With a drink inside him and Harper’s encouragement to go home to visit his family and birthplace, Rory had decided: he was going to do it. Revisit his past. However, now in bed at home in Hollywood Hills with Morris next to him, he wasn’t so sure. He’d left a lot of baggage back there. There were unresolved issues. Did he really want to get involved there again? He also had things to do here. Sure, he didn’t have a job, but realistically, he only needed one of those to give him something productive to do every day. The other things he had to do here could be set aside easily enough. Except he didn’t want to set anything aside. He didn’t like to leave things undone.
It was six AM, and he was awake. He’d always gotten up at six and gone for a run before going in to work. Losing his job hadn’t changed his sleep patterns. Not yet at least. He could sleep late now, but he liked being up early. Liked running when no one else was around. There were trails in Hollywood Hills and he’d run them all. Just because he’d been fired didn’t mean he was going to stop doing what he loved doing, and morning runs were near the top of that list.
Morris was looking at him because he was still in bed and the clock was ticking. Morris knew his schedule and didn’t like it when it wasn’t followed. Rory kicked off the thin sheet that was covering him, stood up and stretched, then went to pee. Morris still lay on the bed, his eyes watching every move Rory made.
Rory slipped into his running shorts, put on anklet socks and running shoes, didn’t bother with a shirt, took a couple of deep breaths, and said, “Come on. Get your lazy bones out of bed and let’s go.”
Morris hopped down and beat him to the door.
“Five miles okay?” Rory asked while lightly jogging in place before setting out, warming his recently sleeping muscles.
Morris only gave him an inquisitive look. Rory smiled. Morris gave him the same look to the same question every day.
Rory selected a trail he seldom ran. It was steeper than the others and always left him more exhausted. Today, there was no reason to avoid being exhausted at the end. He could loaf as long as he wanted after running. He had nothing planned other than a visit to Cary.
Morris ran easily at Rory’s side. Rory ran easily, too. He’d gotten in shape, in better shape, actually, during basic training in the Army and had kept it up. He liked the feeling being of being fit. It was worth the effort it took to stay that way.
They reached the bottom of the steepest downgrade, ran along the bottom of the trail, then started the long trudge back up to the top. This was the exhausting part. If Rory chose to walk back up, he’d have been fine, but he wouldn’t give in to the temptation. He could faintly hear his old drill instructor yelling in his ear. ‘You tired yet? You ready to give up? You want to walk back and lie in your cot? Maybe suck your thumb? Keep running, candy ass. Run! This ain’t a wimp camp. It’s the Army! Move it, soldier. Move it. Move it.’
The fact was, Rory had been the fittest in his barracks. He ran effortlessly after the first week. The first week had been hard, but not all that hard, and he’d been stubborn. He’d also been lean and fit when he began. The drill sergeant hated him for not suffering like the rest of the unit. He ran his boys hard, harder than any of the other drill sergeants. He liked his charges to give up, to throw up, to quit. Rory never did. He never liked the drill sergeant, either; their dislike had been mutual. Rory didn’t mind the man being tough; he hated him for being cruel and lacking humanity.
The steep hill was at the beginning of their fifth and final mile. Rory felt the grade in his legs, lungs and knees. Still, he pushed ahead. Morris stayed right with him, only slowing down if Rory did. Rory never knew exactly what Morris—not the most talkative sort of partners—was thinking, but Rory was aware that Morris was in better shape than he was.
Rory was determined to climb to the top without slowing. That took tremendous resolve as the final hundred yards was pure torture. Still, no pain, no gain. He pushed, reached inside himself, and made it to the top. He’d learned long ago how to do that. He wanted to stop there, lean over and put his hands on his knees, but Morris had other ideas and was ambling on, and so Rory jogged along, too, wanting to stay with him and avoid the smug look Morris always gave him if he had to wait for him to keep up.
They finally reached the house. Rory stopped out front and finally did put his hands on his knees and dropped his head. He stayed that way for a full minute, letting his breathing even out, then stood up.
He saw something odd as he approached the front door. Two things, actually. One, the door wasn’t closed tightly, which it had been when he’d left. He always locked the door when he left. It was cracked open now. Two, Morris had noticed something as well.
Silently, they both moved to the door, and standing to the side, Rory swung it noiselessly open. “Be on the alert,” he whispered to Morris.
Morris entered on Rory’s hand motion. They both slipped through the door and moved slowly down the entry hallway till they came to the door to Rory’s bedroom. The living room with its canyon view took up most of the house. It was straight ahead from the front door at the end of the hallway. The kitchen was off the living room and, along with the dining area, took up much of the west wall of the house. Rory’s bedroom was on the left of the hallway, his office on the right.
Rory’s bedroom door was ajar. Rory and Morris stopped, and Rory peeked into the room. A man was going through the dresser. Rory looked down at Morris, then pushed the door open wide enough for Morris to enter. “Attack and hold,” he said.
Morris went into action. He leapt through the open doorway and in two bounds was on the man. His weight brought the man to the floor, and Morris stood over him, his face inches from the man’s, and his growl was terrifying.
Rory stepped into the room, his phone in his hand. He punched in 911 and reported a burglary and that the burglar was now controlled; a police car was requested.
When he’d finished the call, he walked over to the man. “Don’t move,” he said. “Morris here is trained. You move, you’ll get hurt. Just wait right there. The police are coming. You’ll be much safer dealing with them than Morris.”
Morris continued growling. It was more a persistent rumble now but no less foreboding. Rory grinned and petted him. “Hold,” he said, but knew it was unnecessary. Morris was smart. He knew he was in charge of this man until told to relax.
Morris was a black-and-tan German Shepherd, a large male weighing 102 pounds. He’d been trained by an expert handler. Rory had bought him when he was young and had just finished his training. He wanted both companionship and security, and Morris provided both. Rory had money now, and Los Angeles was not the safest city in the country, especially if you had something others wanted. Money was high on that list.
Rory never felt anxious when he was with Morris. Harper was his best female friend. Morris was at the top of the list of males.
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The police came and took the burglar into custody but lingered longer than Rory had thought they would. It was late morning before he was free. The time had come and gone for the meeting he’d scheduled for mid-morning. When he’d seen he wouldn’t make it on time, a quick phone call had reset the meeting for a lunch date. The police did finally leave, and Rory took a quick shower, dressed, then jumped in his old Hyundai. Morris looked at him beseechingly, and Rory grinned and opened the passenger door and rolled the window down halfway. Then they took off for Louis’ Cafe, the restaurant where he’d planned to have lunch.
It was a warm morning as many were in L.A. It was one reason he liked to run early when the heat of the day had yet to materialize. He expected Morris appreciated that, too, as he had a fur coat to run in.
He took Mulholland Drive to Coldwater Canyon Drive and used that to get to Sunset Boulevard. From there it was just a short jog to Roxbury where Louis’ was located. It had a large patio with individual umbrellas shading the tables. Rory was known there and when he went to his usual table without bothering the maître d', a waiter quickly showed up with a large bowl of water without being asked. He set it down for Morris.
“Cary will be a few minutes late,” the waiter told Rory. “He phoned and said his photo session was running behind.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“I’ll bring some chips and salsa. Modelo Negra?”
“No, just ice tea today, but thanks, John.”
“Extra lemon?”
Rory laughed. “You know me too well. I’ll have to find a new place.”
“Don’t do that!” the waiter said, sounding alarmed. “You’re fine, but I have this gigantic crush on Cary. You should come more often, not less, bringing him, of course.”
“You’re too old for him, John. What are you twenty-one, twenty-two? Way too old.”
“No way. My dad owns the place. I’m seventeen and only waiting tables during my summer vacation to make some coin. I’m still too old for Cary, but just barely, and a guy can still dream, can’t he?” John smiled, then scurried off to get the tea.
Morris drank some water. Rory sat back, glanced around to see if he recognized anyone while hoping he wouldn’t, then let his mind wander. He didn’t even notice when the chips and salsa and water were brought to the table. His mind was back many months earlier, back even before he’d met Cary.
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Beverly Foster had called Rory with the news that three studios were fighting for the rights to Leaving Home. Disney, Warner Brothers and Universal all wanted it. She said she’d let him know as things progressed, but the longer the negotiations went, the richer he’d eventually be.
“And you, too, of course,” Rory riposted.
“Goes without saying.” Beverly laughed. “That’s how agents make a living. Do you want to go toe to toe with the sharks that work for these people? Well, tooth to tooth, I guess, if I’m talking sharks. Anyway, you negotiate with them, you’ll end up paying them.”
“No way I could do that.” The thought of dealing with the money people the studios employed made Rory shudder. He didn’t begrudge Beverly the money she was making. She got a 15% commission for book and film rights she negotiated for him and other financial deals, but that was fine; he figured he wouldn’t make any money at all from his writing without her. When he’d written Leaving Home, he’d submitted it to a publisher. When it was returned to him three weeks later, he’d called them and asked what they’d thought of it. The girl on the phone told him they only read manuscripts submitted by agents, that they’d have to hire five more people just to read all the submissions they’d receive, and almost all of those would be rejected. She said most publishers had agents do the dirty work of reading subpar submissions for them and saved money on staff salaries.
He’d asked how he was supposed to find an agent, and she gave him three names, saying all three took on never-before-published authors. Beverly Foster was at the top of the list.
He’d sent Leaving Home to all three agents. The only one who’d called him back was Beverly. She’d asked if they could meet. When they did, it was at a mid-price diner in Manhattan. She turned out to be a sixtyish, very short and plump woman with big hair and a brassy voice. She’d looked Rory up and down, seeming to undress him with her eyes, then went into her spiel.
“You have the beginnings of a very good book. It needs some changes, some work, but overall it’s a great start. If you’re willing to listen to me and make the changes I suggest, I’ll take you on as a client. I charge the standard 15% of what you make from the book and ancillary activities I’ll provide. But you’ll make much more at 85% of a lot than 100% of a little. Just so you know, at about $30 per hardcover book, you’ll net something like $3.50 per copy sold. More or less. As long as the hardcover sales remain robust, we’ll stick with that format. Some authors and agents like to offer e-books at the same time as hardcovers; I prefer to wait; you can have the final call on that. We’ll only go to paperbacks and audiobooks when the hardcover sales wane. That won’t be for some time.
“I see this as a best seller, something that’s rare for a first timer. Even if this doesn’t sell a million copies, though, you’ll still be rich if it stays on the best seller lists for as long as I think it will, and especially if it gets picked up by a film studio. I think that’s possible.”
That had been the beginning. When he’d agreed he wanted her for his agent, they’d met often at her office. She’d taken his book apart and showed him what needed strengthening, what needed to be cut, what weak verbs could be made more striking, what similes and metaphors needed work, what clichés needed to be jettisoned. Rory had set to work and when he’d made the changes, he realized how much better the book was.
Beverly was delighted with him. She rarely found good writers who had as little ego-involvement as Rory had. And he’d done everything she’d asked without a whine or whimper, without bitching at all!
She’d found him a publisher, and when the book was a great hit, she’d set up speaking engagements for him at ten- to twenty-thousand dollars a crack. Book signings had earned him appearance fees, more book sales which translated into more money and a surprising number of frequent-flyer miles.
Then, when hardcover sales continued week after week, Hollywood had taken an interest, and she’d negotiated a film deal for him. At first, Disney had beaten out their competitors, but at the last moment Paramount had jumped in and secured the film rights. Part of the contract Beverly had negotiated was that Rory would be involved in the development work for the film. He’d be given a substantial salary as script consultant.
Rory had moved to L.A. and found a rental home in the Hollywood Hills. When the place was put up for sale, he’d bought it. Everyone had told him real estate in L.A. was a solid, profitable investment. Plus, he liked the house and the neighborhood.
He felt out of place when he sat in his first script-development meeting for Leaving Home. The team of writers that had been assembled had already been working for two weeks. Rory came in and was introduced by an upper studio exec, a Mr. Cadwaller, who told the crew that this was Rory Spencer, that he’d written the book they were scripting, and that his agent had gotten him a position with the film as a script consultant. That he’d be sitting at the table with them.
He’d emphasized the word ‘sitting’, as though that was his role. To sit. Not to be involved. The whole introduction had seemed to Rory to be dismissive, almost snide. As if Rory was only at the table because his agent had finagled it; that they didn’t need to listen to anything he said; that he was only here as a sop.
When Mr. Cadwaller left, there was a feeling of awkwardness in the room. Then a man came forward and introduced himself as Fred Jennings.
“I’m the lead writer here. Glad to have you with us. If you want, you can just sit in and listen, and if you have something you think would be germane to what we’re doing, feel free to interject. No problem with a comment or two now and then. Just so you know, between the people at the table, we’ve 54 years of building scripts. So, grab a chair and we’ll keep on with what we’re doing.”
Feeling very much like a small insect at a praying mantis convention, Rory took an empty chair. He didn’t utter a single word all the time he was there that day. He listened to the discussion bouncing around, saw notes being taken, heard the laughter and arguments.
The next day was the same. Rory was silent through the morning, though his temper was rising. Neophyte he might be, but it was his book they were shredding. He began to wonder if any of them had read it.
At lunchtime, they all left the room; no one invited him to go with them again. He was indeed an outsider that was being tolerated because they were told they had to. That didn’t mean they had to be pleased he was there.
He decided to go to the canteen for lunch. As he was leaving the writers’ room, he almost bumped into a man entering.
“Oops, sorry,” Rory said, stepping back into the room quickly and smiling diffidently. He was feeling a bit misused. The morning hadn’t gone well in his opinion. He’d heard what was being done to his book and realized how perfunctory his attendance here was. He was entirely unnecessary and not wanted.
The man coming in was about Rory’s age. He was tall and solid and, while not Hollywood-handsome, he cut an arresting figure. There was a quality about him, even before he said a word, that suggested he was a man to be reckoned with. Rory thought the air of self-confidence he carried was what made him so striking.
He smiled at Rory. “Hi,” he said. “You’re Rory Spencer. You’re even better looking than the picture on your book. I’m Nolan Carborne.”
“Hi,” Rory said, and shook the offered hand. “Are you involved at all with this project?”
Nolan laughed. “You could say so. I’m directing the film.”
“Oh. I’m sorry,” Rory said, abashed. “I probably should have recognized your name. You’re probably famous. I have to admit, I don’t go to many movies. This stuff is all brand new to me, and from how the morning has gone, I don’t belong here, not even part of working on this script.”
Nolan shook his head. “Actually, I’m pleased that you don’t know me. You don’t have any negative conceptions about my films or me this way and probably no doubts about my abilities. This will be my fifth film. The other four made money, actually more than expected, which is why they hired me for this one. Leaving Home is projected to make the studio a fortune. For what they paid for the rights, it had better. For me, this will be a make-or-break undertaking. I’ll either be a star after this, or out on the street and finding something else to do to make a living.”
He laughed again. “Well, that’s probably an exaggeration. But I’ll be doing B-films at underfunded studios. In this industry, it’s always a matter of ‘what have you done for me lately and how much money did it bring in?’ So we’re kind of in the same position: uncomfortable, not entirely sure of what we’re doing, and hoping we don’t embarrass ourselves. For me, I’m trying hard to establish a rep while at the same time defending the one I already have.
“You have it easier. You’ll be learning script writing as you go while protecting the wonderful book you wrote from being trashed by unworthy, frequently jealous writers. Let me say, that book should be protected, even from me.”
He stopped to grin. To Rory, he didn’t look like he was trying to defend anything. He looked like a man in control and one who’d never had any self-doubts, ever.
Nolan pointed to the table, walked to it and sat down, saying, “Let’s sit for a moment.” Rory followed and sat across from him. Nolan continued.
“For the first time, I have complete control of a film. Never had that before. Like most new directors, I was given scripts, told what actors were being cast, told what my budget was. I had very little control of anything but the shoot.
“This is the first time I’ll have everything to do with everything and have an adequate budget. I wanted to be here today, mostly to meet you, but was tied up with the producer this morning. I’d like to hear what you thought about what went on this morning. I’m not really a control freak, more of a busybody, mostly a collaborator. I want to get to know you and to hear your thoughts on how the morning went. I guess it didn’t go well for you. How about lunch? You free? We can talk then.”
“I was just going to see what the canteen was all about. I’m free as a bird,” Rory said.
“Let’s get away from the studio, then. Someone’s always listening to what you’re talking about here. Hollywood is nothing like the Midwest; here, gossip is a well-crafted artform. We can talk openly where we’ll be going. Can’t in the canteen.”
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Rory was brought out of his reverie by Morris suddenly jumping up and moving out from under the table. He wasn’t leashed. There was no need for that as he’d absolutely and instantly obey any commands Rory gave him. Accordingly, Rory never restrained him. Now he came out from under the table, his tail wagging so hard Rory had to move his legs away from its reach. Morris was excited but didn’t leave Rory’s side.
“Go,” Rory said, and Morris bolted. He almost knocked over the kid he was headed towards. He stopped and stood on his hind legs and put his front feet on the kid’s shoulders. Then he commenced to give the boy a thorough face washing.
The kid said, “Down, Morris,” when he was able to stop laughing. Morris returned his front feet to earth, and then it was the boy’s turn to get down on his knees and rub and pet and fuss over Morris.
When he was finished, the boy walked over to Rory’s table.
“Hi, Cary,” Rory said, his broad grin matching Cary’s.