"Fingers burnt, huh, playing with the big boys? You should have stayed on your side of the pond making Godfather knock-offs with a cockney accent." The man extended his hand towards Marcus. 

Straightening up to his full height, Marcus looked down at the outstretched hand.

"Do you validate?" he asked dropping his parking ticket into it.

As Marcus drove his cheap rental out through the wrought iron studio gates, he went over his options. There were few. The best seemed to be to get blind drunk. He was teetering at the tipping point; nearly broke, his judgement was suspect, and he’d just been dismissed by the entire Hollywood system. He pulled into a liquor store parking lot.

“A bottle of Chivas Legend Special Reserve,” he said, pointing at the most expensive whisky in the shop.

“Celebrating?” the girl smiled.

“Death of my career,” replied Marcus. “Just want to give it a good send-off.”

Two hours later he collapsed fully clothed onto the thin mattress of the bed of his motel room.

It was dark when he woke up with a hangover so bad his hair hurt. He sat up checked, his tousled brown locks in the mirror and pulled his long fingers down the sides of his cheeks. He stuck out his tongue and pulled down his eyelids, the green iris flecked with brown, but the whites of his eyes were bloodshot. Not a good look at twenty. Bad in your forties.

“Great career farewell,” he murmured.

He gulped down a glass of water and four Tylenol and picked up the phone to check his emails. A voice mail icon flashed reminding him of the badly timed call from that morning. He dialed to retrieve the message.

“Hi Marcus, Sam Wood here. Tough out here, eh? They tell me you not staying quite at five-star hotels these days,” said the broad Australian accent.  “So, I am sending you my latest script…see what you think…. if it rings any bells, jogs any memories. Oh, and Balzac was right.”

Sam Wood. Marcus was in shock. At the very moment his world was collapsing around him, one of the most successful writers in Hollywood had sent him a screenplay. Sam was the last person on earth Marcus expected to hear from, let alone receive a script. Twenty years ago, he and Sam had been almost brothers, but on a typhoon-lashed movie set, their bond had been broken by death and violence. They had not spoken since.

He stood stock still for a moment trying to absorb the enormity of that call. A beat, then he rushed down the thinly carpeted hallway to the reception desk.

“You have anything for me?” he panted as he reached the reception desk.

The young girl on duty looked up startled by the tall disheveled Englishman.

“I’m sorry. No manners,” Marcus took a deep breath. “Please, did anything come for me by courier today, while I was…out?”

She handed over a manila envelope. “I knocked on your room, but you were…no answer…,” she trailed off as Marcus gave her his last twenty-dollar bill as a tip and ran back up the corridor.

Shutting the door, Marcus ripped open the envelope. Inside was a screenplay, titled FALL OUT, with a handwritten note attached.

Dear Marcus,

THE SECRET OF A GREAT SUCCESS FOR WHICH YOU ARE AT A LOSS TO ACCOUNT IS A CRIME THAT HAS NEVER BEEN FOUND OUT, BECAUSE IT WAS PROPERLY EXECUTED. -Honoré de Balzac

You’ve got an eighteen-month free option.

Sam

An hour later and with shaking hands, Marcus put down the screenplay. His body was pumping pure adrenaline. FALL OUT was far and away the best thing the Australian had ever written. A gripping plot with box office smash written all over it. It was exactly what Marcus needed.