Chapter 1
Thursday, 10:17 a.m.
August 14, 2015
When Tyrone Maxwell put down the phone and wearily leaned on his elbows, a tear sneaked out of his tightly closed eyes. He had finally made the decision.
It was a detestable solution to his astonishing problem---everything had been going so well for so long. He had written, produced and directed two prize-winning documentaries and a low budget feature film that earned passable profit and plentiful praise from critics. That had put Tyrone’s face in Variety, The Hollywood Reporter and television shows like ET. And with growing celebrity came financing for a risky feature film he had written that reversed prevalent portrayals of Mafia “made men.” Instead of the respected machismo suggested by successful movies like “The Godfather,” Tyrone shaped his script to contemptuously portray criminals’ prosaic home life, puerile saloon antics and psychopathic cruelty dictated by detestable “godfathers.” And he was lucky to sign Mark Crowell, the popular star of the McCarver television series that inexplicably closed after four seasons. He wanted Mark for the anti-hero leading role because a turnabout of Mark’s heroic screen image as McCarver could add subtle shock. And indeed Mark, like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, could abruptly transform his attractiveness to abhorrence, as proved by Tyrone’s direction during a screen test.
Not bad for an African American rescued from a Detroit slum in his late teens by the Air Force and then film school financed with the GI Bill. But Tyrone didn’t dawdle with self-congratulation. He worked hard to make sure every cent of this production went on the screen and not in limousines, hotel suites and white-powder parties with aphrodisiac women. Unfortunately in New York, with a sequence of persistent union problems, inexplicable filming equipment failure and vehicle breakdowns, he ran out of time, money and investors. So Tyrone, the actors and the crew flew back to Los Angeles with only 43 minutes of keeper takes in the can.
Now, three weeks later in his rented office at Producers’ Studios, Tyrone finally stood up and announced to his melancholy crew assembled for a melancholy meeting: “I just agreed to merge with Horowitz Productions.”
Stunned silence.
“So the film will definitely be finished. Horowitz will be the boss now, but we still--”
Mark Crowell sang in a smooth but melancholy voice: “Sing a song of sad young men...”
“It’s by far a better deal than Paramount offered.”
“Glasses full of rye...”
“Of course Horowitz will take a helluva hunk off the top, but--”
“All the news is bad again...”
“--he promised me creative control. I’m still the writer and director.”
“Kiss your dreams goodbye...”
“That’ll be in the contract, goddammit!”
“Sorry, Ty. We’re not mad at you.” Mark looked around at others who nodded agreement.
“There’s no way around it.” Tyrone sighed. “Who’ll stay with me?”
All except Mark voiced their intention to keep working with Tyrone. And when their genial encouragements left nothing more to say, everyone left except Mark.
“So what do you think?” Tyrone asked.
“Horowitz is a bloodsucker.”
“So is everybody making his money.”
“He’s produced a lot of shit.”
“That’s how he made so much money. But he’s got a couple big projects in development, so I don’t think he’ll personally get involved in ours.”
“I hear his people are real sonsofbitches.”
Tyrone sighed. “It’s that or no film. Do you want out?”
“What would happen?”
“Well, I wouldn’t fight you. Your contract has to be re-negotiated anyway.”
“I mean, how would it leave you?”
“Oh...it’ll squeeze the deal but probably not kill it. Horowitz likes all the action stuff we’ve shot, especially in Harlem. The worst thing is I’ll have to re-shoot all your scenes. And it’ll be a bitch to recast; I wrote it with you in mind. But you don’t have to stick for me, Mark. Got anything else going?”
“Not right now. And...well, I’m going to need some money pretty soon, because---”
“What can I say? Even if this picture flies, we won’t see much money for quite a while.”
Mark slumped in a chair and crossed his legs. “Do you think it’ll really make it?”
“You have to decide based on what you think.”
“I can’t be objective with me as the lead.”
Tyrone ran his fingers across his wiry, short cropped hair. “How objective can I be directing my own script? That’s the problem with being a hyphenate. But one thing is pretty sure; it’ll be unusual. And with you starring it could be unique. A fiendish but seductive murderer who captivates. When your eyes are lit just right, you have a powerful charisma.”
“I’ve never looked that good on film before,” Mark conceded
“As a friend, Mark, I say risk finishing the movie. Unless you’ve got something better. Or you really need the money.”
“Okay. If I have to, I can sell some stock.”
“You mean you’ll finish our film?”
“Merry Charisma.”
Tyrone laughed, his big white teeth lighting his whole face. “What do I say now?”
“Say you’ll buy lunch.”
“Can you wait a while?” Tyrone looked at his watch. “I’m expecting a call from Stacy Lohmann,
Horowitz’s right-hand man who’ll probably be our producer. He might talk an hour or so.”
“I’m free all day.”
“Do you like Yvette?”
Mark’s eyebrows danced. “If she only knew how happy I could make her.”
“She’s rehearsing her upcoming Vegas act on Stage Eleven. If you want to watch, I’ll call and tell Buddy you’re coming.”
“You know Buddy Hubbard??”
Tyrone nodded.
“Great! How long should I stay?”
“I’ll meet you there when I’m finished.”
Mark felt cheerful as he left the office. Outside was cool and bright and phenomenally clear—as clear as his head. He believed he had made the right decision. When he entered the sound stage, Buddy waved and he walked past naked light bulbs marking a toilet, a telephone and a table covered with empty milk cartons, juice bottles, stained Styrofoam cups, teeth-marked danish, spilled yogurt, orange peels, banana skins and cigarette butts in a coffee can. Sweaty dancers in leotards were limbering up and prancing at the sides of a set resembling a stage; a choreographer was stepping off a routine by the
numbers for Yvette, who watched carefully from her seat on a high stool. When he finished, she slid off the stool and accepted a hand mike. The music blasted; she danced into position and began her song as dancers filled in behind her. Mark moved to the edge of the set by Buddy and watched nostalgically. He wished he could do another musical.
When someone called lunch, he waited a few minutes in order to meet Yvette. But she was huddled with her musicians and, not wanting to bother her, he thanked Buddy. Then, humming her song, he started back to Tyrone’s office.
He was still humming when he rounded the corner by the commissary and saw a man running from Tyrone’s office. In a moment Tyrone, with a gun in his hand, appeared on the little porch and fired at the man—Bam! Bam! Bam! The man stumbled but, pawing his bloody neck, he jogged on and struggled into his car. When he got it started he floored it, and with the door flapping like a crippled bird’s wing the Trailblazer roared directly back into a new Mercedes. The driver rolled from his seat onto the asphalt and lay still. Mark ran to Tyrone, who had collapsed with blood spurting from his chest like a lawn sprinkler, and tenaciously tried to staunch the blood with the palm of his hand.
“C’mon, Mister; he’s dead,” said one of the security guards as he gently pulled Mark away from Tyrone.
