She'll be able to pull it off?" Kristine asked.

"She's Leanna," Max said. "I can't even picture anyone else playing the role. Not now. Not after watching her." Then, "Now . . . shall we?"

She nodded and pulled up a chair, close to Max's. They opened up the Healer script on the desk top before them. One hundred, eleven scenes in total. They had been broken down by location, and cross-referenced by the characters who appeared in each.

Max ran a finger down the location list. Twenty-one scenes took place in the hospital -- a total of twenty-six pages -- beginning with scene five -- Leanna waking up in a hospital bed shortly after her attack, and ending with scene one hundred, eight -- her bedside vigil as the last of her attackers dies. These scenes would be shot first.

"I'd like to start with her first hospital scene," Max said.

"That's not a problem," Kristine said. "Dr. Franklin's in that one." She checked the cross referencing. "He's in a lot of them. We'll spend the first few days getting a lot of his hospital scenes out of the way. Leanna's got to be around anyhow -- she'll be practically living on the set."

"She's in all but thirteen scenes," Max said.

"And half of those are establishing shots."

"Right."

"At a shooting ratio of two pages a day," Kristine said, "I'm figuring fifteen days with the hospital set. That'll give us an extra couple of days in case something runs over. Which always happens."

Max seemed surprised. "Only two pages a day?"

"This is big budget, Max. I.E. slow. We film at a snail's pace. You've got a crew of forty. You've got unions -- strict, pain in the ass unions. The wrong person so much as touches a freakin' light, we get fined. You got actors with egos out to Santa Barbara and back. You got press junkets. Entertainment Tonight. You'll have freakin' Mary Hart shoving a microphone in your face every other day asking you how things are going while you're trying to concentrate on getting in a shot before the Goddamn magic hour disappears." She shrugged. "You're budgeted for a fourteen week shoot. That's seventy working days. If we pull off two pages a day, you're under budget and in early. You'll be viewed as the second coming of Harry Cohn, for Christ's sakes." Her forehead crinkled as she peered intensely at him. "Got it?"

He shrugged. "Do I have a choice?"

"Yeah," she chuckled. "Work retail."

He nodded and smiled.

"Welcome to Hollywood."

CUT TO:

THIRTY-SIX

Wesley Selden had always hated L.A.

He wished he could just ship a copy of the latest tape to Paige via Fed-Ex. Attach a note: "Call me." But he knew better. He knew he'd have to catch the earliest possibly flight out to Los Angeles and hand deliver the video. Ahh . . . L.A. It gave him the heebie-jeebies, the shakes. It made him want to up chuck and swallow it back down. It made him think of Maggie.

He picked up the phone and dialed the American Airlines reservation number. A woman's voice came on the line and asked the FBI commander to "press the number one" to indicate that he indeed was calling from a touch tone phone.

Selden sighed, and pressed one. He listened to further instructions, and pressed further buttons, and eventually he was put on hold. And as he listened to a Muzak version of Slaughter's "Up All Night" -- a song which he wouldn't have recognized even in its original form -- he couldn't help but think that all this blasted technology was the fault of the Japanese.

CUT TO:

Jeffrey Theilgard was annoyed. His date for the evening, a young woman named Lisa, had cancelled on him. A sore throat, she claimed, but could she make it up to him on another night. He grunted, sure, then hung up.

Lisa was an actress who had been given an under five as a nurse in a hospital scene in Healer. An under five was a glorified walk-on, where the character actually got to speak --though their dialogue was limited to under five lines -- thus the name, under five. Lisa was a cute, busty girl Theilgard met at the Ivy. She was waitressing. He was having lunch with Francis Ford Coppola.

Theilgard had no plans on starring Lisa in one of his little films. She had family in the Los Angeles area. Her father was a police sergeant. He just wanted to give her a break in the business, and get a little appreciation on the side. Mutually consenting appreciation, of course. He was looking forward to spending the evening with Lisa, and now his plans had been shot to Cleveland.

He buzzed Randall. "Get in here," he said. "And bring some headshots."

"Yes, sir," Randall said. He knew too well what that meant. He grabbed a pile of the best of the most recent arrivals -- no wonder, he thought, they were called headshots -- and scuttled into the boss' office.

"Boobs," Theilgard said, very seriously. "I want big boobs."

"Hmmm." Randall rubbed his chin as he flipped through the pictures. He came across one girl, a model -- Angelique was her name -- who had stapled a body shot to the back of her resume. In the four-by-five, drug store developed, photo-by-boyfriend glossy, the young woman was wearing a skimpy bikini. Randall turned the photo toward Theilgard. "They don't come much bigger than this," he said, thinking, if you don't mind the soft natural feel of silicone -- was there a Silicone Valley pun somewhere in all of this?

The big man smiled. "Yes," he said. "Give her a call. Will you?"

"Sure thing."

Randall went back to his desk. He looked at the photograph of the young woman and tried to imagine what it would be like doing a woman so obviously well endowed. He hadn't a clue. Randall had never been with a woman. Well, that blowjob by his boyfriend's mom didn't really count. He was seventeen, and she couldn't deal with her son's sexual preference. She figured if she got Randall to realize how good heterosexual sex was, her son would follow. But not in this lifetime! It was the worst head Randall had ever received. And it proved his theory -- if you didn't have a cock, you didn't know how to suck one.

He dialed Angelique's number. She was home and would be honored to have dinner with Mr. Theilgard that evening. He buzzed his boss and gave him the good news.

"Thank you," Theilgard said.

"No problem," Randall said, suddenly realizing that the only time Theilgard ever thanked him was when he arranged to get the big man laid.

CUT TO:

Heather Theilgard was seated by the pool of the Malibu castle. She was studying the Healer script, studying it obsessively, when the phone rang.

"Hello," she said.

It was Seth Fusco, one of her co-stars. He was calling to see if she'd like to have dinner with him, or maybe go for a drink.

"No, thank you," she said, politely.

Fusco was stunned. He had no clue as to what his reaction should be. No girl had ever turned him down before. No matter what his request, no matter what his suggestion, no matter what. Not ever. It just didn't happen. He had been on the cover of Seventeen magazine four times in the past two years. He had just been named to People magazine's list of the fifty most beautiful people in the world. What eighteen-year-old girl could resist his charms? "Are you, ah . . . sure?" he asked.

"Yes," Heather said, earnestly. "But thank you for asking. See you on the set." She hung up the phone, and on the other end of the line the resounding click! sliced through one of the largest egos in all of Hollywood like the proverbial knife through Land O Lakes sweet cream whipped butter. Ouch!

That was the third phone call Heather had received within the past hour. First Flynn Taylor, another of her co-stars, had phoned to invite her to a party at his place. She gracefully declined, but thanked him for thinking of her, nonetheless. Then, Charlie Sheen, who had nothing to do with Healer and in fact had never even met Heather, called to see if she'd like to go for a ride on his new Harley. She hadn't a clue as to how he got her phone number, but simply informed him that she really didn't like motorcycles, but (again) thanks anyway.

And then Fusco called.

Heather's other "attackers," Jesse Corbett and Ted Taylor, would have probably phoned as well, had one not been married, and the other gay.

She looked over at the phone -- it was about to ring, she could feel it. Reaching over she grabbed the receiver and gently placed it to one side. There. Off the hook. Literally. No more phone calls. No more offers of parties and fast rides, either/or leading to sex . . . everything led to sex in L.A. No more distractions.

Heather turned back to her script and began once again to read, to memorize, to imbed the words, the phrases, the feelings, the idiosyncrasies, into her memory, into her very heart and soul. To transform herself into Anatole's tortured young character. To become, truly and inescapably, Leanna.

CUT TO:

Angelique rattled Jeffrey Theilgard's bones. She was determined to leave the studio boss speechless. Once, twice, a third time, then again -- every which way and then some. Until finally Theilgard groaned, "No more. I can't take any more."

The wannabe smiled. She cooed, "Please. Just once more." Then she did something that no woman had ever done to the big man. He was helpless, her victim. He sprung back to life and she climbed on. She rode, galloped off into the sunset, the wind beating at her back, sending tumbleweeds rolling this way and that.

Then, before the credits could even begin to roll on epic number five, it was Theilgard's turn to do something he had never done before. He couldn't help but say out loud, "Angelique, would you like a part in Healer?"

"A big part?" she asked.

"Big enough," he said, understanding that this girl had just earned more than a lousy under five, this girl had earned the whole fucking enchilada, and she deserved the restaurant as well.

"For a big part," she said. "I'd do anything."

You already have, he thought, watching as she smiled, flipped back her hair and bucked like a first time driver behind the wheel of a Yugo equipped with standard transmission. Then she did it again -- the salacious stunt that no other woman dare risk.

"Oh, my God," Theilgard moaned, thinking, this girl's going to be a star.

CUT TO:

THIRTY-SEVEN

The week was a blur . . .

CUT TO:

There was a meeting with Svenwall:

"What look are you seeking?" the cinematographer asked.

Max scratched at his chin. "If I had my way," he said. "Raging Bull meets Manhattan. Deep dark wide screen black and white."

"I like to dream as much as the next guy," Svenwall said, knowing, like Max, that the American movie-going public had little to zero tolerance for black and white. That in their eyes, black and white was for I Love Lucy, the Three Stooges and artsy-fartsy music videos. Black and white was for Woody Allen, and once for Steven Spielberg. And, those exceptions aside, they didn't shell out seven dollars and fifty cents a ticket for black and white. Black and white was for free. And studios -- all studios, not just Theilgard -- didn't believe in free.

"Yeah," Max said. "Think about what we could do with the hospital scenes."

"Give everything white an ethereal glow."

Max nodded, then smiled suddenly.

"What?" Svenwall asked.

"We could combine black and white with color."

"Without pushing too many buttons?"

Max shook his head, a determined no. "Let's push 'em."

"It's your film," Svenwall said, a shrug, then a smile. "But I think the big man's going to have a shit fit."

"Not if his daughter convinces him," Max said.

"That do-able?"

"I think so," Max said.

"In that case," Svenwall said. "We got the black and white of Raging Bull combined with the color of?"

"Pedro Almodovar. Bright, garish, out of control."

"Get a little of that Unbearable Lightness of Being editing thing going and you've got yourself a winner," Svenwall said.

"Let's hope so," Max said, then, "Everything inside the hospital in black and white."

"Want every outside image in color?"

"Meaning?"

"You see a tree outside, through Leanna's hospital room window. Want it in color?"

"Can you do that?"

"Yeah," Svenwall said. "But it'll cost you."

"It's not coming out of my pocket," Max said.

"There you go. Cameras haven't even begun to roll and already you've caught Cimino-itis."

"I never have to look at the books. I don't have to apply for another credit card to pay the lab bills," Max said, then, "It's easy spending other people's money."

"Ain't that the truth?"

Another though occurred to Max. "Should, maybe, the hospital itself be some massive black and white structure? Even when seen from the outside?"

"I like that," Svenwall said.

"So do I," Max said. "Let's do it."

"Consider it done."

CUT TO:

There was lunch with Michelle Bialer:

"You looked like you haven't slept in weeks," she said. "How you been eating okay."

"Yes, mom."

"Fine," she said smiling. She was out in L.A. to meet with Michael Ovitz of CAA, and wanted to spend at least a little time with her favorite, most famous, client. "I won't lecture."

"You can lecture," Max said, smiling. "I miss your lecturing."

"I'm sure," she said, then, "I still can't believe you pulled this off."

He smiled. He had heard it so many times before. "Final cut."

"The New York office is still reeling."

"I hope you took some of the credit."

"All of it, are you kidding."

Talk turned to movies, music, a hot new manuscript she was representing, then, Michelle asked, "Are you free later?"

He exhaled.

She knew what that meant.

"What's her name?"

"Paige."

"Let's see," she said, busting his ass. "Eighteen, blonde, 38-D, and she's a huge Metalica fan."

"Try twenty-seven, brunette, what-ever the exact opposite of 38-D is, and she's a huge, notice I said huge now, Replacements fan."

"Whoa . . . this sounds like true love."

CUT TO:

Paige received a phone call:

"Miss Thompson?"

"Yes."

"This is Gozal. From the jewelry store. I've uncovered a little information about your pendant."

"Go ahead," Paige said.

"Well," he said. "It seems your pendant was part of the ancient Aztec wedding ceremony. Brides would wear it on their wedding nights, at the time of consummation. It was a fertility symbol, guaranteeing a long, fruitful life and many sons."

Paige was silent, wondering if its inclusion in the snuff videos was a lark or a sick joke. "What's it made of?"

"If the pendant is real, and that's difficult to determine with a photograph, it's made of ivory, wrapped in a layer of gold," Gozal continued. "I'd like to see it. If that's at all possible."

"I'm afraid it isn't," Paige said. "You see, my mother lost the original, and I was going to have a new one made as a surprise."