"They've got all of your books except Healer," Max pointed out.  "Must be sold out."  He pulled a copy of StapleHead, one of Anatole's most obscure novels, from the shelf and began to thumb through the pages.  "Always thought this would make a great movie."

      "Max," Anatole said, softening his tone.  "What's going on between you and Paige?  Is something wrong here?"

      Max replaced the book on the shelf and turned toward his friend.  "We've been having some problems."  It was exactly what he was supposed to say . . . Paige's script.

      "But you always seem so happy."

      "In public.  In front of you and Carrie."  He sighed and turned away.  "It's been going bad for a while now."

      "For how long?" Anatole asked.  "Since you began working with Heather Theilgard, maybe?"

      "Maybe," Max said, shooting a hopelessly lost look past his friend.

      "I have only one thing to say about that," Anatole said, a little too loudly, "Never shit where you eat."

                                                                  CUT TO:

       "What's going on?" Carrie asked, slightly confused, mostly concerned, as they stood before CD section labeled R.

      "They've got every Replacement CD except The Replacements Stink," Paige said.  She pulled out Please To Meet Me and perused the list of songs.  "Ever hear this?  'Valentine' is my favorite song in the whole world."

      "Paige," Carrie said.  "What's up between you and Max?"

      Paige replaced the CD back in the browser and turned toward her friend.  "We've been having some problems."

      "Is he, well," Carrie wasn't sure if she should proceed, then figured what the hell and said, "Is he seeing someone else?"

      Paige shrugged.  "He says, no."  She turned away, sadly, her hands automatically going to her temples -- rubbing in circles.  "I guess I believe him."  She looked at Carrie.  "I mean, what choice do I have?"

      "Don't say that," Carrie said.  "You've got every choice in the world."  They sauntered down the aisle.  She absentmindedly picked up Lisa Germano's Geek the Girl CD, and glanced at the cover art.  "Do you still want to be with him?"

      "I made the mistake of falling in love with him."

      "Was that really such a mistake?"  

      Paige nodded, she lied.  "Maybe."

                                                                  CUT TO:

      Spago was packed.

      Spago was always packed -- a trendy rollover of sorts -- a waiting list for dinner at a decent hour.

      At one table, an aged and still-closeted superstar actor of countless lifts and tucks conversed with a young overly ambitious starlet of untold tiffs and fucks. 

      "I can't believed they gave that role to Heather Theilgard," she said.  "I would have made a perfect Leanna."

      "I didn't know you read Healer," he said.

      She shrugged.  "Just the coverage."  She became animated.  "But that part screamed out my name."

      "And you weren't even offered a screen test," he said.  "I hear you give great test."

      She smiled.  "The best."

      At another table, the obnoxious rock star with the ever-expanding gut gabbed with the aging actress with the ever-increasing boobs.

      He said, "Do you believe he asked J. Mascis to do the soundtrack?"

      She said, "Who's that?"

      He said, "Exactly what I'm saying.  No one's ever heard of the guy."

      She said, "What are his hits?"

      He said, "Hits?  Shit, he ain't had any hits.  He's with some band called Dinosaur, Jr."

      She said, "Never heard of them."

      He said, "I asked around.  No one out here has.  I mean, they're not even from Seattle.  Can you believe it?"

      At another table, Ted Taylor smiled at Randall Adams.  "Thanks for turning me on to that part," he said.  "My freakin' brother never even said a word."

      "A little rivalry?" Randall asked.

      "More than a little," the young actor said.  "He hates me.  Can't deal with," he looked down at the plate of duck sausage pizza.

      "I understand," Randall said.

      "He over-compensates by humping every female under fifty in Los Angeles county," Ted said.

      "A lot of people do, Ted," Randall said sincerely.

      "I meant what I said before," Ted said.  "This part means the world to me.  It's my favorite book.  I don't know how to thank you."

      "You'll think of something," Randall said.  "I'm sure."

      At another table, screenwriter Bucky Gold was treating his visiting mother to Hollywood dining at its most luxurious.

      "What is this?" she asked.  "I've never seen food that looks like this.  I don't know what it is."  She pushed and pulled at the food on her plate with a fork.  "Do you know what it is, Bucky?"

      "It's calamari, Mom."

      "Calamari?  You mean squid?  You mean they charge us twenty-six dollars a plate for squid?  And you like this place?"

      "It's one of the most popular restaurants in L.A."

      "Oy," she said, shaking her head, looking up at her son.  "Did you do something with your hair?"

      "No," Bucky said, suddenly conscious of his doo.  "Why?  Is something wrong?"

      "No," his mother said, shrugged, sniffing at the squid.  "It just looks different.  That's all."

      And, at yet another table, James Utz and Larry Moore grabbing a little nourishment, then a little nookie, before their midnight appointment with Theilgard and Angelique, yucked it up with two porn queen wannabes.

      "Do you really know Mr. Theilgard?" the blonde asked.

      Utz nodded.  "One of my closest friends."

      "He's doing Healer," the redhead said.

      "I read that book between takes on my first loop," the blonde said.

      "I love that book," the redhead squealed.

      "And did you happen to see the director," the blonde said, nodding over in the direction, clear on the other side of the restaurant's dining room, where, at a window table, Max sat with Paige, Anatole and Carrie.  "He gave Tori Lynn a part in the movie, y'know?"

      "I know," the redhead said, then with a sigh added, "He's so cool."

      Utz and Moore exchanged give-me-a-fucking-break glances and quickly changed the subject.

                                                                  CUT TO:

      Round Four.

      "I still can't figure out why we came here," Anatole said.  "The food sucks and the portions are so small."

      Max half smiled, then looked away. 

      "Who are you looking for?" Paige asked, scornfully.  "Or do I even have to ask?"

      Max turned and gazed through Paige.  Oscar time.  Her eyes were blazing, her nostrils flaring -- she would often flare her nostrils just to make him laugh.  But this time it only made him angry.

      "Isn't that Eddie Vedder?" Carrie said, motioning toward another part of the room.

      "Who?" Anatole asked, not really giving two shits about who, what, or where this Eddie Vedder fellow was.  He felt about as uncomfortable as a milk-fed calf in an Italian restaurant.  Stick the knife in me now and carve up those veal chops, baby, he wanted to scream.  Get this over with now. 

      Paige downed her glass of wine, never taking her eyes off Max.  "So, why don't you tell me now.  Tell us all.  Tell the whole fucking world for all I care."  She banged her fist down hard on the table, a handful of customers turned their way.  "Have you fucked her yet?  Huh, Max?  Have you slipped it to her."  She was getting loud.  Anatole touched her hand, but she pulled away.  "Have you fucked Heather Theilgard?  Huh?  You son-of-a-bitch.  Is that who you're looking for?"

      Max's voice was an icy whisper.  "No," he said.  "I know exactly where Heather is."

      "I'm sure you do," she said.

      "Don't cause a scene," Max said, coldly.

      "I'll show you a scene."  Paige stood, crumpled up her linen napkin and flung it to the table top, knocking over her empty wine glass.  The tears started flowing, her face was beet red, and her voice could be heard in the Spago parking lot.  "I can't take this anymore," she screamed. 

      He stood.  "Sit down."

      "How dare you?"

      As her voice got louder, Anatole sunk lower in his chair.

      "I'm not the one who's fucking around," she screamed.  "I'm not the one who's fucking his leading lady."

      By this point every person in the restaurant had turned his or her attention toward Max and Paige.  Most gawked or gaped, Utz smiled, Moore eyed Paige with lustful intent, and the restaurant's Maitre De, who had handled every sort of situation from a heart attack to a dispute between gay lovers, reached for a Maalox.

      "Paige," Max ordered.  "Sit down."

      "Fuck you," she said.  And picking up Carrie's mostly full glass of wine, she forcefully emptied the contents of that glass into Max's face, turned and stormed out of the restaurant.

                                                                  CUT TO:

      Carrie ran after Paige and caught up with her in the parking lot.  She was standing between two cars, starring at the vomit covered asphalt.  Paige wiped off her mouth and tried to dry her eyes, before turning toward her friend. 

      "I'm sorry," she said, the tears rushing forth. 

      "Don't be," Carrie said, opening her arms, stepping forward.

      Paige buried her face in Carrie's shoulder and wept loudly.  "I don't want to lose him," she cried.  And she meant it.

      "Ssshhh," Carrie whispered, stroking her hair.  "Everything's going to be alright."

                                                                  CUT TO:

      The din and dining resumed mostly unaffected.  This was, after all, Hollywood.  And in Hollywood, affairs of the groin were as commonplace as toilet tissue, and about as interesting -- no big deal.  Except to maybe Larry Moore, who turned toward James Utz and said, "You know about that?"

      The hairless man shrugged.  "Had an idea."

      Moore nodded and smiled.

      And while their dates respectively dreamed of a little fling with the grungy director -- what Hollywood player doesn't want to date a porn star? they each figured -- Utz was thinking about the spectacular fuck footage his high tech video gadgetry would provide him, while Moore was fantasizing about a little romp of the sadomasochistic kind with Max's sexy tall brunette ex.

                                                                  CUT TO:

      At their table, Max stared blindly ahead.  It was too real.  He felt pained.  Sick to his stomach.  No, it was worse than that.  He felt dead.  Cold, his heartbeat but a memory.  Six-feet-under dead.  He took a few deep breaths.  The chattering faces about him doubled and blurred and swiveled about -- a cheap 1950's sci-fi effect.  He clamped shut his eyes to keep from throwing up.  He blocked out the sound. 

      Anatole touched his arm. 

      Max opened his eyes and turned to face his friend.  "Sorry," he said.

      "Shit happens," Anatole shrugged.

      Max nodded just slightly.

      "Wanna get the fuck outta here?"

      "You go," Max said.  "I'll find another way home."

      Anatole nodded and stood.

      Max watched him exit the restaurant.  He'd sit there and wait.  He'd give Anatole plenty of time to load Paige and Carrie into the limo.  He'd give Joe the Chauffeur plenty of time to drive away.  Plenty of time.  Yeah.  He tried to catch his breath -- to balance his bearings.  He didn't want to see the limo drive away.  He didn't want to see Paige -- not tonight, anyway.  Not right now.  He took a sip from a glass of water.  Paige's glass of water, he assumed.  He was always drinking her water.  He was always . . . Christ!  He coughed quietly -- his way of disguising a tear.  No, he couldn't see her.  Especially not right now.  If he did, he knew he'd take her in his arms . . . and, fuck everything else, never let her go.

                                                                  CUT TO:

THIRTY-NINE

      When Heather Theilgard arrived home from her habitual Sunday morning breakfast in Bel Air with her father, she found Max lying on a chaise lounge by the side of the Malibu castle's pool.  He was dressed as usual, in old jeans -- torn and tattered seemingly from years of wear -- and a black t-shirt.  And he was sound asleep.

      Heather sat by his side and looked into his face.  She was more or less expecting his arrival, especially after the Spago scene she heard had about a good dozen times since last night.        The first call came from one of her co-stars, Ted Taylor.  "You little fox," he teased.  "Filming hasn't even begun and you're already humping the director."

      "What's that?" Heather asked.  The phone's persistent ring had awaken her from a deep sleep -- alone on a living room sofa, the Healer script resting against her chest.

      "You and John Maxwell," Ted said.  "I know all about it." 

      Heather listened intently as Ted explained the fight, the wine, and the storm out.  He even reviewed the pizza.

      "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked.

      "I never kiss and tell," she said, going along.  What the hell, she figured, she and Max were going to become lovers soon enough.  She was quite sure of it.

      Numerous acquaintances called.  She heard the same story from a dozen different viewpoints, and though each version varied slightly, all had the same ending -- Heather was fucking Max, and his live-in had found them out.

      It made it easier, she figured.  Now she wouldn't have to deal with the jealous lover syndrome -- the tall leggy brunette was out of the picture, let the games begin.

                                                                  CUT TO:

      Heather stood, kicked off her sandals, and peeled off her t-shirt.  She unbuttoned the fly of her 501 shorts and let them fall to the deck.  She stood naked before her rumored lover.  How badly she wanted him to touch her.  She envisioned his hand reaching up from the arm rest of the chaise and touching her down there.  His fingers stroking the small tuft of hair, teasing, pulling, then moving inside her.  He'd pulled her close and down and . . .

      Heather stopped herself.  Her breathing was hard, and she could feel her own wetness.  Damn, it didn't take much -- an easily excitable young woman, wasn't that what one of her high school teachers had called her?  Yes, she thought.  It most certainly was. 

      A swim.  That's what she needed, a nice refreshing cold shower-sort of swim. 

      She walked over to the edge of the pool and dove in. 

      Max slept on.  Dreamless.  Peaceful.  Unaware that he had just turned his leading lady on to the brink of orgasm.

                                                                  CUT TO:

      Paige also rested by the side of a pool -- finally asleep.  She had spent the night at Anatole and Carrie's pacing, crying, playing the role, wondering out loud why and what the fuck! 

      Carrie and Anatole sat nearby, eating.  She sipped coffee and watched Paige dozing on the chaise lounge.  He sliced up a fresh baguette, then smothered it with raspberry jam.

      "I told her she could stay here," Carrie said.

      "Good idea," Anatole said.  "We've got more rooms than we know what to do with."

      "I feel so bad," she said.  "I don't understand what happened."

      "Something's fucked up.  Something's not right.  He never mentioned a thing about Heather.  Not a word."

      "Could the pressure be getting to him?" Carrie wondered.

      "He's seemed a bit uptight," Anatole said.  "I just figured it had to do with the movie."

      Carrie grabbed herself a baguette, and likewise smothered it with jam, strawberry not raspberry.  "What's she like?"

      Anatole shrugged.  "She's cute."

      Carrie snorted.

      "What do you want me to say?" Anatole asked.  "You met her at the party."

      "For a minute."

      "She doesn't say much."  Another shrug.  "Asked me to sign her copy of Healer." 

      "Maybe she's in awe of you."

      "And maybe she thinks I'm a dirty old man."

                                                                  CUT TO:

      As for her feeling about John Maxwell, well, the crush had yet to be consummated.  She found him cute in a cool sort of way, and incredibly doable.  And since she had to be working in such close proximity -- why not, right?

      Max stirred slightly, it had been a hellish night of drunken exasperation.  He had smashed most of the dishes and glassware -- he needed to break something, anything . . . it wasn't supposed to be like this -- then spent the night on the kitchen floor amongst the shards of glass crying because he had then come to the realization that it was Paige who had helped him pick those dishes and glasses out.

      He opened his eyes, and made out a fleshy outline.  Lots of curves and small patch of dark hair.  He looked up.  Heather's face came into focus.  She was wet -- pool wet was all Max would presume.  Wet and wonderfully naked.  She sat on the edge of the chaise lounge.

      "Morning," she said.

      "What time is it?" he asked.

      "Later than you think."

      He sat up, rubbed at his eyes and glanced down at his watch.  Three-fifteen, the watch said. 

      "Nice jeans."

      "Thanks," he said.

      "Where'd you get 'em?"

      "I don't remember," Max said.  "I've had 'em for years."

      "You mean you didn't buy them that way?"

      He laughed.  "No," he said, tugging at one of the rips.  "These are authentic."

      "About a month ago, I paid a hundred and fifty bucks in a shop on Melrose for a pair that doesn't look half that cool."

      "Buy the real thing for twenty-five bucks, then wear them every other day for about three years and this is what you'll get."

      "Three years?"

      He nodded.

      "I don't have that kind of patience," she said.

      "What kind of patience do you have?"

      "None.  I want everything and I want it now."

      "Do you usually get it?"

      She nodded, stood and lifted her right leg, positioning it on the other side of the chaise.  She lower herself down, slowly, seductively, rocking back and forth, pressing her sex against the ragged crotch of his old Levi's.  Then, leaning forward, lifting his chin, she kissed him, hard, passionately.  Her hands quickly found their way to the five metal buttons that would set him free.  His hand quickly found their way to her wetness, her heat.  He closed his eyes and dug in -- she moaned, she screamed, she bucked, she bit his lip drawing a spec of blood.  And Max reciprocated with everything he had, all the while imagining that the woman in his arms, the woman pressed to his lips, the woman he was making love to . . .  was Paige.

                                                                  CUT TO:

      Utz's video gear whirred, it purred, it following the action as the director and his star moved from the chaise, onto the diving board, to the floor of the deck, then into the jacuzzi.  It was a sublime sex epic that the hairless man would soon watch over and over again to his own deviant orgasmic content.  One he'd just have to share with his pal, Jeffrey Theilgard.

                                                                  CUT TO:

FORTY

      After the third, or was it fourth, round, Max and Heather decided to give their most vital organs a rest, and see what the Malibu castle had in the way of food.  The maid and butler had been given the day off -- they were forced to fend for themselves in the cold cruel world of the kitchen. 

      "A salad," Max said.  "I can make a mean salad."

      "After that, I need more than a salad," Heather said.  "Let's call out for pizza.  I love the look on the delivery boys' faces when they pull up to the castle.  Maybe I'll even answer the door like this."  Her arms drifted open -- voila -- her nakedness on display for all the world to see.  The Heather Channel: All Heather, twenty-four hours a day.

      "Pizza's fine," Max said, ignoring her nakedness, his mind on what he needed to do next.

                                                                  CUT TO:

      After dinner -- Heather did answer the door naked, opening it a crack and a half, maybe more, more than enough, handing the shell-shocked, boner-fried, delivery boy a twenty and telling him to keep the change -- she led Max to her bedroom.

      He looked about the room -- it was as good a place as any to start.  He could always check the basement later, though he seriously doubted this was where Jeffrey Theilgard made his snuff films, if indeed, as Heather explained, he lived exclusively in the Bel Air estate, and used the castle only, again exclusively, for parties. 

      "We can do it in every room," she had said.  "He's never here!"

      "You're speaking from experience?" Max asked.

      "Do I seem experienced?"

      Max answered by clearing his throat.

      "I'll take that as a yes."

      Heather's bedroom was huge, bi-leveled, with towering ceilings . . . approximately the size of one of those multi-level designer shops that lined Rodeo Drive.  Judging from the contents of her closets, she had obviously spent a lot of time in those types of shops.

      Max sat down on the edge of the bed.  It was king-sized, covered with an ancient quilt and with a headboard quite unlike any he had ever seen.

      "It's the front door from a seventeenth century Episcopalian Church," she explained, pointing out where the door handle would have been placed.  "I got it in England.  Isn't it neat?"

      He nodded, running a hand over the soft texture of the near-ancient wood.  He looked about at the collection of antique furniture. 

      "The end tables are from France.  Late sixteenth century, I think.  And that lamp," she pointed at an art deco-ish creation, "is from Josephine Baker's estate.  It's one of my favorites."

      "What's the obsession with antiques?" he asked.

      "My Mom loved them," she explained.

      "Your mom?"

      "Yeah," her voice was suddenly quiet.

      "What happened to her?"

      Heather shrugged sadly, then walked to a tall bureau, also ancient, or at least old.  Her voice was still but a whisper.  "She just disappeared one day."

      "Disappeared?"  Ask a lot of questions, he thought, remembering Paige's instructions.  Become a four-year old again.

      She nodded.  "Went to bed one night, next morning I woke up and she was gone.  I was seven."  She picked up a brass picture frame from the top of the bureau and brought it over to Max.  "This was taken the year before she left."  She turned the photograph so that Max could see it.  She continued to explain, about how her father searched everywhere, even offered a hundred thousand dollar reward for any information.  About how she withdrew, and even began to blame her father, though it was obviously not his fault.  And how she wondered to this day if her mother is still alive.  If she had a new life.  And mainly, what was so bad about this one to make her just pick up and leave.

      Max tried to listen to her words.  He tried to focus on her story.  But his concentration had been thrown a bone.  It had been dealt a serious blow.  Because, as beautiful as the smiling face that stared back at him from the boundaries of that old brass frame was -- a face so alive, so mischievous, so Heather -- it was the pendant that hung from a gold chain around the subject's neck that fascinated him most.

                                                                  CUT TO:

      Max held the photograph for a moment, staring down at the face, marveling at the pendant.  "What was her name?" Max asked.

      "Eleanor," Heather said.

      "You have her eyes," he said.

      "Father's always saying I'm her spitting image."  She took the frame from Max, and gazed at her mother.  Heather's face reflected in the glass created an eerie double image.  "She was very beautiful," Heather said.  "I think that's probably why father married her."

      "They weren't in love?"

      "Sometimes I wonder if father is capable of love,"  Heather said, suddenly far away.  A child lost in her deepest most frightening dreams.  "He hates this picture."

      "Why's that?"

      "The pendant."

      "It's different."

      "I remember her telling me an old boyfriend gave it to her,"  Heather turned and smiled.  "Father's very jealous."

      "What would he do if he found out about us?"

      Heather's tone became serious.  "He won't."  She took a deep breath.  "Listen.  My father's in a world of his own.  He still thinks of me as his innocent little girl.  And as far as I'm concerned, let him.  Besides, unlike the rest of the people who live in this town, I still believe that what goes on inside a person's bedroom is no one else's business.  Got it?"

      "Of course," Max said.  "But what if he did?"

      "Don't ask." 

                                                                  CUT TO:

      Heather stood, walked over to her dresser and opened the small antique jewelry box perched on top.  She took out a purple velvet bundle and unwrapped its contents.  Then, rejoining Max on the edge of the bed, she displayed what she held so lovingly in her hands.

      "It's a copy," she said.  "Mom must have taken the real one with her when she left."  She shrugged.  "Sometimes I think I had it made just to piss father off."  She laughed just slightly.  "I had it on that night he made the Healer announcement.  Here he spends ten million dollars . . ."

      "Ten million and one."

      "Right . . . to make me happy, and I'm behaving like a spoiled brat."

      "May I?" Max asked.

      "Of course," she said, handing it over.  "The jeweler who made it told me something about it being an ancient fertility symbol that brides wore on their wedding night.  Isn't it the weirdest thing?"

      But Max didn't answer, not even a nod.  Though emotions flooded his every sense, he was at a severe loss for words.  So enthralled was he by the four diamond tusks and the three emerald eyes.

                                                                  CUT TO:

ACT THREE

THE PARALLEL UNIVERSE

FORTY-ONE

      And at nine twenty-eight A.M., Pacific Standard Time, John Maxwell uttered the word every film school student, every scriptwriter, every actor, agent and producer, seemingly every person who ever walked through a cinema's doors, who ever rented a video tape, who ever held a home video camera, who ever walked through the twentieth century, dreams of speaking.

      "Quiet on the set," Kristine Jacobson's assistant yelled.

      And suddenly, not a sound could be heard -- no voices, footsteps, no breathing or swallowing -- even God's heartbeat was still.  For a solitary moment, the Healer hospital set on Theilgard Studios' sound stage A-4, was a black hole in Los Angeles -- where life seemingly ceased to exist -- sucked free of its soul.

      "Rolling," Donald Bush said, confirming that the Kodak black and white film stock was actually moving through his Arri BL-4.  Just possibly, there were more advanced cameras that Bush could be using, a Panaflex or Moviecam, but none that he could own, none that anyone/any studio could own -- those were available for rental only.  The Arri was his.  As were the Zeiss Superspeed lenses, the dozen thousand foot magazines, the extender eyepiece, and every accessory imaginable.  He knew their every eccentricity.  He knew they worked.  He maintained them personally.

      Max took a deep breath.  Crumpled and multi-folded, a letter from Jeffrey Theilgard stuck out slightly from the right hip pocket of his 501's.