Robert Janss’s second floor office in the Warner Brothers executive building was book-lined and quiet. The furniture was worn, expensive and comfortable. Most executive offices were piled high with scripts, their titles magic-markered on the spines, careless heaps of them like cars in a junk yard. There were none here; no framed movie posters from Warner Brothers movies, no computer, no fax machine. The only telephone was an old black rotary model which had somehow become hip again. The inconvenience of dialing didn’t matter to Janss. People called him. On the rare occasions when he returned a call – there were still perhaps five or six people more important than he was – his secretary handled the mechanical details. “I think I have the last telephone in America that actually rings,” he liked to say.

Janss was shrewd and well-educated. He followed his hunches, even when that meant almost capsizing the studio on money-hemorrhaging projects like the previous year’s three hour civil war epic First Manassas. “What’s wrong with Gettysburg, can’t you call it Gettysburg? People know about Gettysburg,” Howard Rappaport, the studio’s Vice Presdent for Theatrical Distribution had whined at him.

Janss was unrepentant about the film’s failure at the box office. “If we don’t make a great film occasionally, there’s no excuse for us,” he liked to say. And in fact the movie did get into the black eventually, after the foreign sales – it was huge hit in Japan - and the even longer director’s cut DVD, which appealed to a growing cult of civil war fanatics and Rick Haigley fans.

Janss was given to vivid turns of phrase (“Sam Goldwyn with brains”, someone had christened him, years ago), and however bitter and resentful they might have been, the people he fired generally left with a quote or two to share at their next job.

He had recently told an assistant that her rationale for some blunder was “As meaningless as the nutrition facts on a candy bar wrapper.” When someone else had tried to put an optimistic spin on the budget overruns on a recent production, saying that the money was all “On screen” and finally ending with the lame cliché, “Every cloud has a silver lining,” he had lost his temper and shouted, “Yeah! It’s called RAIN!”

On the subject of an aging movie star whose impending mortality had prompted her to take up various fringe spritualists, he had snorted, “What do you expect? Oil of Olay only takes you so far.” A famous actress was “beautiful, until you actually talk to her. It’s like biting into a mealy peach.”

No one wanted to be the target of his conversational ice-pick. But the group he had assembled in his office today was even more uneasy than usual. Dwight Goforth, whose full title was Executive Vice President, World Wide Production, had just green-lighted a sixty million dollar budget for a film written produced and directed by unknowns. They weren’t “hot off the film festival circuit” unknowns. They weren’t “music video and British TV ad” unknowns. They weren’t “Dogma 24 eurotrash hipper-than-thou” unknowns.

They were just unknown.

The writer had done some episodic TV work, the producer worked for a direct-to-video outfit. The director didn’t seem to have done anything, except make friends with Douglas Troy. As Troy pretty much hated everyone, that was an accomplishment in and of itself, but perhaps not sufficient to warrant turning over quite this many millions of dollars to him.

Janss, who had been raised in Boston and spent most of working life at the studio’s corporate headquarters in New York, was unaware of Michael Gersh’s Hollywood lineage, nor would he have cared much if he had known about it. Mike’s grandfather was a writer? His father was a producer?  Janss’s grandfather spoke Yiddish; his father was a fly-fisherman – Janss didn’t know a kvetch from a yenta and he couldn’t cast a fly without strangling himself on the fishing line. Family wasn’t a qualification; the various Bush children proved that.

Lenny Feinstein, Executive VP, Production, had brought the project to Goforth. He was thin and bald and he looked like he lived on matzoh and Maalox. Goforth, the burly, white-haired salesman, let Feinstein handle the details and absorb the stress. There was a lot of it and it showed. Today he was going to have to explain why they were going ahead with this misbegotten project. But the answer was simple and obvious: Douggie Troy wanted them to.

That’s why Troy was at the meeting. Having Rick Haigley around wouldn’t hurt matters, either. Janss was a little star-struck, and though his office was austere, his home was crowded with vanity shots of him and everyone from Mel Gibson and Julia Roberts to Gerard Depardieu and Judi Dench.

A bigger problem for Feinstein was Howard Rappaport. Howard had made it clear that he didn’t think he could sell a picture about a father and son where the father was such an unredeemable pain in the ass. He hated time travel stories and the mob was “the kiss of death”. No one understood how he came to these conclusions (Janss himself had pointed out that the world was enthralled with The Sopranos; and Mafia themes hadn’t hurt Martin Scorcese any). But Rappaport was intractable. And he was often right. He had been at Fox more than twenty years before, when Alan Ladd Jr. had been trying to put Star Wars into turnaround. Laddie screened for the other studio heads, hoping someone would take it off his hands for the money they had already sunk into the project. Rappaport had begged him not to do it. He liked the film, but more importantly, he had taken his twelve year old nephew to a screening and the boy had basically talked about nothing else for weeks. Rappaport had understood before most people, the value of the twelve-year of audience. As it happened, no one else had wanted the film, so Fox released it and Howard got his way by default, though without the merchandising and sequel rights he had begged them to take.

Janss had been working for another studio then. He was one of the men who rejected Star Wars. It was one of the great regrets of his life and one of the moments he was referring to when he said “There are days when I’d fire myself.”

Rappaport’s nephew was in his thirties now, an internet movie geek with his own web-site, and still a reliable source of information and opinion. Rappaport had leaked him the Unfinished Business script.

He hated it.

Rappaport and Feinstein had never liked each other and  their jobs were fundamentally adversarial anyway. Janss looked around the room sourly – the fact was that no one here liked  anyone else very much. Roscoe Henderson, the burly jock whose Oakland As cap covered a spreading bald spot, leaning against the door jamb like a body guard and obviously longing for a cigarette, was the executive in charge of the production. Was he an ombudsman, a liason, a go-between or just a go-fer? That was up to him. Janss knew he wanted Feinstein’s job.  And Feinstein wanted Goforth’s job and Goforth wanted to run the place; they all despised Rappaport as a bean counter. Rappaport sneered at them as the deluded dreamers whose unmanageable flights of ego-fuelled fantasy he had to make presentable to the general public.

If this movie tanked as he was sure it was going to, they’d all be blaming each other and there would be plenty of blame to go around. If it succeeded, the three stray humans Troy had rounded up – and Troy himself, of course – would take all the credit.

It was a shitty life, but it paid well.

Janss enjoyed the silty currents of ambition and resentment and hatred and simple terror that churned away, just under the surface of these meetings. He liked seeing people at their worst. It made them easier to control.

At the far end of the room, by the big window that looked out through the dusty leaves of the oak trees to the circular parking lot. Douglas Troy and Rick Haigley were huddled together, drinking cups of the Starbuck’s breakfast blend that Troy insisted on, talking quietly, trying their best to ignore everyone else. After the formal greetings they had cut this small private space for themselves. Well, let them have it. Stars were like spoiled children, the child emperors of some barbaric country whose tantrums were lethal and whose approval was fickle at best. A pinched faced prepubescent dwarf in golden robes ordering the chef decapitated because there weren’t enough marshmallows in the hot chocolate: that was Janss’ vision of the average movie star. Which was why Troy always got his breakfast blend and Haigley always had pots of fresh violets from his favorite Trancas nursery in his trailer.

Flatter and defer to the man with the gun at your head – that was just common sense. When you were holding the gun, things were different. That was how you balanced things out and Janss was looking forward to redressing matters with Troy’s three stooges this morning.

When they finally showed up, ten minutes later, the couch and both chairs were taken – even Henderson had finally grabbed a seat. The three stooges were forced to stand in the middle of the office looking as uncomfortable as they obviously felt. Janss liked the tone; it was as if they had been called into the Headmaster’s office, with the discipline committee in attendance. They weren’t going to be thrown out of school – not yet; but they weren’t going to enjoy the curriculum he had planned for them, either.

“Care to handle the formalities, Doug?”

Troy introduced Mike and Jim and Bill around the room. Hands were shaken. Mike and Rick Haigey just stared at each other.

“Gotten laid yet?” Haigley asked. The muscles of his face had lifted a little, but it wasn’t what his fans would have called a smile.

“Very funny. I’m married, Rick.”

“I know, kid. I wasn’t invited. But I read about it in the trades.”

“That’s how I found out about both of yours.”

“But the stories were bigger.” Haigley turned to Janss. “My Dad always says we get our family news from the trade papers. And it’s true. I saw he was in the hospital last year in Christy’s column. I never did make it onto Cora’s rolodex.”

Janss was sitting forward in his chair – this was a new level of tension. Haigley and Gersh were like leopards at a waterhole. There were levels of strangeness here that made the normal business rivalries seem docile and denatured by comparison. Everyone had moved away from the two of them, as if they expected an actual fist-fight. But it didn’t happen. They just kept staring at each other.

“I wish that were true,” Mike was saying. “But she never had the guts or the good sense to blow you off. It was easier for her to be forgetful. That was why she played the flake all the time.”

“You still think she was playing?”

“I think she was a recovering alcoholic, Rick. Then she was a cancer patient. And now she’s dead. All right? So leave it alone.”

“Well, she would have been proud of you, anyway. Faking your way in here.  So what’s the pecking order? Let me guess.” He pointed to Bill. “Engine.” Then Jim: “Passenger car”. Finally he turned back to Mike. “Caboose. Am I right? I hope so because the word fits you perfectly, bro.”

“We’re not brothers,” Mike said, automatically, to no one in particular.

Roscoe Henderson stepped in. He had a rough-hewn knack for diplomacy; he didn’t mind plunging his hands into murky situations and pulling glutinous slimy things apart.

“You can’t tell the players without a scorecard,” he said. “But these two guys? They’re actually step-brothers. Mike’s Mom married Rick’s Dad. It was a big scandal back in the ‘eighties. There’d been bad blood between the families for a long time. Rick’s grandfather named names at the McCarthy hearings. Mike’s grandfather was one of them.”

“He went to jail,” Mike said quietly. “He refused to rat out his friends.”

Haigley shrugged. “That was a long time ago.”

“Not to me.”

Janss said, “Is this going to affect your working relationship?”

Mike answered too quickly, “Of course not.”

“We’re all professionals,” Bill added.

Haigley turned on him. “Oh really? What’s your profession? Breaking and entering? Office squatting? Or are you just an all around con man?”

Troy put his hand on Haigley’s arm. “Rick,” he said. It seemed to be enough. Haigley drew back into himself.

“It’s good they have a history,” Roscoe announced with surreal good cheer. “They know each other. They have short-hand with each other.”

Haigley raised his right arm one inch; his hand a stiff-fingered karate blade. The gesture was for Mike only, as was the snapshot flash of a malicious grin: they both knew the kind of ‘shorthand’ Rick liked to dispense.

“Would you say that was accurate, Rick?,” Janss persisted. “The two of you can work together?”

“Sure. He’s used to taking my shit. Aren’t you, Mike?”

“I don’t know. It’s been a while. I’m out of practice.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve heard it’s just like riding a bicycle.”

There were a few seconds of excruciating silence; then Janss’s assistant Tory poked her head in the door.

“Can I get anyone anything,” she asked.

“We’re fine, thanks,” Janss said.

Troy raised his cup millimetrically.

“Some more coffee for Doug. That’s all.”

Tory disappeared. She was back in a moment with the coffee. The tension in the room was creepy, but Douglas Troy had smiled at her and she felt like the whole hormonal balance of her body had changed. Some stars seemed like miniature versions of themselves when you saw them in real life. Troy was the opposite. At six foot three he seemed even bigger than he was in the movies. And that smile was like an overdose, like shooting up something you were supposed to snort. She sat down at her desk, ignored the incoming phone calls and focussed on breathing.

“I have some questions for Gersh,” Troy was saying, on the other side of the door. “Some things I have to feel confident about before we start. If he’s going to produce my picture. Do you have brand loyalty, Gersh?”

“Excuse me?”

“The things you buy. Do you care who makes them? Because I do. I judge people by their brand loyalties. We live in a world of products. Our choices define us. Don’t you agree?”

“Well – “

“Coke or Pepsi?”

“What?”

“It’s a simple question. Do you prefer Coke or Pepsi?”

Mike hesitated. Could this insane trivia actually be important? Would his answers determine whether or not their movie got made? He studied Troy’s humorless, attentive face.

They would. They definitely would.

He couldn’t second guess the guy. He had to go with the truth. It was like playing Russian roulette. He put the barrel against his temple and squeezed the trigger.

“Coke.”

Troy smiled; click.

“Apple or PC?”

“PC”

Another smile; another empty chamber. Click.

“Compaq or Dell?”

“Dell.”

Click.

“Post Raisin Bran or Kellogg’s?”

That one was easy. “Post.”

Safe again.

“Nissan or Honda?”

Trick question. “Toyota.”

Troy laughed. “Good boy. Levi or Wrangler?”

Mike was on a roll. “Levi.”

“Conran or Ikea?”

“Pottery Barn.”

“Unpretentious. I like that. You’ll be able to afford Ikea soon, kid. Johnny Walker Black or single malt?”

“Lagavullan.”

“I love it. The kid is broke but has the best Scotch in the fucking world in his house. Makes you feel rich. Probably takes you all winter to drink it. Am I right?”

“Just about.”

“Lagerfeld or Hilfiger?”

“I don’t wear cologne and I don’t think you do either. The difference is, I’m embarrassed by perfume, and you just don’t give a shit.”

Troy turned to Janss. “This boy is good. Bounty or Viva?”

For a second Mike wasn’t sure who Troy was talking to.

“Excuse me?,” he said.

  “Bounty or Viva?”

“You buy your own paper towels?”

“You’re stalling. Which is it? Bounty or Viva?”

“Viva – if I can find it without the stupid decorations.”

Troy strode over to him and clapped him into a quick, painful bear hug. When he let go, he turned to Janss.

“All right. He’s OK. Now get on with it.”

“We’ve decided to go forward with the project,” Janss said,  “Under certain specific conditions. First of all, the budget will not exceed thirty million dollars, above and below the line. Any other figure anyone else might have discussed with you is a fantasy. Even that amount means that Doug and Rick will have to take deferred salaries in return for a percentage of the first dollar gross. I disapprove of this practice. We’re taking all the risk. I jokingly asked them if they’d care to assume some of the liability if the picture doesn’t perform at the box office.” He left a little pause. He lifted his eyebrows and smiled coldly. “They declined.”

“I’ll do it when Spielberg does,” said Troy.

“Steven helped get us into the mess in the first place. Ironically, he now runs his own studio and has to deal with the rapaciousness of others. In any case, let me take matters in the order that they appear on the credits. The writer: Mr. Hotaling, I’m sure you’re aware of the problems in your script. My staff had prepared extensive notes, but there’s no need for you to see them. They’re being forwarded to Andrew Carnovan, who’ll be doing the rewrite.”

Jim started to speak. Janss held up his hand.

“I know, I know. It’s an honor. Andy is an Academy Award winner and a close personal friend of mine. He took time out of his busy schedule because I’m the godfather of his child, and because we’re are paying him an appallingly large amount of money. More than ten times what we are going to pay you, which is Guild minimum.”

“But … the Basic Agreement gives me the right to the first revision and – “

“You waived it. For the good of the project. You’ll still get a story credit, unless Mr. Rappaport prevails and the time travel and organized crime elements are eliminated.”

“I - ”

“Please, Mr. Hotaling. The general feeling in this office is that writers should be seen and not heard. Mr. Gersh: Your role as Producer is going to be strictly limited. Casting, locations and all other production details, including hiring of DP, editors and technical crew, production design and even story boards as well as procuring licenses and permissions to shoot will be the responsibility of the Executive in Charge of Production, Mr. Henderson, here. All his decisions will be cleared through Mr. Goforth’s office. Of course your input and contributions will be welcome. And if you pay close attention to Roscoe, you’ll learn a great deal. Think of it as six semesters of film school in six weeks.”

Mike took a breath. “So … will I have any authority on this shoot?”

“Roscoe will delegate as appropriate.”

Mike wanted to say something, but his mind was a sputtering blank. Janss had turned to Bill.

“Mr. Terhune. I have seen your student films. I liked them. Particularly the one where you more or less incited a riot among the African Americans whose neighborhood surrounds the USC campus. That such a riot might happen had occurred to many people. Your idea that it might be quelled by the opportunity to be in the movies shows a level of cynicism I find disturbingly racist. That the actual mob went out of control and was in fact routed by the prospect of appearing in your movie I find almost as amusing as you do. I spoke to some of your instructors. They all detested you. Several felt physically intimidated as well.”

“How about you?,” Bill asked.

“I find you entertaining but I have you safely outnumbered. However I am not going to jeopardize this studio’s money or my own reputation gambling that your abilities equal your collegiate hubris. So I’ve hired a very competent director, Kyle Solomon, as insurance. Kyle directed our Thanksgiving themed-thriller Giblets as well as Giblets II, The Leftovers. He comes out music videos, he’s made dozens of them. He’s a field marshal and a traffic cop. He’s not an artist. That may be his primary qualification.”

“Hold on. The deal is, I’m directing the picture,” said Bill. Mike was amazed. Bill would stand up to anybody. And even better than that, he always seemed to find the words to do it with.

“No,” said Janss quietly. “The deal is, you are directing the picture until you go one minute over schedule or ten cents over budget. The deal is, you are directing the picture unless I disapprove of your behavior, your style or the footage you’re shooting. I will be having the dailies FedExed to me. If you fall behind or the product is unacceptable, Kyle Solomon will step in and you will be removed from the production. You will be paid in full, of course. While you remain on the picture you will fly coach. You will be permitted no trailers, no entourage, no special items or services. You’re going to be economizing and you’re going to need every penny. Once again, you’ll be waiving any privileges guaranteed by your Guild’s basic agreement and agreeing to all my terms. Tory has the paperwork on her desk. I need it all signed in triplicate by the end of the day. Any questions?”

“What if I don’t like the re-write?”

“What if a prisoner doesn’t like his dinner at Terminal Island?”

“He goes on a hunger strike.”

“And gets thrown into solitary confinement. Or in your case, he gets escorted off the set by burly fellows named Jake and Gordo. We’ll tell Variety it was creative differences.”

“Right. I’m creative. And you’re different.”

Janss shrugged.

“I think we understand each other. And I have another meeting.”

“Bob.”

Troy spoke softly, a resonant whisper that jerked the room into the adrenaline spike animal stillness of panic. One word; but it felt like a gun shot.

“Doug?” Janss was pressing his palms down against his desk as if he was trying to stop it from lifting off. Or maybe he was trying to keep himself from sinking.

”This isn’t going to work, Bob.”

“What exactly are you – “

“It’s unacceptable.”

“I – “

“Do you understand what a partnership is? Not a set of legal protocols and binding agreements between greedy assholes who can’t trust each other without the threat of litigation. But an actual partnership. My father was a police officer in Trenton New Jersey. Did you know that? He and his partner covered each other’s ass. Not their own – each other’s. If you attacked my Dad’s partner, you were attacking my Dad. And that was a bad idea, Bob.”

“Okay. That’s very interesting, but I don’t – “

Troy laid a massive arm over Bill Terhune’s shoulder.

“This man is my partner.”

“Doug, come on, this is – “

Troy waved his other hand at Jim and Mike. “These men are his partners.”

“Hold on. Let’s just – “

“Attack them and you attack me. Do you want to attack me, Bob?”

“I’m not attacking anyone. I’m just trying to get a movie into production with the kind of reasonable indemnities and safeguards that the stockholders of this company will accept. These … people – they’re first time filmmakers. We have no guarantee – “

“They’re artists,” Troy said. “You saw Bill’s movies.”

“Student films shot on a shoe-string!”

“All the more impressive. As you told me yesterday.”

“We’re talking about millions of dollars here, Doug. The fact that someone can put a picture together on super 8 film with no budget - ”

“It didn’t look like a no-budget movie. That’s the point. The race riot scene - ”

“The race riot scene looked real because he actually started a fucking race riot! They could have burned down the whole University of Southern California film school and then he would have had that on film, too! Something really cool to show his pals in prison! He has no sense of reality! He’s a reckless arrogant egomaniac and jail time would have fixed his attitude problem fast.”

“Good point,” Said Troy. “But you’re not on the high school debate team any more, Bob. Though you’d still get an ‘A’ and maybe even a little golden star on your report card. I’m not going to argue with you. I’m going to explain the way things are. First of all, Roscoe here is going to help Mike in any way he can, but he’s not making any decisions and his main job is going to be going for donuts and staying out he the way. Second, no one is rewriting the script on this picture. It doesn’t need to be rewritten. It’s just fine the way it is. Finally, no one is replacing William Terhune. If I see Kyle Solomon or any other fucking hack within a mile of any location where we’re shooting, I will personally kick his ass and make sure the only job he ever gets again will be second AD on some fucking exercise machine infomercial. If Bill goes over budget, you’re going to pay the extra money. If he goes over schedule, you’re going to wait. And you’re not going to see one frame of film until he’s ready. This movie isn’t going to be made by committee and it’s not going to be made by studio executives. Because if you break just one of these rules just once, then I’m off the picture and Rick is off the picture and you have no picture. That’s reality, Bob. Are you starting to get a sense of it? Because I’m late for lunch, you have another meeting and these boys are starting pre-production today.”

After a few seconds of poisoned silence, Janss smiled and stood.

“There’s no need to get upset, Doug,” he said. “I’m sure we’ll be able to work this out to everyone’s satisfaction.”

 

After the meeting, back in Terhune’s office, Bill paced the floor in a tantrum of vindicated joy.

“Did you see that?” he kept saying. “Did you see what Doug did?”

Mike and Jim were still too stunned to give him the ecstatic response that he wanted. Mike sat drinking a V-8 from the office wet bar, smelling the new carpet, watching the hard rectangles of desert sunlight resting on it. They seemed so heavy, he half expected the rug to be indented when they finally moved.

“It doesn’t quite seem real,” he managed.

“Why? Because only bad things happen to you?  That’s the way losers think and that’s why they keep on losing. Why don’t you just yank your head out of your ass for a second and look around you, Mike. We’re the future of Hollywood and Doug Troy knows it. If he has to push around some studio flunkies to protect us, so what? That’s fucking fun for him.”

“I wouldn’t call Robert Janss a studio flunky,” said Jim. He was looking out the window. Moving his eyes across the main street of the lot, from the big water tower at one end to the dusty hills that rose behind it at the other.

“Well, what do you call somebody who doesn’t have any real power, who struts and preens and postures and then caves when the big boys show up and start laying down the law? What do you call somebody who pushes people around because he thinks he’s bigger than they are and kisses ass to the real thing the way he did today? I call that a flunky. ‘I’m sure we’ll be able to work this out to everyone’s satisfaction.’” His mimicry was cruel and precise. “What a pussy.”

“That was a weird moment,” Jim said.

“No it wasn’t! Weird would have been Doug Troy letting that guy fuck with his project.”

“So this is Doug Troy’s project now?”

“You’re goddamn right it is! Lucky for us. Don’t believe everything you read in the tabloids, Jim. Douglas Troy is one of the good guys.”

“I guess.”

“I don’t know,” Mike said. “Something’s askew there.”

“I don’t believe this. He rolled over those assholes like an eighteen wheeler hitting a jack rabbit. They’re fucking road kill, man. And for one reason: so I can direct Jim’s script the way he wrote it.”

Mike shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

”Why do you think he did it?”

“Forget it.”

“No, tell me. I’m interested.”

Mike turned to him. “All right. I think he did it because … it’s just – it’s what he likes to do. He wasn’t sticking up for us. He was humiliating Robert Janss. We were the excuse. That’s all.”

“That’s crazy. To be more specific, that’s paranoid.”

“Just be careful.”

“Doug’s an artist. So am I. That’s what people like you and Janss don’t understand.”

That was always Terhune’s last resort, his killing blow. When all else failed he invoked the ascendancy of the unique over the interchangeable, the talented over the merely well-organized. Mike had no answer to that. He knew his limitations.

“Well, I hope you and Troy make lots of movies and have a wonderful career together,” Mike said finally. “You’re obviously soul-mates.”

He didn’t argue any more. He knew he was lucky to be working on a studio film. It was a fantastic opportunity and so far at least, Douglas Troy had secured it for them. He had ridden to their rescue like the cavalry in an old movie. Maybe Bill was right. Maybe Troy really was a decent guy. It was possible; a lot of Hollywood reputations were warped and exaggerated. And Mike’s judgments of people weren’t flawless. He often became good friends with people he had disliked when he first met them. Maybe he’d become friends with Douglas Troy. But he knew that was a long shot.

Then there was Rick to deal with. Rick had won their childhood war decisively: he was a star and Mike was a nobody. Of course this movie could change that, could alter the balance slightly, but even Rick couldn’t be so grotesquely petty as to begrudge his step-brother this tiny particle of success. Mike ran that sentence back in his mind. It sounded good but he didn’t believe it. Still, whatever his concerns, there was nothing he could effectively do about them. His only real option was to ignore the toxic swirl of personalities and do his job.

Mike had always been optimistic. Ordinary things – the smell of the ocean in the air, the taste of fresh orange juice in the morning – cheered him disproportionately. He knew Douglas Troy would be trouble, but he figured it would work out somehow.

“How bad can it possibly get?,” he asked himself that evening, driving home from the studio over the Sepulveda pass, away from the smog and heat of the Valley. It was a rhetorical question, posed to the lights of Westwood and the Santa Monica mountains looming above him, to the still air and the wind flooding into his car window smelling of eucalyptus.

If he had asked Douglas Troy instead, the actor would have grabbed Mike around the shoulders, dazzled him with that ten million dollar grin and said, “Excellent question, Gersh! Let’s find out together.”