by Davis Bunn
“I could call back later, but to be honest, I’m so tired I doubt I’ll be awake. And I’m due to meet Bobby’s mountain man at five-thirty tomorrow morning. I’ll be gone twelve days. I’d like to leave packing your answers.”
Liz could have used a few answers of her own. As in, what had she done to turn her former pastor to sullen stone. And why Brent was going to be out of contact for two weeks. “I don’t suppose we’ll be the first folks to show up late.”
Brent launched straight in. “After my first meeting with Bobby, I set out a fleece before God. Two of them. A pair of ladies with every reason in the world never to speak with me again. I’ve had two separate phone calls on today’s drive west. Both ladies have officially signed on.”
“That’s a good thing, right?”
“It would be,” Brent said slowly. “Except for one thing. It’s left me needing to commit.”
Stanley might have coughed. He uncrossed his arms and started to look in Liz’s direction. But he caught himself just in time. Instead he stared at the radio’s screen, where Brent’s phone number was spelled out in backlit blue. Liz gave the pastor beside her more than ample time to respond, then said, “You can’t expect all those fears to disappear overnight.”
“It’s more than that.” The Bose sound system in Liz’s car gave Brent’s voice the resonance of the silver screen. “I want this thing. It’s a craving in my gut. Strong as breath.”
She was listening to Brent but watching Stanley. The man stared at the car’s receiver with his mouth slightly ajar.
Brent breathed soft and strong over the speakers, then added hoarsely, “Strong as drink.”
Stanley covered his eyes.
“What is wrong with you?” Liz asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Not you, Brent.” She poked Stanley in the arm. “This man needs your help.”
Stanley did not lower his hand. “You’re doing fine.”
Liz had been around strong men all her life. A rancher for a father, six older brothers, her dear husband. She knew bone-deep hurt when she saw it. Liz said, “Well, Stanley here seems to be all out of answers.”
Stanley muttered, “You got that right.”
“But if you want my two cents’ worth, you’re welcome to it.”
“Please.”
“Brent, the only thing you’ve ever wanted in your entire life is to perform. It’s your gift.”
“But it’s also what destroyed me.”
“Because you did it alone, and for all the wrong reasons. Now listen to me, because I’m talking to you from the experience of one who’s climbed out of her own dark well. You’re going to have some hard times ahead. That’s what happens when you’re willing to take chances. And there are going to be times when you’re desperate to crawl back into your cave. But this time around, there’s a difference. And you know what that is?”
“Yes.”
“Sure you do. You know who you are now. You know why you’re here. You know who you serve. You know where your strength comes from. You know …” She hesitated. Stanley dropped his hand and stared at her with such a wounded gaze she could look straight through that lesion, down into the man’s hurting soul.
“Liz?”
“You know your purpose, Brent. You won’t be making the same mistakes again, because this time around you’re not doing it for yourself.”
Brent’s voice lowered an entire octave. “You see a lot more good in me than I do.”
Stanley gave another wracking cough. But his eyes did not leave her own. Desperate eyes. Yearning to hear what she had to say. “Honey, you’re focused on your past and your failures. I’m focused on your future.”
He breathed in, and out, and in. “Thank you, Liz. A lot.”
“Trust me, Brent. You’re more than a good man. You’re ready.”
She cut the connection, gave it a minute, then said, “You want to tell me what’s going on here?”
But Stanley was already reaching for his door. “We’re late.”
Liz held her peace through a Bible lesson she scarcely heard. Stanley remained hunched over in his seat. Because they had come in late, all the places around the table were full. Her chair was closest to the door, set hard against the outer wall. Stanley was nudged into the corner by the floor-to-ceiling windows and the night skyline beyond. All she could really see of him was his muscular back and the top of his head, where the close-cut gray hair revealed a bare spot darkened by the Texas sun.
Liz waited until the lesson was done to say across the room, “Stanley. Look at me.”
Slowly the big man rose from his crouch.
“If you won’t tell me, tell them.”
He blinked, drawn back to the present in reluctant stages.
“For your sake as much as mine. Please.”
The boardroom chairs swiveled around until all eyes were on him.
“I’m a stranger here.”
The man leading tonight’s session was a port operator whose bulk rivaled Stanley’s. “If you are, brother, it’s our fault as much as yours.”
Stanley spoke across the distance to Liz, “This afternoon I was offered a senior pastorate. I didn’t even know I was being considered or I would have told them I wasn’t available. But they’ve been coming in and listening to my Wednesday night sermons. And they’ve had talks with the other pastors about my outreach program. All of the church’s deacons came in together. They’ve been praying about it and they feel like God has made the decision for them. I’m the only pastor they’re approaching.”
The collective silence held until Liz asked, “Which church is it?”
Even before he spoke, she knew. Nine years earlier, a dynamic young pastor had taken a slumbering neighborhood church and transformed it into a mega-explosion. The church had grown so fast, not even having six services a weekend could meet the needs. So they purchased a farm on the interstate between Austin and the Texas hill country and built a sprawling new campus. Two weeks after blessing the new sanctuary, their pastor had a massive heart attack and died.
Stanley said, “New Hope Church.”
The gathering rustled. Somebody gave off a low whistle. They all knew the place.
Liz felt a sudden trembling, as though her heart were being touched by unseen fingers, prodding her into a higher form of wakefulness. “So what Brent talked about downstairs …”
“His worries might as well have come from my own mouth.”
“You want this.”
Stanley dropped his head again. “So much.”
The Spirit filled the room. She knew this with the same degree of certainty that she could name the color of her own blouse. And just as vividly, she knew what she was being asked to do.
Liz twisted the wedding band on her left finger. She thought of all the friends in her church. The funeral of her beloved man. The support she had received in those dark hours. The ties. The memories.
She raised her head. “Take the job, Stanley.”
He tore the words to shreds. “What if I fail God again?”
“I’ll go with you.”
The offer took a moment to sink in. He looked at her. Blinked slowly. “What?”
“I’ll come, too. Be your advisor. Keep you accountable. Sit in your office before the Sabbath service and pray for the strength and direction I know God is waiting to give you.” She felt her trembling fade with the power’s departure and knew it was the right move. “If that’s what you want.”
13
Perhaps it was the afternoon sunlight. Any actor with serious camera time knew a five-degree change in the light’s angle made the difference between a smash and a dud. Or maybe it was simply that during Shari’s second personal meeting with Sam Menzes, the adrenaline rush did not blind her quite so badly as it had before. Whatever the reason, this time she noticed the scar on his neck. She knew he had gotten it seven years back, when he and his latest mistress had been trapped in a New York hotel fire. Sam was reported to have saved as ma
ny as two dozen lives by racing up and down the hallway, waking people and breaking down doors to make sure no one was inside.
He refused to discuss the incident. In fact he made it a habit never to give interviews of any kind. Ever. It was part of the Menzes legend.
This was, of course, long before her time. Shari Khan knew the story because she had spent the previous two weeks discovering everything she could about her new boss. Since Menzes ran Galaxy Studios, she had always answered ultimately to him. But now she worked with him. All the difference in the world.
Menzes greeted her with, “How’s Bud?”
“Progressing more slowly than he’d like, Mr. Menzes. It looks like he’ll be in traction for another week.”
Shari’s boss had been so furious at hearing how she’d scooped him, he had fired her from his hospital bed. Shari had phoned the news in to Sam’s secretary. Something had happened. Something big, because ten minutes later her erstwhile boss had called back, subdued to the point of meekness, and blamed his outburst on the pain. That night, according to the nurse who despised Bud and loved dishing out the dirt to Shari in their now-nightly phone calls, the guy had actually freed himself from his support system, climbed out of bed, and done his leg further damage. But if Menzes wanted to pretend that little drama had never happened, fine. Shari said, “He sends you his best.”
“Keep me posted.” Menzes pointed to the man seated across from her. “You know Derek.”
“Only by reputation.” Derek Steen was Galaxy’s chief counsel. Those who had negotiated against him claimed he was the world’s first vampire lizard. “A pleasure, Mr. Steen.”
“Okay, Shari,” Menzes said. “Tell me why we’re here.”
Shari Khan opened the leather portfolio from Aquascutum, a gift from her grandmother. She passed over single-sheet printouts. Sam Menzes was notorious for ignoring any print that went over two pages. The idea of coating her report in plastic had come to her in the middle of the night. Producers and directors often did this with story pitches, called leave-behinds. They plasticized the leave-behind and stamped a copyright seal on the cover to make it tougher for some in-house leach to steal their idea and paycheck.
Shari had been at the printer when it had opened at six. Instead of the copyright seal, the bottom right corner was stamped with the Galaxy logo. She thought it was a nice touch. Shari was not normally such a perfectionist. But she had waited all her life for the chance to sit at the table with Sam Menzes. She handed a second copy to Derek Steen. “Bobby Dupree.”
Sam Menzes opened a lacquered case and withdrew a set of Cartier reading glasses. “I know that name.”
“Probably from the cover article Forbes ran on him last year. The photo they used is on the back.”
Both men flipped over the sheet. Bobby Dupree leaned on a polished truck bumper. To his left, a Mack bulldog snarled in direct contrast to his own boyish grin.
“Bobby Dupree is forty-three years old. He got his start in trucking and currently owns fourteen companies outright and controlling shares in two dozen more. All his operations are centered east of the Mississippi. Four years ago he acquired the largest producer of Nashville-based music videos. Mostly C&W and inspirational.”
Steen spoke for the first time. “That last term is new to me.”
“Inspirational. It means religious. Christian music.”
“Like in church?”
“I wondered the same thing, Mr. Steen.” She drew another sheet from her folder. “Inspirational music is one of the fastest growing sectors of the music business.”
“Says who?”
“My information comes from Billboard magazine. Revenue from CD and video sales last year topped a billion and a half dollars.”
“Dupree is religious?” Menzes asked.
“The word is, seriously.”
“He successful?”
“If he made the cover of Forbes,” Steen said, “he has to be doing something right.”
“I meant in what interests us.”
“Very,” Shari replied. “If you’ll look on the bottom right of the front page, you’ll see in the four years he’s controlled this music video group, he’s effectively doubled their turnover. A good deal of this has come from branching out into other related businesses. Dupree’s company is now the largest independent maker of theater-directed advertisements outside New York and LA.”
Steen said, “Big leap, from sixty-second ads and three-minute videos to a feature film.”
“But it’s a natural progression.” Menzes did not look up from the sheet. “What are these other names here?”
“Dupree’s other investors. Those I’ve managed to identify, anyway.”
“He has nineteen other backers?”
“I’m sure there are more, Mr. Menzes.”
“How much are they ponying up?”
“Two million is the minimum I’ve found so far.”
The two men exchanged glances. Steen said, “The guy must be some salesman.”
“He’s got a war chest of forty million dollars?”
“My guess is, a great deal more.”
“What about their Boone film?”
Shari extracted a third page. “The project is definitely a go. I don’t have a budget estimate, but I’m working on that. Their director, Brent Stark, has disappeared. The last sighting was nine days ago, when he met with a retired cinematographer now teaching at Brenton University.”
“Where?”
“It’s a Christian college in Norfolk. After that, he vanished. My people haven’t been able to find him.”
Steen laughed, a coppery disused sound. “The guy is back on the bottle.”
Shari decided now was the time to say, “I checked him out when he was here in LA.” She briefly recounted her attending the AA meeting in East Hollywood. “He was sober at the time.”
Sam Menzes asked, “What was your impression of Stark?”
Shari had a fleeting memory of the eyes that followed her from the room. “He might be down and out. But he’s still got something about him.”
Menzes nodded agreement. “A star’s aura.”
“He’s a once-was,” Steen countered. “You know what they say. A reformed drunk is just one step away from his next barstool.”
Menzes gave his attorney a thoughtful look, then asked Shari, “What else do you have?”
“The cinematographer is now at the former Angelini studio in Wilmington, North Carolina, working with an aide to Bobby Dupree named Jerry Orbain. Orbain has directed two lowbudget series for Hope-TV.”
“I don’t get it,” Steen told his boss. “You’re worried about a project fronted by a drunk, a religious nut, a retired camera geek, and a guy who did soaps for a network that went bust?”
Shari looked up. It was the first time she had heard that her boss was genuinely concerned.
“I’ve got a lot personally riding on our film.” Menzes jutted his chin in Shari’s direction. “So they’re in Wilmington.”
“Set design is underway. I’ve got photos if you’re interested. They’re using Dupree’s plane to scope out locations in western North Carolina. They’ve signed Celia Breach to costar.”
“She’s good,” Menzes said.
“She’s another has-been,” Steen asserted. “So their project is a go. So what? It’s like a guppy going up against a shark.”
Shari personally agreed. But this being her reason for sitting there at all, she was not going to be the one to say it out loud.
Menzes asked, “What should we do about it?”
Steen snorted but did not protest further.
“I’ve got an idea,” Shari said.
“Let’s have it.”
“We go public with our project. Have the stars and the director at a gala event. Take over a major venue. In the middle of the sound and lights, I drop it to one of the trades how there’s this other no-name group doing a nonunion project out in the back of beyond. Feed them some of what I’ve found. Let them d
o a high-damage profile. Something we can show to the distributors when the time comes.”
“I like it.” Menzes traced his logo imprinted in the plastic. “This is good work.”
“Thank you, Mr. Menzes.”
“How much are we paying you?”
She blinked. “Not nearly enough.”
He flipped the sheet back across his desk to her. “Write yourself a new contract.”
Shari was unable to mask her total amazement. “Thank you, Mr. Menzes!”
“Have it on Derek’s desk tomorrow morning. Oh, and Shari.”
“Sir?”
“You know the most important detail you haven’t included here?”
She wasn’t sure her legs would support her across the room. But she knew the answer to that one. “Their release date. I’m working on it, Mr. Menzes.”
Sam Menzes tightened his lips enough to almost have Shari call it a smile. “Of course you are.”
When the door closed behind the departing woman, Derek Steen said, “‘Write yourself a new contract’? What kind of nonsense is that?”
“I’ve got a feeling about this one.”
“Are we talking about the competition or the woman?”
Menzes rose and walked to the rear window. He watched the studio traffic for a while and said, “Her idea is good.”
“Maybe. It better be. Since tomorrow she’ll have written herself into a Bentley and a back lot cottage.”
“A bill says you’re wrong.”
“She’s all of what, twenty-five?”
“Twenty-seven. I had Gilda check.”
“Twenty-seven years old. Seriously good looking, if you like your women exotic.” Steen started to ask if Menzes was promoting the woman into a position as his next paramour. But Menzes could be very touchy about his private life. “She’s spent a couple of years being stomped on by her boss. She’ll write herself into a star-size fortune. Sure, I’ll be happy to take a thousand dollars of your money.”
“You just be sure and have your check on my desk by lunchtime tomorrow.”