Thank You for Smoking

17

He flew First Class, which BR had okayed since he was carrying an attache case containing a half million dollars in fifty- and hundred-dollar bills. Lorne Lutch's hush money. It was a strange sensation, carrying all that money. It made him feel like a drug dealer or a Watergate bag man. Going through the X-ray machine at Dulles, the eyes of the guy monitoring the screen went buggy when he saw all that cash. No law against carrying around money, but there was a minor scene when his three women bodyguards declared their 9-millimeters. But once he was seated up in First and hovered over by stewards dispensing hot towels and Bloody Marys, he began to relax. Nick liked airplanes, even if the airlines were circulating less fresh air in the cabins to make more money. In a way, he mused, he and they were in the same business.

First Class was full. There was a lot of traffic back and forth between D.C. and L.A. these days. He recognized Barbra Streisand's issues person, whom he'd read had flown in to brief the National Security Council on Barbra's position on the developing Syrian situation. Richard Dreyfuss's issues person was also on board, having given a presentation to the cabinet on Richard's feelings about health reform.

It wasn't until two hours into the flight that Nick realized that the woman sitting next to him, underneath Jackie O — sized dark glasses, was Tarleena Tamm, the television producer friend of the First Family. Nick didn't introduce himself, knowing how celebrities, especially controversial ones, value their privacy in the air. But then he became aware that she was sneaking furtive glances at him. When their eyes connected for the third, embarrassing time, he smiled at her. She said, "Aren't you the tobacco person who was kidnapped?"

"Yes," Nick said, flattered at being approached by a celebrity. He was about to reciprocate when she set her jaw and said, "I know a lot of people who died of lung cancer. Good people."

Nick said to her, "No bad people?"

She gave him a fierce look, craned about to see if there was an empty seat, and finding none, went back to angrily marking up the script on her large lap with a big, angry red pen. Some screenwriter would pay for Nick's insolence.

Nick loved L.A. Arriving there always made it feel like Friday, even in the middle of a week facing a full workload. He felt exhilarated walking off the plane and imagined himself at the wheel of the sporty red Mustang he'd had Gazelle rent for him, driving along Mulholland Drive at night and looking down on all the lights of the city, spreading out as far as the eye could see. Too bad Heather or Jeannette wasn't here. Maybe he could entice Heather to fly out. Or Jeannette.

Shattering this pleasant reverie was the sight of a Middle Eastern-looking chauffeur with a hundred-dollar haircut waiting for him at the gate holding up one of those signs: mr. naylor. When he innocently reached for Nick's attache case, Nick's bodyguards nearly wrenched his arm out of its socket. The chauffeur apologetically introduced himself as Mahmoud and said that he'd been sent by Mr. Jack Bein, of Associated Creative Talent, and handed Nick an envelope with a note inside from Bein asking Nick to call him immediately.

Nick was sorrier still for his canceled Mustang when he saw Mahmoud's vehicle, a white stretch limousine the length of a lap pool. People standing on the curb nearby waiting for the shuttle bus saw Nick with his entourage and Moby Dick limousine and demanded his autograph, which made the bodyguards nervous. Nick signed one and the person who'd asked for it examined it, frowned, and said, "It's not him." The small crowd dispersed.

It was cool and cavernous inside and lit with scores of tiny Christmas tree lights. A huge TV screen in front displayed computerized fireworks that formed the words "Welcome to Los Angeles, Mr. Naylor." A microwave oven beeped open with a bowl of hot towels; a wet bar opened with four kinds of freshly squeezed juice, as well as liquor. On the seats were fresh copies of the L.A. Times, Variety, and Asahi Shinbum. So where, Nick wondered, was the terry cloth bathrobe?

Suddenly the fireworks display vanished from the screen and was replaced with a huge face: deeply tanned, teeth so white they hurt to look at, eyes masked by tinted aviator glasses. Nick was trying to figure why the TV had gone on and what game show host this was when the face said: "Nick!"

Nick started.

"Jack Bein. Is everything okay?"

It was asked with urgency, with fear, as if he expected Nick to tell him, No, everything is not okay, Jack. Things are very un-okay. And you, your family, and your dog are going to suffer for it.

"Yes," Nick said, recovering his composure. "Fine. Thank you."

"I can't believe I'm not there to greet you personally." Nick was left to interpret this as he chose. "Jeff is really looking forward to meeting you. I'll pick you up at the hotel first thing. Here's my home number, call me anytime, in the middle of the night, whenever. Whatever you need. I mean that, okay?"

"Okay," Nick said.

A half hour later they pulled up in front of a hotel. It was not the Peninsula, where Gazelle had made reservations, but the Encomium, very palmy, open, and grand, with an enormous Yitzak McClellan fountain bleu outside. An assistant manager was waiting for him at the curb.

"Yes, Mr. Naylor, we've been expecting you. The manager asked me to relay his sincere regrets that he couldn't be here to greet you personally. Are these," he said, regarding the three brutish women surrounding Nick, "ladies in your party?" Nick said that they were.

"Will you all be staying together?"

"No, no," Nick said.

"If you'd follow me, please."

Nick's bags were whisked away. Check-in formalities were dispensed with. The assistant manager handed him a magnetic card to operate his own private elevator, and led him up in the outside glass elevator to a huge penthouse suite with sunken marble bathtub, fireplace, balcony, waterfall, and immense bed already turned down. There were Hockneys on the wall; originals. Nick's very own butler, an immaculate young Asian fellow, was standing there in white tie holding a silver tray with a vodka negroni on the rocks in a Baccarat tumbler. Nick's drink. Now this was good advance.

"We took the liberty of calling your office this morning as soon as we knew you were coming," explained the assistant manager.

"May I pour your bath?" the butler said.

The phone rang.

"May I get that for you? Mr. Naylor's suite. Yes, please hold. It's for you, sir. Mr. Jack Bein of ACT."

"Nick, Jack. Is everything all right?"

"Yes, Jack," Nick said. "Everything is fine."

"You're sure?"

"I think so."

"Just sign for everything. Don't worry about it." All this was — free? What a great town.

"I want you to call me if you're not happy," Jack said, "for whatever reason. If you wake up in the middle of the night and you just want to talk. I'm here. I know what it is to be alone in a strange town. Take this number down, it rings on my bedside table. Only three people in the world have this number, Michael Eisner, Michael Ovitz, Jeff, of course, and now you. And my mother makes five. Do you have a mother? They're great, aren't they? I'll see you for breakfast. Is Haiphong there?"

"Who?"

"The butler. They did give you a butler, didn't they? Jesus Christ on Rollerblades, what's going on there?"

"Is your name Haiphong?" Nick asked the butler. "Yes, Jack, he's here."

"Put him on."

"He wants to speak with you," Nick said, handing over the phone. Haiphong said "yes sir" crisply many times and hung up. "May I send up the masseuse, sir? She's very good. Highly trained."

"Well, I… "

"I'll send her right up."

"Haiphong," Nick said, "can I ask you something?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is Mr. Bein connected somehow with this hotel?"

"All ACT guests and out-of-town clients stay at the Encomium, sir."

"Ah," Nick said.

"I'll send Bernie right up."

Nick sat back in a chaise longue and sipped his vodka negroni and looked out the window at the sun setting over Santa Monica and the ocean. The Campari and vodka was just starting to make him comfortably numb when Haiphong knocked to announce that Bernie had arrived. She was in her mid-twenties, pretty, muscular, and blond, with a big California smile—"Hi there! — in a white V-necked leotard.

The few times he'd indulged in massage — never in a "massage" parlor — Nick had always felt a little awkward, but Bernie put him at ease with her friendly, open manner and soon he was starkers on the slanted table, with a towel over his privies. She gave him a massage menu — Swedish, Shiatsu, hot oil, Tibetan, etc. — but strongiy recommended something called NMT, or Neuro-Muscular Therapy, which, she said, had been invented by a much-wounded Vietnam veteran who, fed up with Western medicine, had studied Oriental healing techniques. It wasn't very relaxing; in fact it caused Nick significant, groaning, teeth-clenching pain as she knuckled into his vertebrae, kneaded his sternocleidomastoids and traps, crunched his lumbar region with her elbows, and then pinched his skin till it burned — in order, she explained, to bring the blood up to the surface. This last torture she called "bindegewebs," a technique that had been invented by the Germans; naturlich.

She put on a tape called Pelagic Adagios. New Age muzak consisting of squealing humpback whales and synthesized musical gibberish. Actually, it was pleasant enough, since it took his mind off the pain. After pressing her thumb tips along the rims of his eye sockets, producing an aura of light — aggrieved signals from the optic nerve, no doubt — she maneuvered his head off the edge of the table and put his face down into a "face cradle." With the table slanted up at his legs, the blood was soon puddling in his sinuses, making him feel as if he had a severe head cold. She stood, bending over his head as she attacked his lower back, her breasts grazing the top of his head. Back and forth, back and forth. After a few minutes of this he had to start counting backward from one hundred in intervals of seven, a delaying tactic that he'd learned many years ago. He lay there, facedown, snuffling through his clotted nasal passages like a truffle pig, listening to humpbacks squealing and gamboling in the deep.

"Do you like the music, Nick?"

"Urhh."

"I love whales. They're the most majestic of the creatures, don't you think?"

"Rhhh."

"I can't believe that the Japanese are going to start hunting them again."

"Wrrh!."

"You kind of have to be sort of careful saying that here."

"Nrrll mhh?"

"Have you ever swum with dolphins, Nick?"

"Nmh." Where was this going?

"My boyfriend and I did, a couple of weekends ago." Aha. Boyfriend. Code for Don't get any ideas. This is strictly professional.

"There's a place north of San Diego where you can swim with dolphins for ten dollars. Mark and I were out riding on his motorcycle. He has a Harley-Davidson. A big one?" She had the habit of turning everything into a question, even the most basic declarative sentences, just in case you weren't able to follow along? "He's in the navy, stationed there. He's a SEAL? He can't talk about what he does. Anyway, he didn't want to swim with the dolphins, but I really wanted to, so we did. Their skin is really incredible and soft, and when they breathe, it's like they're sighing? They go, Poosh. That's what they sound like. It was so sensual, you know? Riding on them, holding on to the fin? It was almost.." She sighed. "Mark didn't like them. He kept punching them whenever they came up to him. The man who owned the place got angry and told him to get out, then Mark said he was going to throw him in with the dolphins."

More code: My boyfriend is a short-tempered, highly trained professional killer. What was that about a hand job?

"But I stayed in," she continued, "I could have stayed in there forever, it was so wonderful? The other night I even dreamed about it. I was riding dolphins in the moonlight, leaping up and down over the waves. No swimsuit on or anything, and the amazing feel of his skin on mine. And him sighing? Push … I woke up all excited? And there's Mark next to me, snoring. Mark really snores? And when I tell him about it, he gets angry? I bought him this thing for his birthday, it's like a microphone that you clip on to your jammy tops and it goes to this thing like a wristwatch, only you strap it to your arm, and every time you snore it like zaps you with a little electricity? And he got so angry? It ruined the evening. Everyone went home early. Mark can get so angry at times? You'd think a Navy SEAL would get all his anger out at work?"

"Yurnh."

She was working on his neck muscles with her thumbs and forefingers… "Your bands are hypercontracted, Nick. You're kind of tense."

"Urnh." Her breasts were pressing against his head again. 100… 93… 86.

"Would you like me to relax you totally, Nick?"

"Hurnh?" Was this an honest-to-goodness question?

"Mr. Bein said to take real good care of you."

He saw a large Navy SEAL — a large, angry Navy SEAL — dripping wet, face blackened, framed in the doorway, a gigantic Ginsu knife in his hands 79… 72… 65..

"Would you mind if I took this off? I feel real warm all of a sudden?"

65.

"Ohh, that's much better. Is that better for you, Nick?"

"Nick," Jack Bein said with blasting intensity in the lobby early the next morning. The face that Nick had seen on the big-screen limo TV yesterday turned out to be connected to a short but muscular body in a linen suit with a bit of expensive turquoise silk protruding from the breast pocket. A watch worth a year's factory wages was gleamingly clasped outside the shirt cuff of his right hand. "Saves time," Jack said. "You don't have to pull it out from under the cuff. I figure over the course of my life I'll save two hundred man-hours."

Jack looked to the women bodyguards and made a question mark with his face, so it became Nick's turn to explain his odd accessorizing. Jack was very impressed.

"We had to do that for Jeff two years ago. Maybe you remember."

Nick didn't. "One of his former martial arts instructors went a little nuts. He had some idea that Jeff was going to make him into the next Steven Seagal. Personally, I think Jeff could've cleaned his clock, but when you're talking about a two-hundred-fifty-pound Korean with more black belts than Liz Taylor, you don't want to take chances, do you? Did you sleep okay? Did you get your massage? Was it Bernie who did you?"

Nick mumbled embarrassedly that yes, Bernie.

"Nice kid. And don't worry about the Navy boyfriend. He's big, but harmless. He was one of the ones they sent into Baghdad during Desert Storm to try to kill Saddam Hussein. They missed him by like five minutes. Know why? He was at his girlfriend's getting laid. Bombs coming down like rain and he's getting his rocks off. What a schmuck. No wonder he lost the war. No one's supposed to know that, by the way. I'm not even supposed to know that, but we're putting her through college. What's the matter, something wrong with your breakfast? You're jet-lagged. It's ten in D.C. Try some vitamin B, Jeff swears by it. Do you want an injection? How is it, living in D.C.? Is it all right? The new guy, is he going to make it?" Nick gathered he meant the President of the United States. "Frankly, Jeff is a little disappointed in him. Jeff went all out for him. Introduced him to all the right people. Jeff is the one who introduced him to Barbra. Other people have taken credit for it, but it was Jeff who made it happen. I shouldn't be telling you that, but I like you, so I'm telling you."

They drove in Jack's car, a red Dodge Viper, a muscle car on steroids. Jack explained that he was trying to do what he could for the U.S. economy. "Jeff strongly believes in America. That's why he's so excited by this project. It's a chance to help a truly American industry. What could be more American than tobacco, right?"

"Absolutely," Nick said, relieved finally to be talking about tobacco.

"So what do you think of the new building?"

It loomed, frantically, like a Mormon temple, occupying an entire city block, a crystal palace of curving mirrors.

"We had some problems after it was first built. The mirrors were reflecting the sun down onto the street in such a way that it was cooking the pedestrians. A couple actually had to be taken to Cedars-Sinai and treated for hyperpyrexia. Not that you get many pedestrians in L.A. But don't want to cook the ones you have. We had to redo a section of the outside, and let me tell you, it was not cheap."

"It's very nice," Nick said, sensing that a compliment was awaited.

"Tell Jeff how much you like it. He put a lot of himself into this building. And you know something? It shows."

Nick looked up and saw the Viper reflected on the shimmery wall of ACT's headquarters. "Not bad for someone who started out in the mailroom," he said.

"I'll tell you something. We now have foreign governments coming to us."

"Really? Which ones?"

"I really shouldn't be talking about this, Nick. Point is, you're right — Jeff is a very long way from the mailroom."

They drove past the main entrance, which was flanked by significant Nanomako Yaha sculptures.

"Very nice," Nick said.

"Those? Those were an office-warming present from Deke Cantrell."

"That was generous."

Jack laughed. "Generous? Please. Deke Cantrell made enough from Spud to buy Nanomako Yaha's frozen corpse. Don't get me wrong. Deke is a tremendously talented human being and an extremely decent human being, despite what you hear, but the fact of the matter is, before Jeff took him on, he was a face. Now he's a name. He gets ten to twelve per film."

"Still, nice presents."

"It's not the thought that counts. It's the money." Jack laughed. "We're not going in the main entrance. We call it the Potemkin entrance. Very few people use it. Want to know why? The other agencies rent rooms in that building across, there. They keep people with binoculars and telescopes to see who's coming and going. Sometimes, just to fuck with their heads, we hire doubles of famous actors to walk in. Drives C.A.A., William Morris, and I.CM. crazy. They think their clients are defecting. I really should not be talking about that. Anyway, now that we're advising foreign governments, we'll probably get real spies watching across the street. Do you know any spies in Washington?"

"We have some former spooks on staff," Nick said. "I shouldn't be telling you that."

"We've got this CIA movie deal project in the works, it's going to be very big. The idea is the CIA thinks Franklin Roosevelt is too cozy with Stalin, so they kill him so Truman will get in and nuke the Japanese. Fabulous film."

"Sounds great. But I don't think the CIA existed back in 1945."

"It didn't?"

"I think it started in '47."

"It's a little late change the whole premise. Principal photography starts in two weeks. We'll have to fudge. What the hell, according to these surveys, high school students think Churchill was Truman's vice president. As a matter of fact, we were thinking of you in connection with the project."

"How's that?"

"Roosevelt smoked, right?"

"Yes he did," Nick said. "But I think we're looking for someone more contemporary."

"You're probably right. How many girls want to fuck a dead guy with polio?"

"Uh, right."

They parked in the underground garage and took an elevator. So far, Nick had only ridden in private elevators since arriving in LA. "By the way," Jack said, "don't be nervous when you meet Jeff. You'd be surprised at the names of some of the people who've frozen up when they met him for the first time." He lowered his voice, which made Nick wonder if the elevator was bugged. "Tom Sampson, Cookie Perets. Rocco Saint Angelo?"

"Rocco Saint Angelo? Really?"

"Comatose. I thought I was going to have to start cracking ammonia pellets under his nose. But you'll be fine. Jeff is basically a very human person underneath."

The elevator doors opened to reveal a fish pond. Nick followed Jack across stepping-stones. Large white and red carp lazed beneath the surface. "That one over there," Jack whispered, "seven thousand dollars."

"Seven thousand? For a fish?"

"Go figure. No wonder sushi over there costs a hundred bucks apiece. Do you like sushi? I worry about worms. They can go into your brain. Every time I eat sushi now, which you kind of have to do — right? — I think I'm going to end up like John Hurt in Alien, with the thing coming out of my chest. Anyway, the fish was a gift from Fiona Fontaine. Another face Jeff made into a name. That one over there, with the black speckles? Twelve thousand. From Kyle Kedman. Jeff got him the lead in Mung, and Columbia was set, and I mean set, on Tom Cruise for that part."

"Do you keep sharks in here?"

"Nah," Jack laughed. "We're very nice here."

They were met at the end of the stepping-stones by an extremely attractive, fiftyish woman who introduced herself with a handshake and "I work with Jeff." She whispered into Jack's ear. Jack took Nick by the arm and led him back to the water's edge. "His Serenity just placed a call to Jeff."

"His Serenity?"

"The Sultan of Glutan," Jack whispered. "New client."

"Aha," Nick said. "Richest man in the world."

"Not anymore." Jack grinned. "Just joking." He led Nick over to what appeared to be a waiting area, by the pond. Nick looked at the man sitting there reading Golf Digest. No. Was it… wow, it was.

"Sean!" Jack said. "So where's the kilt?" Jack introduced Nick, and for the first time in his life, Nick felt the tongue-tying terror of encountering a true movie star hero. He'd grown up on the man's movies. He could recite some of them by heart, practically. He'd dreamed of being him. And now here he was, at the other end of a handshake. He couldn't have been more pleasant and courtly, even seemed interested in Nick. For his part, Nick could manage only a rictus of a smile and nod vigorously to every remark. He and Jack talked a bit about the golf tournament he'd just played in, and then obliquely about the project he was obviously here to discuss with Jeff. After about twenty minutes the attractive woman reappeared to say that Jeff was off the phone and would see them.

"You mean," Nick whispered to Jack as they followed her, "that we're ahead of him?"

"You should have seen the waiting room yesterday," Jack said.

"Goldie, Jack, and Mel."

Two doors of polished Burma teak carved with ideograms opened to reveal a vast, cathedral-like space, with a mind-boggling view of the city and the Pacific Ocean beyond. Jack whispered, "On a clear day, you can see Tokyo." At the center of it was a glass-top desk with nothing on it — now that was power: a totally clean desk — and behind it a man in his mid-forties, short, tanned, thinning hair, extremely fit, chest muscles bulging under a blue shirt that looked one size too small. He had a bland face, sparkly, gapped teeth, and pale laser eyes.

He smiled broadly and rose from his crystal throne and came out from around the desk to shake Nick's hand. "Jeff Megall," he said, surprising Nick again; most of the exalted pooh-bahs Nick had experienced tended to dispense with self-identification. We all know who I am.

"How was your flight?" he asked.

"Fine, thank you."

"Jack, would you see that Mr. Naylor travels back to Washington on our plane? What about your hotel?"

"He's at the Encomium," Jack interjected.

"Good hotel," Jeff said. "Let us know what we can do." He gestured to a sofa. "May I offer you anything? Coffee? Tea? Mineral water?"

"If it's not too much trouble."

"How do you take it?"

"Black."

"Black mineral water?" He laughed. "Could we have some black coffee for Mr. Naylor?" He said it into the thin air; there was no one else in the room, and within seconds a woman, a very beautiful woman with long hair, long legs, and a short skirt, appeared with a steaming cup of perfect black coffee.

Jeff said, "Would you like an ashtray?"

"Oh, no," Nick said, "that's okay. I'm… "

"Please, it doesn't bother me in the least. In fact, I enjoy watching people smoke. It's so rare these days."

"Well," Nick said, "that's what I'm here to talk about."

"By the way, I thought you handled the kidnapping extremely well. It must have been an awful experience. But your statements to the media indicated a fineness of spirit. I congratulate you for that."

"Well… "

"I've been thinking about the tobacco industry as a result of your interest in working with us, and I've come to the conclusion that if things continue as they have been, the American tobacco farmer will vanish, and with him, a way of life."

"Yes," Nick said, "we're very concerned about that ourselves."

"So," Jeff said, "let's see what we can do to help these people."

Nick was very impressed. Jeff already had his reason: he wasn't in this for the money — he was in it to save the farmers. Nick had to ask it — out of collegial admiration, he just had to hear the answer: "You don't have any problems with the health question?"

Jeff responded without hesitation: "I don't have the answers on that. I'm not a doctor. I'm just a facilitator. All I do is bring creative people together. What information there is, is out there. People will decide for themselves. I can't make that decision for them. It's not my role. It would be morally presumptuous."

"Yes, right," Nick said. He was dazzled. The man was a titan of ambiguity. He could learn from this man.

"So," Jeff said, "why don't we talk. You're looking for some aggressive product placement."

"Jeff is too modest to mention this," Jack stepped in, "but he was the driving force behind product placement."

"Jack, Mr. Naylor did not fly all the way out here from Washington to listen to you recite my resume."

"Excuse me, Jeff, but I think it's relevant for Nick to know that you pioneered the entire field of product placement. Nick, do you remember how in movies whenever someone drank a beer or soda, or whatever, either the label was generic or it was covered? Then gradually you started to see the labels? And now you can see them so close up you can read the ingredients? Jeff did that. I'm finished."

"That's why we came to ACT," Nick said. "We knew that Mr. Megall was the best."

"Forgive me. I wasn't sure you knew."

"Can we continue, Jack?" Jeff said in a tone of mild impatience. "Or do you want to tell Nick what position I played for the Bruins?"

"Continue, please."

"In point of fact," Jeff said, "we were the first to recognize the importance of product placement. What isn't so widely known is, and I know this surprises some people, but at the time, we did not do it to raise more investment."

"You didn't?" Nick said.

"Absolutely not. We wanted to involve the audience more fully in the character. People see their heroes up there on the screen. They want to know everything about them. Take James Bond. He drinks, what is it, a 'medium vodka dry martini shaken not stirred'? Don't you think people want to know what kind of vodka James Bond drinks? I can tell you this," said Jeff, "they will find out what kind of vodka James Bond drinks in the next James Bond movie."

"Aha," Nick said.

"Now, as it happens, the makers of that particular vodka — whatever it ends up being — are more than happy to participate financially in the creative process. But the money was all along a by-product of a creative decision." He grinned. "It's nice when that happens."

Dazzling. Absolutely dazzling. The man made it sound as though product placement was crucial to character development. Call me Ishmael, and hand me a Coca-Cola.

"We were thinking maybe Mel Gibson," Nick said, blurting it out, unable to contain himself any longer.

"That might be difficult," Jeff said. "He just quit. You know, he's got six kids. Not that he couldn't live forever and smoke, but, listen, I know where you're coming from. Mel was a beautiful smoker. The best contemporary smoking I've seen was in Lethal One. He took that smoke in so far you weren't sure it was ever going to come out. And when it did, it was like the breath of a dragon."

"It made me want to start smoking again," Jack said. "I almost did, in fact."

"Remember, however," Jeff said, "that Mel was playing a cop on the edge, someone with some pretty severe psychological problems. What else does he stick in his mouth during that movie? The barrel of his gun. You see, today, when you see people smoking in films, it's generally a sign that there's something wrong with their lives. It's not Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca anymore." Nick shuddered as the image of Peter Lorre flickered past. Jeff continued, "It's Bobby de Niro playing a chain-smoking, tattooed psycho in Cape Fear, Andy Garcia smoking through a hole in his throat in Dead Again, Thelma and Louise lighting up and getting loaded then going out to the parking lot to blow the balls off a rapist. It can get very weird with cigarettes these days. Pat Hingle branding Anjelica with a cigarette in The Grifters. Laura Dern and Nick Cage chain-smoking through Wild at Heart, talking about how their parents all died of lung cancer and cirrhosis. Nick Nolte in Prince of Tides. Definitely a man with problems. Or Harrison Ford in Regarding Henry. He goes into a convenience store to buy a pack of cigarettes and ends up on the floor with his brains splattered all over the place. He didn't even have time to read the surgeon general's warning. What message is being transmitted in these films, do you suppose? That smoking is cool? I think not."

"Exactly," Nick said. "We need a winner. A smoking role model."

"Yes. Set in the 1950s, before all the health stuff got out of hand."

"We'd like it to be contemporary," Nick said. "We want people to feel good about smoking now. Everyone felt good about smoking in the fifties, at least until they read Reader's Digest."

Jeff rested his chin on steepled fingers. "We'd have to move quickly. Principal photography starts in two weeks. How do you feel about Franklin Delano Roosevelt? Talk about a role model. And a very elegant smoker. That holder, almost feminine…"

"Beautiful smoker," Jack said.

"We could fix the script. As a matter of fact… "

"What are you thinking?" Jack asked.

"That the cigarettes could be central. The CIA puts the poison in the cigarettes. The cigarettes become the McGuffin."

"Brilliant,"Jack said.

Nick said, "So FDR dies… from smoking?"

"Yeah, but not from cancer."

"I think I'd have a hard time selling that to my people."

"Yeah," Jeff smiled, "I can see where that might be a problem. Contemporary is good, but the mind-set is already hardened against it. The L.A. City Council just voted to ban smoking in restaurants here."

"I know," Nick said lugubriously. "Seven thousand restaurants."

"So much for the Constitution. It's late in the game for main-stream. Wait a minute, wait a minute…"

"What? What?" Jack said.

"That's it."

"What?" said Jack.

"The future."

"Brilliant," Jack said.

Jeff turned back to Nick. "I shouldn't really be telling you this, but UFA has a womjep sci-fi picture in development that's going to be very, very big."

" — Womjep'?"

"Woman in jeopardy. Alien meets Dune meets Star Wars and Darth Vader is gay. A screamer. I've seen the script. It's a very funny part, an Oscar part. The hero is a disgraced space baron with an alien kid sidekick who can turn into anything. The girl is the emperor's daughter who's run away and gotten into some seriously bad company. It's called Message from Sector Six. The effects are going to be amazing. Half an hour of morphing. You know what morphing is? What they did in Terminator 2."

"They're calling it Morph and Mindy," Jack said.

"A million dollars per minute. They've already reserved advertising space on the fuselage of a space shuttle launch. They've budgeted a hundred and twenty million dollars. It will be the most expensive film ever made. And they're making it in Mexico."

"I heard they're already up to one-forty."

"It better be good. UFA is going to be wide open to product placement."

"Cigarettes?" Nick said. "In outer space?"

"It's the twenty-sixth century," Jeff said. "They're not bad for you anymore. In fact… in fact… "

"What?" Jack said.

"They're good for you. The Sleeper idea. That reminds me, I need to call Woody, though I don't know what I'm going to tell him. Jack, call Bill Hyman, Jerry Gornick, Voltan Zeig, set up a meeting for this afternoon."

"Done."

"I've gone blank. Ginseng depletion. Who's directing?"

"Chick Dextor."

"Going to be a loong shoot."

"Tell me about it."

"Nick," Jeff said, "this could be very exciting for all of us."

"I… but don't you explode if you light up in a spaceship? All that oxygen?"

"It's the twenty-sixth century. They've thought that through. That can be fixed with one line of script."

"It sounds like… I don't know… "

"Nick. The leads in this movie are Mace McQuade and Fiona Fontaine."

"No kidding."

"No kidding. Can you see them, sharing a post-sex cigarette in their spaceship, in a round bed with satin sheets and a clear bubble top. The galaxies go whizzing by, the smoke curls weightlessly upward. That doesn't prime your pump? You don't think that would sell a few cartons?"

"Yeah," Nick said. "I guess it would."

"I'll tell you something else. It's not my role to get involved in this part of it, unless I'm asked, but if I were you I would right away get started on launching a whole new brand of cigarettes and launch it simultaneously with the movie. Sector Sixes. No one has ever done that with cigarettes."

Jeff stood. The meeting was over. He shook Nick's hand. "You've done something to me that I try very hard to resist. You've gotten me emotionally involved."

Outside, Sean was working on a crossword puzzle. In the elevator, Jack said, "You should be pleased with yourself. Jeff really liked you."