    David Morrell
    
    David Morrell is the award-winning author of First Blood, the 1972 novel in which Rambo first appeared. A former professor of American literature, he has written numerous best-selling thrillers including The Brotherhood of the Rose (the basis for a highly rated NBC miniseries), The Fifth Profession, Desperate Measures, and Extreme Denial. His books have been translated into twenty-two languages.
    The story that follows is based on a real-life situation. Morrells inspiration to become a writer was Stirling Silliphant, whose work for Route 66 and Naked City made him one of the most acclaimed television writers of all time. Over the years, Morrell and Silliphant became friends, and one evening Silliphant confided that the TV networks were less interested in his work now that he was in his late sixties. His abilities hadnt diminished and his work ethic remained in place, but the young executives who run the television industry decided that he couldnt speak to the demographically desirable younger audience. Fed up with Hollywood, Silliphant had a Beverly Hills garage sale and moved to Bangkok, where he wrote what he wanted to and died of prostate cancer at the age of seventy-eight. Morrell dedicated this story to him.
    
    Front Man
   
   Tell me that again, I said. He must have been joking.
   Mort, you know what its like at the networks these days. My agent sighed. Cost cutting. Layoffs. Executives so young they think L.A. Law is nostalgia. He wasnt joking. Hes willing to take a meeting with you, but hes barely seen your work, and he wants a list of your credits.
    All two hundred and ninety of them? Steve, I like to think Im not vain, but how can this guy be in charge of series development and not know what Ive written?
   This conversation was on the phone. Midweek, mid-afternoon. Id been revising computer printouts of what Id written in the morning, but frustration at what Steve had told me made me press my pencil down so hard I broke its tip. Standing from my desk, I clutched the phone tighter.
   Steve hesitated before he replied. No argument. You and I know how much you contributed to television. You and Rod Serling and Paddy Chayefsky practically invented TV drama. But that was then. This executive just started his job three months ago. Hes only twenty-eight, for Christs sake. Hes been clawing his way to network power since he graduated from business school. He doesnt actually watch television. Hes too damned busy to watch it, except for current in-house projects. What he does is program, check the ratings, and read the trades. If youd won your Emmys for something this season, he might be impressed. But The Sidewalks of New York! Thats something they show on Nickelodeon cable reruns, a company he doesnt work for, so what does he care?
   I stared out my study window. From my home on top of the Hollywood Hills, I had a view of rushing traffic on smoggy Sunset Boulevard, of Spago, Tower Records, and Chateau Marmont. But at the moment, I saw none of them, indignation blinding me.
   Steve, am I nuts, or are the scripts I sent you good?
   Dont put yourself down. Theyre better than good. They dont only grab me. Theyre fucking smart. I believe them, and I cant say that for... He named a current hit series about a female detective that made him a fortune in commissions but was two-thirds tits and ass and one-third car chases.
   So whats the real problem? I asked, unable to suppress the stridency in my voice. Why cant I get any work?
   The truth?
   Since when did I tolerate lies?
   You wont get pissed off?
   I will get pissed off if-
   All right already. The truth is, it doesnt matter how well you write. The fact is, youre too old. The networks think youre out of touch with their demographics.
   Out of-
   You promised you wouldnt get pissed off.
   But after I shifted from television, I won an Oscar for The Dead of Noon.
   Twenty years ago. To the networks, thats like the Dark Ages. You know the axiom-What have you done for us lately? The fact is, Mort, for the past two years, youve been out of town, out of the country, out of the goddamn industry.
   My tear ducts ached. My hurried breathing made me dizzy. I had a good reason. The most important reason.
   Absolutely, Steve said. In your place, Id have done the same. And your friends respect that reason. But the movers and shakers, the new regime that doesnt give a shit about tradition, they think you died or retired, if they give you a moments thought at all. Then isnt now. To them, last weeks ratings are ancient history. Whats next? they want to know. Whats new? they keep asking. What they really mean is, Whats young!
   That sucks.
   Of course. But young viewers are loose with their dough, my friend, and advertisers pay the bills. So the bottom line is, the networks feel unless youre under thirty-five or, better yet, under thirty, you cant communicate with their target audience. Its an uphill grind for writers like you, of a certain age, no matter your talent.
   Swell. My knuckles ached as I squeezed the phone. So what do I do? Throw my word processor out the window, and collect on my Writers Guild pension?
   Its not as bad as that. But bear in mind, your pension is the highest any Guild member ever accumulated.
   But if I retire, Ill die like-
   No, what Im saying is be patient with this network kid. He needs a little educating. Politely, you understand. Just pitch your idea, look confident and dependable, show him your credits. Hell come around. Its not as if you havent been down this path before.
   When I was in my twenties.
   There you go. You identify with this kid already. Youre in his mind.
   My voice dropped. Whens the meeting?
   Friday. His office. I pulled in some favours to get you in so soon. Four P.M. Ill be at my house in Malibu. Call me when youre through.
   Steve...
   Yeah, Mort?
   Thanks for sticking with me.
   Hey, its an honour. To me, youre a legend.
   What I need to be is a working legend.
   Ive done what I can. Now its up to you.
   Sure. I set down the phone, discovered I still had my broken pencil in one hand, dropped it, and massaged the aching knuckles of my other hand.
   The reason Id left L.A. two years ago, at the age of sixty-eight, was that my dear wife-
   -Doris-
   -my best friend-
   -my cleverest editor-
   -my exclusive lover-
   -had been diagnosed as having a rare form of leukaemia.
   As her strength had waned, as her body had gradually failed to obey her splendid mind, Id disrupted my workaholics habit of writing every day and acted as her constant attendant. Wed travelled to every major cancer research centre in the United States. Wed gone to specialists in Europe. Wed stayed in Europe because their hospice system is humane about pain-relieving drugs. Wed gotten as far as Sweden.
   Where Doris had died.
   And now, struggling with grief, Id returned to my career. What other meaning did I have? It was either kill myself or write. So I wrote. And wrote. Even faster than in my prime, when Id contributed every episode in the four-year run of The Sidewalks of New York.
   And now a network yuppie bastard with the cultural memory of a four-year-old had asked for my credits. Before I gulped a stiff shot of Scotch, I vowed Id show this town that this old fuck still had more juice than when Id first started.
   
   Century City. Every week, you see those monoliths of power behind the credits on this seasons hit lawyer show, but I remembered, bitterly nostalgic, when the land those skyscrapers stood upon had been the back lot for 20th Century-Fox.
   I parked my leased Audi on the second level of an underground ramp and took an elevator to the seventeenth floor of one of the buildings. The networks reception room was wide and lofty, with lots of leather couches where actors, writers, and producers made hurried phone calls to agents and assistants while they waited to be admitted to the Holy of Holies.
   I stopped before a young, attractive woman at a desk. Thin. No bra. Presumably she wanted to be an actress and was biding her time, waiting for the right connections. She finished talking to one of three phones and studied me, her boredom tempered by the fear that, if she wasnt respectful, she might lose a chance to make an important contact.
   Im not bad looking. Although seventy, I keep in shape. Sure, my hairs receding. I have wrinkles around my eyes. But my familys genes are spectacular. I look ten years younger than I am, especially when Im tanned, as I was after recent daily half-hour laps in my swimming pool.
   My voice has the resonance of Ed McMahon. Mort Davidson to see Arthur Lewis. Ive got a four oclock appointment.
   The would-be-actress receptionist scanned a list. Of course. Youre expected. Unfortunately, Mr. Lewis has been detained. If youll please wait over there. She pointed toward a couch and picked up a Judith Krantz novel. Evidently shed decided that I couldnt promote her career.
   So I waited.
   And waited.
   An hour later, the receptionist gestured for me to come over. Miracle of miracles, Arthur Lewis was ready to see me.
   
   He wore an Armani linen suit, fashionably wrinkled. No tie. Gucci loafers. No socks. His skin was the colour of bronze. His thick, curly black hair had a calculated, windblown look. Photographs of his blond wife and infant daughter stood on his glass-topped desk. His wife seemed even younger and thinner than he was. Posters of various current hit series hung on the wall. A tennis racket was propped in a corner.
   Its an honour to meet you. Im a fan of everything youve done, he lied.
   I made an appropriate humble comment.
   His next remark contradicted what hed just said. Did you bring a list of your credits?
   I gave him a folder and sat on a leather chair across from him while he flipped through the pages. His expression communicated a mixture of boredom and stoic endurance.
   Finally his eyebrows narrowed. Impressive. I might add, astonishing. Really, its hard to imagine anyone writing this much.
   Well, Ive been in the business quite a while.
   Yes. You certainly have.
   I couldnt tell if he referred to my age or my numerous credits. There used to be a joke, I said.
   Oh? His eyes were expressionless.
    How can Mort Davidson be so prolific? This was back in the early sixties. The answer was He uses an electric typewriter.
   Very amusing, he said as if Id farted.
   These days, of course, I use a word processor.
   Of course. He folded his hands on the desk and sat straighter. So. Your agent said you had an idea that might appeal to us^
   Thats right.
   The phone rang.
   Excuse me a moment. He picked up the phone. Obviously, if hed been genuinely interested in my pitch, hed have instructed his secretary that he didnt want any calls.
   An actor named Sid was important enough for Arthur Lewis to gush with compliments. And by all means, Sid shouldnt worry about the rewrites that would make his character more with it in todays generation. The writer in charge of the project was under orders to deliver the changes by Monday morning. If he didnt, that writer would never again work on something called The Good-time Guys. Sid was a helluva talent, Arthur Lewis assured him. Next weeks episode would get a 35 ratings share at least. Arthur chuckled at a joke, set down the phone, and narrowed his eyebrows again. So your idea that you think we might like. He glanced at his Rolex.
   Its about an at-risk youth centre, a place where troubled kids can go and get away from their screwed-up families, the gangs, and the drug dealers on the streets. Theres a centre in the Valley that I see as our model-an old Victorian house that has several additions. Each week, wed deal with a special problem-teenage pregnancy, substance abuse, runaways-but mostly this would be a series about emotions, about people, the kids, but also the staff, a wide range of interesting, committed professionals, an elderly administrator, a female social worker, a Hispanic who used to be in the gangs, a priest, whatever mix works. I call it-
   The phone rang again.
   Just a second, Arthur Lewis said.
   Another grin. A producer this time. A series about a college sorority next to a fraternity, Crazy 4 U, had just become this seasons new hit. Arthur Lewis was giving its cast and executives a party at Le Dome tomorrow evening. Yes, he guaranteed. Ten cases of Dom Prignon would arrive at the producers home before the party. And beluga caviar? Enough for an after-party power party? No problem. And yes, Arthur Lewis was having the same frustrations as the producer. It was mighty damned hard to find a preschool for gifted children.
   He set down the phone. His face turned to stone. So thats your idea?
   Drama, significance, emotion, action, and realism.
   But whats the hook?
   I shook my head in astonishment.
   Why would anyone want to watch it? Arthur Lewis asked.
   To feel what its like to help kids in trouble, to understand those kids.
   Didnt you have a stroke a while ago?
    What?
   I believe in honesty, so Ill be direct. You put in your time. You paid your dues. So why dont you back away gracefully?
   I didnt have a stroke.
   Then why did I hear--?
   My wife had cancer. She died... I caught my breath. Six months ago.
   I see. Im sorry. I mean that sincerely. But television isnt the same as when you created-he checked my list of crests-The Sidewalks of New York. A definite classic. One of my absolute personal favourites. But times have changed. The industrys a lot more competitive. The pressures unbelievable. A series creator has to act as one of the producers, to oversee the product, to guarantee consistency. Im talking thirteen hours a day minimum, and ideally the creator ought to contribute something to every script.
   Thats what I did on The Sidewalks of New York.
   Oh? Arthur Lewis looked blank. I guess I didnt notice that in your credits. He straightened. But my points the same. Televisions a pressure cooker. A game for people with energy.
   Did I need a wheelchair when I came in here?
   Youve lost me.
   Energys not my problem. Im full to bursting with the need to work. What matters is, What do you think of my idea?
   Its-
   The phone rang.
   Arthur Lewis looked relieved. Let me get back to you.
   Of course. I know youre busy. Thanks for your time.
   Hey, anytime. Im always here and ready for new ideas. Again he checked his Rolex.
   The phone kept ringing.
   Take care, he said.
   You too.
   I took my list of credits off his desk.
   The last thing I heard when I left was No, that old fucks wrong for the part. Hes losing his hair. A wig? Get real. The audience can tell the difference. For Gods sake, a hairpiece is death in the ratings.
   
   Steve had said to phone him when the meeting was over. But I felt so upset I decided to hell with phoning him and drove up the Pacific Coast Highway toward his place in Malibu. Traffic was terrible-rush hour, Friday evening. For once, though, it had an advantage. After an hour, my anger began to abate enough for me to realise that I wouldnt accomplish much by showing up unexpectedly in a fit at Steves. Hed been loyal. He didnt need my aggravation. As hed told me, Ive done what I can. Now its up to you. But there wasnt much I could do if my age and not my talent was how I was judged. Certainly that wasnt Steves fault.
   So I stopped at something called the Pacific Coast Diner and took the advice of a bumper sticker on a car Id been stuck behind-CHILL OUT. Maybe a few drinks and a meditative dinner would calm me down. The restaurant had umbrella-topped tables on a balcony that looked toward the ocean. I had to wait a half hour, but a Scotch and soda made the time go quickly, and the crimson reflection of the setting sun on the ocean was spectacular.
   Or would have been if Id been paying attention. The truth was, I couldnt stop being upset. I had another Scotch and soda, ordered poached salmon, tried to enjoy my meal, and suddenly couldnt swallow, suddenly felt about as lonely as Id felt since Doris had died. Maybe the network executives are right, I thought.
    Maybe I am too old. Maybe I dont know how to relate to a young audience. Maybe its time I packed it in.
   Mort Davidson, a voice said.
   Excuse me? I blinked, distracted from my thoughts.
   My waiter was holding the credit card Id given him. Mort Davidson. He looked at the name on the card, then at me. The screenwriter?
   I spared him a bitter Used to be and nodded with what I hoped was a pleasant manner.
   Wow. He was tall and thin with sandy hair and a glowing tan. His blue eyes glinted. He had the sort of chiselled, handsome face that made me think he was yet another would-be actor. He looked to be about twenty-three. When I saw your name, I thought, No, it couldnt be. Who knows how many Mort Davidsons there are? The odds against this being... But it is you. The screenwriter.
   Guilty, I managed to joke.
   I bet Ive seen everything you ever wrote. I must have watched The Dead of Noon twenty-five times. I really learned a lot.
   Oh? I was puzzled. What would my screenplay have taught him about acting?
   About structure. About pace. About not being afraid to let the characters talk. Thats whats wrong with movies today. The characters dont have anything important to say.
   At once it hit me. He wasnt a would-be actor.
   Im a writer, he said. Or trying to be. I mean, Ive still got a lot to learn. That Im working here proves what I mean. The glint went out of his eyes. I still havent sold anything. His enthusiasm was forced. But, hey, nothing important is easy. Ill just keep writing until I crack the market. The boss is... Id better not keep chattering at you. He doesnt like it. For sure, youve got better things to do than listen to me. I just wanted to say how much I like your work, Mr. Davidson. Ill bring your credit card right back. Its a pleasure to meet you.
   As he left, it struck me that the speed with which he talked suggested not only energy but insecurity. For all his good looks, he felt like a loser.
   Or maybe I was just transferring my own emotions onto him. This much was definite-getting a compliment was a hell of a lot better than a sharp stick in the eye or the meeting Id endured.
   When he came back with my credit card, I signed the bill and gave him a generous tip.
   Thanks, Mr. Davidson.
   Hang in there. Youve got one important thing on your side.
   Whats that?
   Youre young. Youve got plenty of time to make it.
   Unless...
   I wondered what he meant.
   Unless I dont have what it takes.
   Well, the best advice I can give you is never doubt yourself.
   As I left the restaurant and passed beneath hissing arc lamps toward my car, I couldnt ignore the irony. The waiter had youth but doubted his ability. I had confidence in my ability but was penalised because of my age. Despite the roar of traffic on the Pacific Coast Highway, I heard waves on the beach.
   And thats when the notion came to me. A practical joke of sorts, like stories you hear about frustrated writers submitting Oscar-winning screenplays, Casablanca, for example, but the writers change the tide and the characters names. The notes they get back from producers as much as say that the screenplays are the lousiest junk the producers ever read. So then the writers tell the trade papers what theyve done, the point being that theyre trying to prove it doesnt matter how good a writer you are if you dont have connections.
   Why not? I thought. It would be worth seeing the look on those bastards faces.
   
   Whats your name?
   Ric Potter.
   Short for Richard?
   No. For Eric.
   I nodded. Breaking-the-ice conversation. The reason I came back is I have something I want to discuss with you, a way that might help your career.
   His eyes brightened.
   At once, they darkened, as if he thought I might be trying to pick him up.
   Strictly business, I said. Heres my card. If you want to talk about writing and how to make some money, give me a call.
   His suspicion persisted, but his curiosity was stronger. What time?
   Eleven tomorrow?
   Fine.
   Come over. Bring some of your scripts.
   That was important. I had to find out if he could write or if he was fooling himself. My scheme wouldnt work unless he had a basic feel for the business. So the next morning, when he arrived exactly on time at my home in the hills above West Hollywood, we swapped: I let him see a script Id just finished while I sat by the pool and read one of his. I finished around one oclock. Hungry?
   Starved. Your script is wonderful, Ric said. I cant get over the pace. The sense of reality. It didnt feel like a story.
   Thanks. I took some tuna salad and Perrier from the refrigerator. Whole-wheat bread and kosher dills okay? Or maybe youd rather go to a restaurant.
   After working in one every night? Ric laughed.
   But I could tell that he was marking time, that he was frustrated and anxious to know what I thought of his script. I remembered how I had felt at his age, the insecurity when someone important was reading my work. I got to the point.
   I like your story, I said.
   He exhaled.
   But I dont think its executed properly.
   His cheek muscles tensed.
   Given what theyre paying A-list actors these days, you have to get the main character on screen as quickly as possible. Your main character doesnt show up until page fifteen.
   He sounded embarrassed. I couldnt figure out a way to-
   And the romantic element is so familiar its tiresome. A shower scene comes from a washed-up imagination.
   That was tough, I knew, but I waited to see how hed take it. If he turned out to be the sensitive type, I wasnt going to get anywhere.
   Yeah. Okay. Maybe I did rely on a lot of other movies Id seen.
   His response encouraged me. The humorous elements dont work. I dont think comedy is your thing.
   He squinted.
   The ending has no focus, I continued. Was your main character right or not? Simply leaving the dilemma up in the air is going to piss off your audience.
   He studied me. You said you liked the story.
   Right. I did.
   Then why do I feel like Im on the Titanic?
   Because youve got a lot of craft to learn, and its going to take you quite a while to master it. If you ever do. There arent any guarantees. The average Guild member earns less than six thousand dollars a year. Writing screenplays is one of the most competitive enterprises in the world. But I think I can help you.
   ...Why?
   Excuse me?
   We met just last night. I was your waiter, for Gods sake. Now suddenly Im in your house, having lunch with you, and youre saying you want to help me. It cant be because of the force of my personality. You want something.
   Yes, but not what youre thinking. I told you last night-this is strictly business. Sit down and eat while I tell you how we can both make some money.
   
   This is Ric Potter, I said. We were at a reception in one of those mansions in the hills near the Hollywood Bowl. Sunset. A string quartet. Champagne. Plenty of movers and shakers. Fox is very hot on one of his scripts. I think itll go for a million.
   The man to whom Id introduced Ric was an executive at Warners. He couldnt have been over thirty. Oh?
   Yeah, its got a youth angle.
   Oh? The executive looked Ric up and down, confused, never having heard of him, at the same time worried because he didnt want to be out of the loop, fearing he ought to have heard of him.
   If I sound a little proud, I said, its because I discovered him. I found him last May when I was giving a talk to a young screenwriters workshop at the American Film Institute. Ric convinced me to look at some things and... Im glad I did. My agents glad I did. I chuckled.
   The executive tried to look amused, although he hated like hell to pay writers significant money. For his part, Ric tried to look modest but unbelievably talented, young, young, young, and hot, hot, hot.
   Well, dont let Fox tie you up, the executive told Ric. Have your agent send me something.
   Ill do that, Mr. Ballard. Thanks, Ric said.
   Do I look old enough to be a mister? Call me Ed.
   We made the rounds. While all the executives considered me too old to be relevant to their sixteen-to-twenty-five audience, they still had reverence for what they thought of as an institution. Sure, they wouldnt buy anything from me, but they were more than happy to talk to me. After all, it didnt cost them any money, and it made them feel like they were part of a community.
   By the time I was through introducing Ric, my rumours about him had been accepted as fact. Various executives from various studios considered themselves in competition with executives from other studios for the services of this hot new young writer who was getting a million dollars a script.
   Ric had driven with me to the reception. On the way back, he kept shaking his head in amazement. And thats the secret? I just needed the right guy to give me introductions? To be anointed as a successor?
   Not quite. Dont let their chumminess fool you. They only care if you can deliver.
   Well, tomorrow Ill send them one of my scripts.
   No, I said. Remember our agreement. Not one of your scripts. One of mine. By Eric Potter.
   
   So there it was. The deal Ric and I had made was that Id give him ten percent of whatever my scripts earned in exchange for his being my front man. For his part, hed have to take calls and go to meetings and behave as if hed actually written the scripts. Along the way, wed inevitably talk about the intent and technique of the scripts, thus providing Ric with writing lessons. All in all, not a bad deal for him.
   Except that he had insisted on fifteen percent.
   Hey, I cant go to meetings if Im working three to eleven at the restaurant, hed said. Fifteen percent. And Ill need an advance. Youll have to pay me what Im earning at the restaurant so I can be free for the meetings.
   I wrote him a check for a thousand dollars.
   
   The phone rang, interrupting the climactic speech of the script I was writing. Instead of picking up the receiver, I let my answering machine take it, but I answered anyhow when I heard my agent talking about Ric.
   What about him, Steve?
   Ballard over at Warners likes the script you had me send him. He wants a few changes, but basically hes happy enough to offer seven hundred and fifty thousand.
   Ask for a million.
   Ill ask for nothing.
   I dont understand. Is this a new negotiating tactic?
   You told me not to bother reading the script, just to do the kid a favour and send it over to Warners because Ballard asked for it. As you pointed out, Im too busy to do any reading anyhow. But I made a copy of the script, and for the hell of it, last night I looked it over. Mort, what are you trying to pull? Ric Potter didnt write that script. You did. Under a different title, you showed it to me a year ago.
   I didnt respond.
   Mort?
   Im making a point. The only thing wrong with my scripts is an industry bias against age. Pretend somebody young wrote them, and all of a sudden theyre wonderful.
   Mort, I wont be a part of this.
   Why not?
   Its misrepresentation. Id be jeopardising my credibility as an agent. You know how the clause in the contract reads-the writer guarantees that the script is solely his or her own work. If somebody else was involved, the studio wants to know about it-to protect itself against a plagiarism suit.
   But if you tell Ballard I wrote that script, he wont buy it.
   Youre being paranoid, Mort.
   Facing facts and being practical. Dont screw this up.
   I told you, I wont go along with it.
   Then if you wont make the deal, Ill get somebody else who will.
   A long pause. Do you know what youre saying?
   Ric Potter and I need a new agent.
   
   Ill say this for Steve-even though he was furious about my leaving him, he finally swore, for old times sake, at my insistence, that he wouldnt tell anybody what I was doing. He was loyal to the end. It broke my heart to leave him. The new agent I selected knew squat about the arrangement I had with Ric. She believed what I told her-that Ric and I were friends and by coincidence wed decided simultaneously to get new representation. I could have chosen one of those superhuge agencies like CAA, but Ive always been uncomfortable when Im part of a mob and, in this case especially, it seemed to me that small and intimate were essential. The fewer people who knew my business, the better.
   The Linda Carpenter Agency was located in a stone cottage just past the gates to the old Hollywoodland subdivision. Years ago, the land part of that subdivisions sign collapsed. The Hollywood part remained, and you see that sign all the time in film clips about Los Angeles. Its a distance up past houses in the hills. Nonetheless, from outside Linda Carpenters stone cottage, you feel that the signs looming over you.
   I parked my Audi and got out with Ric. He was wearing sneakers, jeans, and a blue cotton pullover. At my insistence. I wanted his outfit to be self-consciously informal and youthful in contrast with my own mature, conservative slacks and sport coat. When we entered the office, Linda-whos thirty, with short red hair, and loves to look at gorgeous young men-sat straighter when I introduced Ric. His biceps bulged at the sleeves of his pullover. I was reminded again of how much-with his sandy hair, blue eyes, and glowing tan-he looked like an actor.
   Linda took a moment before she reluctantly shifted her attention away from him, as if suddenly realising that I was in the room. Good to see you again, Mort. But you didnt have to come all this way. I could have met you for lunch at Le Dome.
   A courtesy visit. I wanted to save you the long drive, not to mention the bill.
   I said it as if I was joking. The rule is that agents always pick up the check when theyre at a restaurant with clients.
   Lindas smile was winning. Her red hair seemed brighter. Anytime. Im still surprised that you left Steve. She tactfully didnt ask what the problem had been. I promise Ill work hard for you.
   I know you will, I said. But I dont think youll have to work hard for my friend here. Ric already has some interest in a script of his over at Warners.
   Oh? Linda raised her elegant eyebrows. Whos the executive?
   Ballard.
   My, my. She frowned slightly. And Steve isnt involved in this? Your ties are completely severed?
   Completely. If you want, call him to make sure. That wont be necessary.
   But I found out later that Linda did phone Steve, and he backed up what Id said. Also he refused to discuss why wed separated.
   I have a hunch the script can go for big dollars, I continued.
   How big is big?
   A million.
   Lindas eyes widened. That certainly isnt small.
   Ballard heard theres a buzz about Ric. Ballard thinks that Ric might be a young Joe Eszterhas. The reference was to the screenwriter of Basic Instinct, who had become a phenomenon for writing sensation-based scripts on speculation and intriguing so many producers that hed manipulated them into a bidding war and collected megabucks. I have a suspicion that Ballard would like to make a preemptive bid and shut out the competition. Mort, you sound more like an agent than a writer.
   Its just a hunch.
   And Steve doesnt want a piece of this?
   I shook my head no.
   Linda frowned harder.
   But her frown dissolved the moment she turned again toward Ric and took another look at his perfect chin. Did you bring a copy of the script?
   Sure. Ric grinned with becoming modesty, the way Id taught him. Right here.
   Linda took it and flipped to the end to make sure it wasnt longer than 115 pages-a shootable size. Whats it about?
   Ric gave the pitch that Id taught him-the high concept first, then the target audience, the type of actor he had in mind, and ways the budget could be kept in check. The same as when wed clocked it at my house, he took four minutes.
   Linda listened with growing fascination. She turned to me. Have you been coaching him?
   Not much. Rics a natural.
   He must be to act this polished.
   And hes young, I said.
   You dont need to remind me.
   And Ballard certainly doesnt need reminding, I said.
   Ric, Linda said, from here on in, whatever you do, dont get writers block. Im going to make you the highest paid new kid in town.
   Ric beamed.
   And, Mort, Linda said, I think youre awfully generous to help your friend through the ropes like this.
   Well-I shrugged-isnt that what friends are for?
   
   I had joked with Linda that our trip to her office was a courtesy visit-to save her a long drive and the cost of buying us lunch at an expensive restaurant. That was partly true. But I also wanted to see how Ric made his pitch about the script. If he got nerves and screwed up, I didnt want it to be in Le Dome, where producers at neighbouring tables might see him get flustered. We were trying out the show on the road, so to speak, before we brought it to town. And I had to agree with Linda-Ric had done just fine.
   I told him so, as we drove along Sunset Boulevard. I wont always be there to back you up. In fact, itll be rare that I am. We have to keep training you so you give the impression theres very little about writing or the business you dont understand. Most of getting along with studio executives is making them have confidence in you.
   You really think I impressed her?
   It was obvious.
   Ric thought about it, peering out the window, nodding. Yeah.
   
   So we went back to my home in the hills above West Hollywood, and I ran him through more variations of questions he might get asked-where hed gotten the idea, what actors would be good in the roles, who he thought could direct the material, that sort of thing. At the start of a project, producers pay a lot of attention to a screenwriter, and they promise to keep consulting him the way theyre consulting him now. Its all guff, of course. As soon as a director and a name actor are attached to a project, the producers suddenly get amnesia about the original screenwriter. But at the start, hes king, and I wanted Ric to be ready to answer any kind of question about the screenplay so he could be convincing that hed actually written it.
   Ric was a fast study. At eight, when I couldnt think of any more questions he might have to answer, we took a drive to dinner at a fish place near the Santa Monica pier. Afterward, we strolled to the end of the pier and watched the sunset.
   So this is what its all about, Ric said.
   Im not sure what you mean.
   The action. I can feel the action.
   Dont get fooled by Lindas optimism. Nothing might come of this.
   Ric shook his head. Im close.
   Ive got some pages I want to do tomorrow, but if youll come around at four with your own new pages, Ill go over them for you. Im curious to see how youre revising that script you showed me.
   Ric kept staring out at the sunset and didnt answer for quite a while. Yeah, my script.
   
   As things turned out, I didnt get much work done the next day. I had just managed to solve a problem in a scene that was running too long when my phone rang. That was around ten oclock, and rather than be interrupted, I let my answering machine take it. But when I heard Rics excited voice, I picked up the phone.
   Slow down, I said. Take it easy. What are you so worked up about?
   They want the script!
   I wasnt prepared. Warners?
   Can you believe that this is happening so fast?
   Ballards actually taking it? How did you find this out?
   Linda just phoned me!
   Linda? I frowned. But why didnt Linda...? I was about to say, Why didnt Linda phone me? Then I realised my mistake. There wasnt any reason for Linda to phone me, except maybe to tell me the good news about my friend. But she definitely had to phone Ric. After all, he was supposedly the author of the screenplay.
   Ric kept talking excitedly. Linda says Ballard wants to have lunch with me.
   Great. The truth is, I was vaguely jealous. When?
   Today.
   I was stunned. Any executive with power was always booked several weeks in advance. For Ballard to decide to have lunch with Ric this soon, he would have had to cancel lunch with someone else. It definitely wouldnt have been the other way around. No one cancels lunch with Ballard.
   Amazing, I said.
   Apparently hes got big plans for me. By the way, he likes the script as is. No changes. At least, for now. Linda says when they sign a director, the director always asks for changes.
   Lindas right, I said. And then the directorll insist that the changes arent good enough and ask to bring in a friend to do the rewrite.
   No fucking way, Ric said.
   A screenwriter doesnt have any clout against a director. Youve still got a lot to learn about industry politics. School isnt finished yet.
   Sure. Ric hurried on. Linda got Ballard up to a million and a quarter for the script!
   For a moment, I had trouble breathing. Great. And this time I meant it.
   
   Ric phoned again in thirty minutes. He was nervous about the meeting and needed reassurance.
   Ric phoned thirty minutes after that, saying that he didnt feel comfortable going to a power lunch in the sneakers, jeans, and pullover that I had told him were necessary for the role he was playing.
   You have to, I said. Youve got to look like you dont belong to the Establishment or whatever the hell it is they call it these days. If you look like every other writer trying to make an impression, Ballard will treat you like every other writer. Were selling nonconformity. Were selling youth.
   I still say Id feel more comfortable in a jacket by... Ric mentioned the name of the latest trendy designer.
   Even assuming thats a good idea, which it isnt, how on earth are you going to pay for it? A jacket by that designer costs fifteen hundred dollars.
   Ill use my credit card, Ric said.
   But a month from now, youll still have to pay the bill. You know the whopping interest rates those credit card companies charge.
   Hey, I can afford it. I just made a million and a quarter bucks.
   No, Ric. Youre getting confused.
   All right, I know Linda has to take her ten percent commission.
   Youre still confused. You dont get the bulk of that money. I do. What you get is fifteen percent of it.
   Thats still a lot of cash. Almost two hundred thousand dollars.
   But remember, you probably wont get it for at least six months.
    What?
   On a spec script, they dont simply agree to buy it and hand you a check. The fine points on the negotiation have to be completed. Then the contracts have to be drawn up and reviewed and amended. Then their business office drags its feet, issuing the check. I once waited a year to get paid for a spec script.
   But I cant wait that long. Ive got...
   Yes?
   Responsibilities. Look, Mort, I have to go. I need to get ready for this meeting.
   And I need to get back to my pages.
   With all this excitement, you mean youre actually writing today?
    Every day.
   No shit.
   
   But I was too preoccupied to get much work done. Ric finally phoned around five. Lunch was fabulous. I hadnt expected to feel so relieved. Ballard didnt ask you any tricky questions? Hes still convinced you wrote the script?
   Not only that. He says Im just the talent hes been looking for. A fresh imagination. Someone in tune with todays generation. He asked me to do a last-minute rewrite on an action picture hes starting next week. 
    The Warlords?
   Thats the one.
   Ive been hearing bad things about it, I said. 
   Well, you wont hear anything bad anymore. 
   Wait a... Are you telling me you accepted the job?
   Damned right.
   Without talking to me about it first? I straightened in shock. What in Gods name did you think you were doing?
   Why would I need to talk to you? Youre not my agent. Ballard called Linda from our table at the restaurant. The two of them settled the deal while I was sitting there. Man, when things happen, they happen. All those years of trying, and now, Wham, Pow, all of a sudden Im there. And the best part is, since Im a writer for hire on this job, they have to pay some of the money the minute I sit down to work, even if the contracts arent ready.
   Thats correct, I said. On work for hire, you have to get paid on a schedule. The Writers Guild insists on that. Youre learning fast. But, Ric, before you accepted the job, dont you think it would have been smart to read the script first-to see if it can be fixed?
   How bad can it be? Ric chuckled.
   Youd be surprised.
   It doesnt matter how bad. The fees a hundred thousand dollars. I need the money.
   For what? You dont live expensively. You can afford to be patient and take jobs that build a career.
   Hey, Ill tell you what I can afford. Are you using that portable phone in your office?
   Yes. But I dont see why that matters.
   Take a look out your front window.
   Frowning, I left my office, went through the TV room and the living room, and peered past the blossoming rhododendron outside my front window. I scanned the curving driveway, then focused on the gate.
   Ric was wearing a designer linen jacket, sitting in a red Ferrari, using a car phone, waving to me when he saw me at the window. Like it? he asked over the phone.
   For Gods sake. I broke the connection, set down the phone, and stalked out the front door.
   Like it? Ric repeated when I reached the gate. He gestured toward his jacket and the car.
   You didnt have time to... Whered you get...?
   This morning, after Linda phoned about the offer from Ballard, I ordered the car over the phone. Picked it up after my meeting with Ballard. Nifty, huh?
   But you dont have any assets. You mean they just let you drive the car off the lot?
   Bought it on credit. I made Linda sign as the guarantor.
   You made Linda ... I couldnt believe what I was hearing. Damn it, Ric, why dont you let me finish coaching you before you run off and... After I taught you about screenplay technique and industry politics, I wanted to explain to you how to handle your money.
   Hey, whats to teach? Moneys for spending.
   Not in this business. Youve got to put something away for when you have bad years.
   Well, Im certainly not having any trouble earning money so far.
   What happened today is a fluke! This is the first script Ive sold in longer than I care to think about. There arent any guarantees.
   Then its a good thing I came along, huh? Ric grinned.
   Before you accepted the rewrite job, you should have asked me if I wanted to do it.
   But youre not involved in this. Why should I divide the money with you? Im going to do it.
   In that case, you should have asked yourself another question.
   What?
   Whether youve got the ability to do it.
   Ric flushed with anger. Of course, Ive got the ability. Youve read my stuff. All I needed was a break.
   
   I didnt hear from Ric for three days. That was fine by me. Id accomplished what Id intended. Id proven that a script with my name on it had less chance of being bought than the same script with a youngsters name on it. And to tell the truth, Rics lack of discipline was annoying me. But after the third day, I confess I got curious. What was he up to?
   He called at nine in the evening. Hows it going?
   Fine, I said. I had a good days work.
   Yeah, thats what Im calling about. Work.
   Oh?
   I havent been in touch lately because of this rewrite on The Warlords.
   I waited.
   I had a meeting with the director, Ric said. Then I had a meeting with the star. He mentioned the name of the biggest action hero in the business. He hesitated. I was wondering. Would you look at the material Ive got?
   You cant be serious. After the way you talked to me about it? You all but told me to get lost.
   I didnt mean to be rude. Honestly. This is all new to me, Mort. Come on, give me a break. As you keep reminding me, I dont have the experience you do. Im young.
   I had to hand it to him. Hed not only apologised. Hed used the right excuse.
   Mort?
   At first I didnt want to be bothered. I had my own work to think about, and The Warlords would probably be so bad that it would contaminate my mind.
   But then my curiosity got the better of me. I couldnt help wondering what Ric would do to improve junk.
   Mort?
   When do you want me to look at what youve done?
   How about right now?
   Now? Its after nine. Itll take you an hour to get here and-
   Im already here.
   What?
   Im on my car phone. Outside your gate again.
   
   Ric sat across from me in my living room. I couldnt help noticing that his tan was darker, that he was wearing a different designer jacket, a more expensive one. Then I glanced at the tide page on the script hed handed me.
    THE WARLORDS - Revisions by Eric Potter
   I flipped through the pages. All of them were typed on white paper. That bothered me. Rics inexperience was showing again. On last-minute rewrites, its always helpful to submit changed pages on different-coloured paper. That way, the producer and director can save time and not have to read the entire script to find the changes.
   These are the notes the director gave me, Ric said. He handed me some crudely typed pages. And these-Ric handed me pages with scribbling on them-are what the star gave me. Its a little hard to decipher them.
   More than a little. Jesus. I squinted at the scribbling and got a headache. Id better put on my glasses. They helped a little. I read what the director wanted. I switched to what the star wanted.
   These are the notes the producer gave me, Ric said.
   I thanked God that they were neatly typed and studied them as well. Finally I leaned back and took off my glasses.
   Well?
   I sighed. Typical. As near as I can tell, these three people are each talking about a different movie. The director wants more action and less characterisation. The star has decided to be serious-he wants more characterisation and less action. The producer wants it funny and less expensive. If theyre not careful, this movie will have multiple personalities.
   Ric looked at me anxiously.
   Okay, I said, feeling tired. Get a beer from the refrigerator and watch television or something while I go through this. It would help if I knew where youd made changes. Next time youre in a situation like this, identify your work with coloured paper.
   Ric frowned.
   Whats the matter? I asked.
   The changes.
   So? What about them?
   Well, I havent started to make them.
   You havent...? But on this title page, it says, Revisions by Eric Potter.
   Ric looked sheepish. The title page is as far as I got.
   Sweet Jesus. When are these revisions due?
   Ballard gave me a week.
   And for the first three days of that week, you didnt work on the changes? What have you been doing?
   Ric glanced away.
   Again I noticed that his tan was darker. Dont tell me youve just been sitting in the sun?
   Not exactly.
   Then what exactly?
   Ive been thinking about how to improve the script.
   I was so agitated I had to stand. You dont think about changes. You make changes. How much did you say you were being paid? A hundred thousand dollars?
   Ric nodded, uncomfortable.
   And the Writers Guild insists that on work for hire you get a portion of the money as soon as you start.
   Fifty thousand. Ric squirmed. Linda got the check by messenger the day after I made the deal with Ballard.
   What a mess.
   Ric lowered his head, more uncomfortable.
   If you dont hand in new pages four days from now, Ballard will want his money back.
   I know, Ric said, then added, but I cant.
   What?
   I already spent the money. A deposit on a condo up in Malibu.
   I was stunned.
   And the money isnt the worst of it, I said. Your reputation. Thats worse. Ballard gave you an incredible break. He decided to take a chance on the bright new kid in town. He allowed you to jump over all the shit. But if you dont deliver, hell be furious. Hell spread the word all over town that youre not dependable. You wont be hot anymore. We wont be able to sell another script as easily as we did this one.
   Look, Im sorry, Mort. I know I bragged to you that I could do the job on my own. I was wrong. I dont have the experience. I admit it. Im out of my depth.
   Even on a piece of shit like this.
   Ric glanced down, then up. I was wondering . . . Could you give me a hand?
   My mouth hung open in astonishment.
   Before I could tell him no damned way, Ric quickly added, It would really help both of us.
   How do you figure that?
   You just said it yourself. If I dont deliver, Ballard will spread the word. No producer will trust me. You wont be able to sell another script through me.
   My forehead began to throb. He was right, of course. If I wanted to keep selling scripts, if I wanted to see them produced, I needed him. I finally had to admit that, secretly, I had never intended the deception with Ric to be a one-time-only arrangement.
   I swallowed and finally said, All right.
   Thank you.
   But I wont clean up your messes for nothing.
   Of course not. The same arrangement as before. All I get out of this is fifteen percent.
   By rights, you shouldnt get anything.
   Hey, without me, Ballard wouldnt have offered the job.
   Since you already spent the first half of the payment, how do I get that money?
   Ric made an effort to think of a solution. Well have to wait until the money comes through on the spec script we sold. Ill give you the money out of the two hundred thousand thats owed to me.
   But you owe the Ferrari dealer a bundle. Otherwise Lindas responsible for your debt.
   Ill take care of it. Ric gestured impatiently. Ill take care of all of it. Whats important now is that you make the changes on The Warlords. Ballard has to pay the remaining fifty thousand dollars when I hand in the pages. That moneys yours.
   Fine.
   
   The script for The Warlords was even worse than I had feared. How do you change bad junk into good junk? In the process, how do you please a director, a star, and a producer who ask for widely different things? One of the rules Ive learned over the years is that what people say they want isnt always what they mean. Sometimes its a matter of interpretation. And after I endured reading the script for The Warlords, I thought I had that interpretation.
   The director said he wanted more action and less characterisation. In my opinion, the script already had more than enough action. The trouble was that some of the action sequences were redundant, and others werent paced effectively. The biggest stunts occurred two thirds of the way into the story. The last third had stunts that suffered by comparison. So the trick here was to do some pruning and restructuring-to take the good stunts from the end and put them in the middle, to build on them and put the great stunts at the end, all the while struggling to retain the already feeble logic of the story.
   The star said he wanted less action and more characterisation. As far as I could tell, what he really wanted was to be sympathetic, to make the audience like the character he was playing. So I softened him a little, threw in some jokes, had him wait for an old lady to cross a street before he blew away the bad guys, basic things like that. Since his character was more like a robot than a human being, any vaguely human thing he did would make him sympathetic.
   The producer said he wanted more humour and a less expensive budget. Well, by making the hero sympathetic, I added the jokes the producer wanted. By restructuring the sequence of stunts, I managed to eliminate some of the weaker ones, thus giving the star his request for less action and the producer his request for holding down the budget, since the preponderance of action scenes had been what inflated the budget in the first place.
   I explained this to Ric as I made notes. Theyll all be happy.
   Amazing, Ric said.
   Thanks.
   No, what I mean is, the ideas you came up with, I could have thought of them.
   Oh? My voice hardened. Then why didnt you?
   Because, well, they seem so obvious.
    After I thought of them. Good ideas always seem obvious in retrospect. The real job is putting them on paper. Im going to have to work like crazy to get this job done in four days. And then theres a further problem. I have to teach you how to pitch these changes to Ballard, so hell be convinced youre the one who wrote them.
   You can count on me, Ric said.
   I want you to... Suddenly I found myself yawning and looked at my watch. Three A.M.? Im not used to staying up this late. Id better get some sleep if Im going to get this rewrite done in four days.
   Im a night person myself, Ric said.
   Well, come back tomorrow at four in the afternoon. Ill take a break and start teaching you what to say to Ballard.
   
   Ric didnt show up, of course. When I phoned his apartment, I got his answering machine. I couldnt get in touch with him the next day, or the day after that.
   But the day the changes were due, he certainly showed up. He phoned again from his car outside the gate, and when I let him in, he was so eager to see the pages that he barely said hello to me.
   Where the hell have you been?
   Mexico.
    What?
   With all this stress, I needed to get away.
   What have you done to put you under stress? Im the one whos been doing all the work.
   Instead of responding, Ric sat on my living-room sofa and quickly leafed through the pages. I noticed he was wearing yet another designer jacket. His tan was even darker.
   Yeah, he said. This is good. He quickly came to his feet. Id better get to the studio.
   But I havent coached you about what to say to Ballard.
   Ric stopped at the door. Mort, Ive been thinking. If this partnership is going to work, we need to give each other more space. You take care of the writing. Let me worry about what to say in meetings. Ballard likes me. I know how to handle him. Trust me.
   And Ric was gone.
   
   I waited to hear about what happened at the meeting. No phone call. When I finally broke down and phoned him, an electronic-sounding voice told me that his number was no longer in service. It took me a moment to figure out that he must have moved to the condo in Malibu. So I phoned Linda to get the new number, and she awkwardly told me that Ric had ordered her to keep it a secret.
   Even from me?
   Especially from you. Did you guys have an argument or something?
   No.
   Well, he made it sound as if you had. He kept complaining about how you were always telling him what to do.
   Of all the...I almost told Linda the truth-that Ric hadnt written the script she had sold but rather I had. Then I realised that shed be conscience-bound to tell the studio. The deception would make the studio feel chilly about the script. They would reread it with a new perspective, prejudiced by knowing the true identity of the author. The deal would fall through. Id lose the biggest fee Id ever been promised.
   So I mumbled something about intending to talk with him and straighten out the problem. Then I hung up and cursed.
   
   After I didnt hear from Ric for a week, it became obvious that Linda would long ago have forwarded to him the check for the rewrite on The Warlords. Hed had ample time to send me my money. He didnt intend to pay me.
   That made me furious, partly because hed betrayed me, partly because I didnt like being made to feel naive, and partly because Im a professional. To me, its a matter of honour that I get paid for what I write. Ric had violated one of my most basic rules.
   My arrangement with him was finished. When I read about him in Daily Variety and Hollywood Reporter-about how Ballard was delighted with the rewrite and predicting that the script he had bought from Ric would be next years smash hit, not to mention that Ric would win an Oscar for it-I was apoplectic. Ric was compared to Robert Towne and William Goldman, with the advantage that he was young and had a powerful understanding of todays generation. Ric had been hired for a half-million dollars to do another rewrite. Ric had promised that he would soon deliver another original script, for which he hinted that his agent would demand an enormous price. Quality is always worth the cost, Ballard said.
   I wanted to vomit.
   
   As I knew he would have to, Ric eventually came to see me. Again the car phone at the gate. Three weeks later. After dark. A night person, after all.
   I made a pretence of reluctance, feigned being moved by his whining, let him in and offered a beer. Even in the muted lights of my living room, he had the most perfect tan I had ever seen. His clothes were even more expensive and trendy. I hated him.
   You didnt send me my money for the rewrite on The Warlords.
   Im sorry about that, Ric said. Thats part of the reason Im here.
   To pay me?
   To explain. My condo at Malibu. The owners demanded more money as a down payment. I couldnt give up the place. Its too fabulous. So I had to... Well, I knew youd understand.
   But I dont.
   Mort, listen to me. I promise-as soon as the money comes through on the script we sold, Ill pay you everything I owe.
   You went to fifteen percent of the fee, to fifty percent, to one hundred percent. Do you think I work for nothing?
   Mort, I can appreciate your feelings. But I was in a bind.
   You still are. Ive been reading about you in the trade papers. Youre getting a half million for a rewrite on another script, and youre also promising a new original script. How are you going to manage all that?
   Well, I tried to do it on my own. I handed Ballard the script I showed you when we first met.
   Jesus, no.
   He didnt like it.
   What a surprise.
   I had to cover my tracks and tell him it was something Id been fooling with but that I realised it needed a lot of work. I told him I agreed with his opinion. From now on, I intended to stick to the tried and true-the sort of thing Id sold him.
   I shook my head.
   I guess you were right, Ric said. Good ideas seem obvious after somebodys thought of them. But maybe I dont have what it takes to come up with them. Ive been acting like a jerk.
   I couldnt agree more.
   So what do you say? Ric offered his hand. Lets let bygones be bygones. I screwed up, but Ive learned from my mistake. Im willing to give our partnership another try if you are.
   I stared at his hand.
   Suddenly beads of sweat burst out onto his brow. He lifted his hand and wiped the sweat.
   Whats the matter?
   Hot in here.
   Not really. Actually I thought it was getting chilly.
   Feels stuffy.
   The beer I gave you. Maybe you drank it too fast.
   Maybe.
   You know, Ive been thinking, I said.
   
   The beer was drugged, of course. After the nausea wore off, giddiness set in, as it was supposed to. The drug, which Id learned about years ago when I was working on a TV crime series, left its victim open to suggestion. It took me only ten minutes to convince him it was a great idea to do what I wanted. As I instructed, Ric giddily phoned Linda and told her that he was feeling stressed out and intended to go back down to Mexico. He told her he suddenly felt trapped by materialism. He needed a spiritual retreat. He might be away for as long as six months.
   Linda was shocked. Listening to the speaker phone, I heard her demand to know how Ric intended to fulfil the contracts hed signed. She said his voice was slurred and accused him of being drunk or high on something.
   I picked up the phone, switched off the speaker, and interrupted to tell Linda that Ric was calling from my house and that wed made up our differences, that hed been pouring out his soul to me. He was drunk, yes, but what he had told her was no different than what he had told me when he was sober. He was leaving for Mexico tonight and might not be back for quite a while. How was he going to fulfil his contracts? No problem. Just because he was going on a retreat in Mexico, that didnt mean he wouldnt be writing. Honest work was what he thrived on. It was food for his soul.
   By then, Ric was almost asleep. After I hung up, I roused him, made him sign two documents that Id prepared, then made him tell me where he was living in Malibu. I put him in his car, drove over to his place, packed a couple of his suitcases, crammed them into the car, and set out for Mexico.
   We got there shortly after dawn. He was somewhat conscious when we crossed the border, enough to be able to answer a few questions and to keep the Mexican immigration officer from becoming suspicious. After that, I drugged him again.
   I drove until mid-afternoon, took a back road into the desert, gave him a final lethal amount of the drug, and dumped his body into a sinkhole. I drove back to Tijuana, left Rics suitcases minus identification in an alley, left his Ferrari minus identification in another alley, the key in the ignition, and caught a bus back to Los Angeles. I was confident that neither the suitcases nor the car would ever be reported. I was also confident that by the time Rics body was discovered, if ever, it would be in such bad shape that the Mexican authorities, with limited resources, wouldnt be able to identify it. Ric had once told me that he hadnt spoken to his parents in five years, so I knew they wouldnt wonder why he wasnt in touch with them. As far as his friends went, well, he didnt have any. Hed ditched them when he came into money. They wouldnt miss him.
   For an old guy, Im resilient. Id kept up my energy, driven all night and most of the day. I finally got some sleep on the bus. Not shabby, although toward the end I felt as if something had broken in me and I doubt Ill ever be able to put in that much effort again. But I had to, you see. Ric was going to keep hounding me, enticing me, using me. And I was going to be too desperate to tell him to get lost. Because I knew that no matter how well I wrote, I would never be able to sell a script under my own name again.
   When I first started as a writer, the money and the ego didnt matter to me as much as the need to work, to tell stories, to teach and delight, as the Latin poet Horace said. But when the money started coming in, I began to depend on it. And I grew to love the action of being with powerful people, of having a reputation for being able to deliver quality work with amazing speed. Ego. Thats why I hated Ric the most. Because producers stroked his ego over scripts that I had written.
   But not anymore. Ric was gone, and his agent had heard him say that he was going, and I had a document, with his signature on it, saying that he was going to mail in his scripts through me, that I was his mentor and that he wanted me to go to script meetings on his behalf. The document also gave me his power of attorney, with permission to oversee his income while he was away.
   And that should have been the end of it. Linda was puzzled but went along. After all, shed heard Ric on the phone. Ballard was even more puzzled, but he was also enormously pleased with the spec script that I pulled out of a drawer and sent in with Rics name on it. As far as Ballard was concerned, if Ric wanted to be eccentric, that was fine as long as Ric kept delivering. Really, his speed and the quality of his work were amazing.
   So in a way I got what I wanted-the action and the pleasure of selling my work. But theres a problem. When I sit down to do rewrites, when I type Revisions by Eric Potter, I suddenly find myself gazing out the window, wanting to sit in the sun. At the same time, I find that I cant sleep. Like Ric, Ive become a night person.
   Ive sold the spec scripts that I wrote over the years and kept in a drawer. All I had to do was change the tides. Nobody remembered reading the original stories. But I couldnt seem to do the rewrites, and now that Ive run out of old scripts, now that Im faced with writing something new...
   For the first time in my life, Ive got writers block. All I have to do is think of the tide page and the words by Eric Potter, and my imagination freezes. Its agony. All my life, every day, Ive been a writer. For thirty-five years of married life, except for the last two when Doris got sick, I wrote every day. I sacrificed everything to my craft. I didnt have children because I thought it would interfere with my schedule. Nothing was more important than putting words on a page. Now I sit at my desk, stare at my word processor, and...
   Mary had a little...
   I cant bear this anymore.
   I need rest.
   The quick brown fox jumped over...
   I need to forget about Ric.
   Now is the time for all good men to...
