by Davis Bunn
Trent knew the man expected some form of the corporate duel. As in, Tomlin’s boss had ordered this. So do what the head office demanded. And Trent knew before Gayle had spoken that it would get him nowhere with this man.
So Trent’s first words were, “Tell me what you want.”
Tomlin had the upper-class Brit’s ability to dress every word with scorn. “Pardon me?”
“I don’t owe your division manager anything. When I made my pitch to the board, he didn’t utter a word. What he said behind my back is anyone’s guess, and quite frankly, I don’t care.”
The man even blinked slowly. “This signifies precisely what to me?”
“The most vital component of this entire plan is advertising. Success of my project is dependent upon getting it right. My future is in your hands.”
Tomlin steepled his fingers. “Go on.”
“I don’t even know enough to tell you what I need. I have some ideas. But they are unrefined. Incomplete. Just like me.”
Tomlin’s languid gaze took in Trent’s dress. “You took the words straight from my lips.”
He took no offense. Why should he? Edlyn’s remarks had been far worse. Instead, he found himself liking the man. No doubt a dangerous sentiment, but true nonetheless. “I have Barry Mundrose’s ear. For how long, I couldn’t say. But today, that’s how it is. So I’m asking. What would it take for you to become my ally?”
Colin Tomlin took his time. Trent could almost see the mental gears grinding. Trying to see whether it was even worth making the effort to change his mind about this one. Then the LA director’s gaze swiveled to Gayle. He started to speak. Then thought better of it. Instead, he turned his chair around to face the window and the pale LA sky. “There is one item.”
“Name it.”
“The entertainment industry’s fastest growing component is electronic gaming. Which also happens to be our advertising division’s weakest segment. I have identified an ideal target. They are open to being acquired. The price they are asking is acceptable.”
Trent finished for him, “Your New York director turned you down.”
“He really is becoming rather tiresome. He says there are two perfectly valid reasons for refusing my proposal. First, the company is based in Austin, not LA. Austin is where they should be, as it’s home to a growing proportion of the e-games industry. And second, they have a division that produces games of their own. Quite good ones, actually. But that takes us out of the advertising and promotion business into production. And Mundrose already has an e-games company. The fact that they have not produced a hit in almost four years has somehow managed to escape the man’s attention.”
Trent rose from his chair and started pacing. He had always thought better on his feet. He spun several ideas through tight mental trajectories, until he found one that might just work. Maybe.
Trent had no idea how long it was before he returned to his seat. Colin Tomlin was still studying the blank LA canvas beyond his window when Trent asked, “What if I said I needed an e-game production company that could drop everything they were working on and focus their entire corporate attention on my project?”
Tomlin glanced at him. “Is that actually the case?”
“Two hours from now, I meet with Stone Denning,” Trent replied. “If he accepts my proposal, then everything moves into high gear.”
“Including a new electronic game.”
“Right. We’d need a preliminary concept for an advertising blitz that I can take over and show him.”
Tomlin mulled that over. “You require visuals for a new ad campaign in two hours?”
“Yes. Is that even possible?”
“Do you have an idea of what you want?”
“Rough at best,” Trent said. “I’m more than open for your input. I’m desperate.”
“Not a bad attitude to take, really.” Colin Tomlin turned back to his window. “And the actual product?”
“Ready to release with Denning’s new film project.”
“Which is when, precisely?”
Gayle replied, “Labor Day.”
“A new electronic game based around a film in production, from scratch to completion in less than four months.” Tomlin did not smile. But the edges of his eyes tightened. “I would rather expect that to require a full team’s best efforts.”
“The advertising blitz should start day after tomorrow, and build all summer long,” Trent said. “The group in charge would need to coordinate everything toward a full nuclear explosion the first week in September.”
“Including a marketing campaign for this new e-game.”
“E-game, print, radio, television, film, the works. All tied to the same theme.”
“That would tax us rather a lot,” Tomlin said. “Of course, New York will insist upon being in charge.”
“What if you ran everything from here?” Trent replied.
Tomlin’s lizard gaze slid back to Trent. “My so-called superior would never agree to such a thing.”
Trent said to Gayle, “Make the call.”
Start to finish, the entire process took less than fifteen minutes. Gayle placed the call to Barry Mundrose’s second secretary. She spoke softly, hung up. While they waited, Tomlin went back to observing the empty sky. Trent paced. There was no way his body could hold all the tension. He had to force it out through motion. Gayle took her phone over to the sofa in the corner and talked quietly, then passed the phone to him.
Trent told Barry everything. The need, the urgency, Colin’s initial hostility. He then related his solution. And the objections that had been raised by Tomlin’s superior. And would surely be raised again. And the risk Trent faced in bringing down this NY director’s wrath. But how he saw no alternative than to make a powerful enemy.
When he was done, Mundrose said, “Ask Gayle if the Austin proposal reached my desk.”
When he passed on the query, Gayle replied, “Not that I am aware.”
Mundrose accepted the news in silence. Trent kept pacing.
Ninety seconds later, Mundrose said, “I’ll take care of the people at this end. Give me Tomlin.”
The Brit accepted the phone, said, “Here, sir.” Tomlin listened intently for three minutes, then said simply, “I will get started on this immediately.”
He cut the connection and spent a few moments fiddling with the knot of his tie. “It seems that I underestimated the potential of this meeting.”
Trent returned to drop into his seat. “Barry said yes?”
“He did indeed.” This time, it was the edges of his mouth that crimped along with his eyes. “Shall we begin anew?”
“Fine by me.”
The LA group manager rose and walked around his desk. “How do you do. I’m Colin Tomlin. And it is indeed a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Trent felt his heart take off on wings he did not even know he had. “Likewise, Mr. Tomlin.”
“Please, I insist you call me Colin.” He waved toward his door. “Shall we begin?”
12
“A God in heaven …”
WESTCHESTER COUNTY
After the prayer time, Jenny Linn took a walk with her father. She found an exquisite pleasure in reaching over and taking his hand. As though the years of arguments had never existed. Richard looked at her fingers intertwined with his own and said, “You used to walk with me like this all the time.”
“I remember.”
“If your mother tried to hold your hand, you would holler like a banshee. Even at three years old, you had a will of iron.”
“Your genes at work.”
They left the road and walked down to the stream. The grass was littered with petals from the cherry trees. There was not a breath of wind. Richard said, “This is nice.”
“Thank you for coming, Daddy.”
“Thank you for making room for us.” A few steps, then, “I feel your work here is very important.”
“So do I.”
“Can I ask you s
omething?”
“Anything.” It was ridiculous for that single word to cause her eyes to burn. But for years any question from her father seemed to probe for weakness. Her normal response had been to ready herself for the next attack. But here in the meadow, such memories belonged to a different world. A different life.
Even so, his question was immensely surprising. “Do you think that your mother and I could join with you in studying this book about listening to God?”
“Of course, Daddy.” She stopped and turned to him. “Why are you asking me?”
“Because neither of us wants you to feel that we are horning in. This is your role. God has called you. Not us.”
“Daddy …” Jenny looked out over the surrounding green. In the far distance, John Jacobs walked alone, his shoulders bowed by a burden she could feel from where she stood. “I can’t think of one single thing I would like more to share with you.”
LOS ANGELES
That evening Trent Cooper sat at a table in the Bel Air Hotel bar and read two files sent over by the detective agency. He had printed out both documents in the business office. The young woman in charge clearly noticed the content, because she transformed the carpet between her desk and the printer into a catwalk. She didn’t say anything directly to Trent. The Bel Air hotel did not permit overt flirting between staff and guests. But her look and her walk and the way she touched her lips with her tongue said it clearly enough. Definitely available.
Trent did not let his smile break out until he was safe outside again. Clearly the young woman didn’t see anything wrong with his jeans or his rumpled jacket.
Each page was stamped with the agency’s logo, and below that was written, proprietary information. Trent had no idea what the words meant, other than the suggestion that the data was worth the ten thousand dollars he had paid the agency for a rush job. The information was complete enough, a full workup on the career and personal life of one Stone Denning. The A-list director had experienced an astonishing rise, a truly Hollywood tale of riches and fame.
Stone Denning had started as a mail clerk at CAA, one of the largest agencies in film and television. He had written a pilot script on the side, then used a buddy who was one rung further up the ladder to place the script with Fox. The script had spawned one of the most successful dramas in the network’s history. Stone Denning had coproduced the series with his buddy, who had taken over as show-runner when Stone had moved into film.
Stone’s first full-length feature was a buddy-cop drama that drew a huge and global audience. In the seven years since, Stone Denning rose to become one of the hottest figures in Hollywood. Currently he worked on the second of a five-film deal with Mundrose reportedly worth a hundred million dollars.
Trent set the professional overview aside and turned to the personal data, which contained a dozen photographs, most of which were highly unflattering. Despite his power and growing income, Stone Denning was constantly flirting with bankruptcy. He regularly dove into new business ventures, many of which could have been successful if he only had taken the time to manage them well. But he had a filmmaker’s attention span, which rarely lasted more than the six months it took to shoot a new project. All but two of the ventures had gone bankrupt, saddling Stone with massive debt.
Stone’s family life suffered from the same insatiable quest for the next big thing. At thirty-nine he was already divorced four times, involved in an additional three paternity suits. His ex-wives and former flames and legal costs ate up 70 percent of his disposable income. He spent the rest on a stable of sports cars, a Malibu beachfront mansion, a raging lust for high-stakes poker, and a nightlife that exhausted Trent just reading about it. The summary at the end of the analysis read, Insatiable appetites, a series of bad judgment calls, and looming debts make Stone Denning open to persuasion. His hunger for the gambler’s high also suggests he will listen most keenly to what he sees as a high-stakes bet.
The more he read, the more certain he became that Stone Denning was his man.
“Am I interrupting?”
Trent shut the file and rose to his feet. What he saw left him stunned. “Wow.”
Gayle wore a sheath of silk that was somehow both black and silver. Her stockings were a pale gold, reflecting the bar’s firelight, making her appear to dance even when she stood still. “Might one assume that is a note of approval?”
“Assume away. Absolutely.” He knew he wasn’t making sense. But the impact was staggering. The woman had always been lovely. Now she was nothing short of stunning. A Los Angeles star-making beauty. “You ought to be up there on the silver screen.”
“Tried. The camera doesn’t like me.” She allowed him to hold her chair. “I modeled my way through university. Hated the life.”
It was the most she had ever said about herself. “Where did you study?”
“Vasser.” She pointed at the file. “Doesn’t it say?”
“This isn’t about you. It’s a rundown on Stone Denning.”
“Oh, may I see?”
He passed it over. “What will you drink?”
“What are you having?”
“Mineral water.”
She made a small moue. “I think I’d prefer a Gibson.”
“So would I. But it’ll need to wait until after this meeting.”
“As I am only playing the observer, I don’t feel any such compunction.” She opened the file. “Make it a double.”
He met the waiter midway across the floor, delivered the order, then returned to the table by the corner windows and sat studying the room. The Bel Air hotel bar was a masterful rendition of a rich man’s study. Dark wood and Persian carpets and silk drapes and chandeliers and leather furniture. Along with an overworked AC, the roaring fire was kept in check by a glass shield carved with the hotel’s emblem. Trent resisted the urge to turn and watch her read. At best, Gayle was a temporary ally. At worst, she was a spy who would not hesitate to imbed the knife as deep as it would go. Trent kept his gaze on the fire and honed his strategy for the meeting to come.
Gayle closed the file and returned it to him. “This confirms my every suspicion.”
“You’ve met Denning?”
“Twice, briefly. When he was over for meetings with Mr. Mundrose.”
“What do you think of him?”
“The file sums it up rather well. Insatiable is a word meant to describe Stone Denning. He has no off switch. Have you seen any of his films?”
“All of them. Most of them several times. I love his work. Which I suppose is a sign of my lowbrow tastes.”
She shrugged. “Stone Denning makes money. Some say he has his finger on the pulse of America’s younger generations. I personally think he simply is the right man for the job.”
“You don’t like him.”
She eyed him coolly over the rim of her glass. “It’s not my job to like people, Mr. Cooper.”
“Call me Trent, please.”
She sipped her drink, set it down, and did not reply.
“What do you want from this?” When she did not answer, he pressed, “I’m not talking about the purpose behind your being here. In LA. With me. I mean …”
“I know what you mean.” She met his gaze. Her eyes were a remarkable shade of pale brown. Almost gold in the firelight. The cool gaze of a lioness. “Ask me that question in another setting.”
Meaning, once he had shown he was going to be around long enough for her to want to reply. There was no reason why her answer should tear a rent in his gut. She was the beautiful assistant to one of the most powerful men in the entertainment universe. “No problem.”
“Good.” She offered him a tiny smile. “Trent.”
Stone Denning ordered the hotel’s most expensive whiskey with brusque assuredness, a sixty-year-old single malt. He waited until the waiter deposited his glass to demand, “All right. You’ve got exactly three minutes to tell me why I shouldn’t just walk out that door.”
“We have a new strategy for the marke
ting campaign,” Trent replied. “We need your help.”
Two hundred dollars of amber liquid caught the light as Stone raised the heavy crystal. “What’s in it for me?”
“I told you on the phone. Ten million dollars.”
“For the film’s marketing.” He shrugged. “Chump change. The ad budget for this film is fifty mil and climbing.”
“No, Mr. Denning. For you, personally.”
“The way you said it from the plane, I thought—”
“What I said is correct. There’s an additional ten million in advertising. But there is also another ten for you.”
The director was dressed in LA chic, stovepipe slacks and dress shirt beneath a cashmere vest, the shirttails dangling around his chair. The gold watch was big enough to have fit over both wrists, and jangled noisily as he drank. But he was listening now. Intently. Stone Denning glanced at Gayle and said, “I know you, don’t I?”
“We met when you visited Mr. Mundrose, Mr. Denning.”
“Sure. You’re the lady in Barry’s front room.”
Gayle gave him a professional smile. “It is kind of you to have noticed, Mr. Denning.”
“There’s a lot to notice.” His boyish grin was slightly marred by the two scars that ran from his neck to his earlobe, the product of a glove that frayed in a particularly intensive boxing battle. “In my head I called you Legs.”
Her expression chilled slightly. “Mr. Mundrose sends his compliments, sir, and asks you to give Mr. Cooper’s concept your utmost attention.”
“For ten mil, I can pay attention. For a while.” His gaze lingered a moment longer, then swiveled back to Trent. “So give.”
In response, Trent opened his laptop, plugged in a pair of earplugs, handed them over and said, “This will take exactly four minutes and seventeen seconds.”
“Precision. I like it. But it’s too long for a decent trailer.” He started to fit in the plugs, then asked, “These earphones are clean?”
“They’re new.” Trent hit “play.”
