Vail's threat of suicide had been the trigger for this meeting. If carried out, the rights to his novel would revert to his former wife and her children, and Molly Flanders would drive a hard bargain. Nobody believed in the threat, not even Claudia, but Bobby Bantz and Eli Marrion, operating from their knowledge of what they would do for money, always had to worry.

When Claudia, Ernest, and Molly arrived at LoddStone, they found only Bobby Bantz in the executive suite. He looked uncomfortable, though he tried to disguise it with effusive greetings, especially to Vail. "Our National Treasure," he said and hugged Ernest with respectful affection.

Claudia was determined to cash in on her sexual marker with Eli Marrion; she would shame him into giving Ernest Vail the points he wanted on his novel. It was a long shot, but she was willing to compromise her principles. Bobby Bantz was implacable on gross points, but Eli Marrion was unpredictable and had a soft spot for her. Besides, it was an honorable custom in the movie business that sexual congress, no matter how brief, demanded a certain material courtesy.

Molly was immediately alert, wary. "Where's Eli?" she said. "He's the only one who can make the final decision on this."

Bantz's voice was reassuring. "Eli's in the hospital, Cedar Sinai, nothing serious, just a checkup. That's confidential. The LoddStone stock goes up and down on his health."

Claudia said dryly, "He's over eighty, everything is serious."

"No," Molly said curtly.

But Ernest Vail said, "Let's talk to Bobby."

"Run it by your PR people," Claudia said. "If Ernest does it and the whole story comes out LoddStone will look like shit. Eli won't like that. He has more moral sense."

"No, no," Bantz said. "We do business every day in the hospital. He's even sharper. So present your case to me and I'll tell him your story when I visit."

"Than me?" Bobby Bantz said politely. But he was furious. Why didn't people understand that Marrion approved everything he did. He turned to Ernest and said, "How would you knock yourself off? Gun, knife, out the window?"

They presented their case. Bantz was amused but did not laugh outright. He said, "I've heard everything in this town but this is a beauty. I ran it by my lawyers and they say that Vail's demise does not affect our rights. It's a complicated legal point."

Vail grinned at him. "Hara-kiri on your desk, Bobby." They all laughed.

"We're getting nowhere," Molly said. "Why can't we all go to the hospital and see Eli?"

Bantz was horrified, a hot stab went through his bowels. "Gross points?" he shouted incredulously. "Never."

Vail said, "I'm not going to a sick man's hospital bed and argue about money."

They all looked at him sympathetically. Of course in conventional terms it seemed insensitive. But men in sickbeds planned murders, revolution, frauds, studio betrayals. A hospital bed was not a true sanctuary. And they knew that Vail's protest was basically a romantic convention.

"OK," Molly said. "How about a structured five percent of the net? No advertising charges, no interest deductions or gross points to the stars."

Molly said coldly, "Keep your mouth shut, Ernest, if you want to remain my client. Eli has screwed a hundred people from his hospital bed. Bobby, let's make a sensible deal. LoddStone has a gold mine in the sequels. You can afford to give Ernest a couple of gross points, for insurance."

Bantz said contemptuously, "That's almost gross. And we all know that Ernest won't kill himself. That's too stupid and he is too intelligent." What he really wanted to say was that the guy didn't have the balls.

"Why gamble?" Molly said. "I've gone over the figures. You plan at least three sequels. That's at least a half billion in rentals including foreign but not the videos and TV. And God knows how much money you fucking thieves make in video. So why not give Ernest points, a measly twenty million. You would give that to any half-assed star."

Claudia was embarrassed at how Ernest obviously swallowed this bullshit, though to his credit, he shuddered a bit at the "National Treasure."

"Be specific," he said. Now Claudia was proud of him.

Bantz spoke to Molly. "How about a five-year contract at ten grand a week to write original scripts and do some rewrites and of course on the originals we only get first look. And for every rewrite he gets an additional fifty grand a week. In five years he could make as much as ten million."

Bantz thought it over. Then he turned on the charm. "Ernest," he said, "as a novelist you are a National Treasure. No one respects you more than me. And Eli has read every one of your books. He absolutely adores you. So we want to come to an accommodation."

"Double the money," Molly said. "Then we can talk."

At this point Vail seemed to lose his almost angelic patience. "None of you are taking me seriously," he said. "I can do simple arithmetic. Bobby, your deal is only worth two and a half. You'll never buy an original script from me and I'll never do one. You'll never give me rewrites. And what if you make six sequels? Then you make a billion." Vail began to laugh with genuine enjoyment. "Two and a half million dollars doesn't help me."

"What the fuck are you laughing about?" Bobby said.

Vail was almost hysterical. "I never dreamed in my life of even one million and now it doesn't help me."

Claudia knew Vail's sense of humor. She said, "Why doesn't it help you?"

Vail lost his temper completely and stormed out of the door shouting, "I can't deal with you people. I won't beg a man on a hospital bed."

"Because I'll still be alive," Vail said. "My family needs the points. They trusted me and I betrayed them."

They would have been touched, even Bantz, except that Vail sounded so false, so self-satisfied.

Molly Flanders said, "Let's go talk to Eli."

Bantz shrugged them off. Molly said, "You will really kick yourself if Ernest knocks himself off. Those sequels are worth more than I said. I softened him up for you."

"We writers have to stick together," she said wryly. They all laughed.

"Why not?" Molly said. "I represented a guy who stabbed his mother and his own three kids. Ernest is no worse than him."

Claudia said, "I want to see him anyway. I really care about Eli. He gave me my first break."

"And what's your excuse?" Bantz asked Claudia.

"Because over the years he's screwed a thousand writers and stars and directors. It's a matter of principle," Molly said.

"That's right," Bantz said. "And when they have the muscle they screw us. That's business."

"He's fine," Bantz said. "Don't sell your stock."

Molly pounced. "Then he can see us."

Molly said to Bantz with fake concern, "Eli is okay? Nothing serious?"

When he was gone, Bobby Bantz said, "And you two want to stick up for that guy?"

Claudia said, "Bobby, why can't you give him a point or two, it's only fair."

"I guess that's about it," Bobby said. "I did the best I could, right?"

Bantz said scornfully, "That schmuck won't kill himself. He doesn't have the balls."

"From "National Treasure" to "schmuck," " Claudia said musingly.

"No," Claudia said, "but Ernest is full of surprises. He's a true eccentric who doesn't even know he's eccentric."

But to his surprise, Marrion said, "By all means, they can all come to see me."

Bantz pondered this for a moment. There was some merit in their argument. And besides he never believed in making unnecessary enemies. He didn't want Molly Flanders to carry a grudge against him. The woman was a terror.

Molly said, "The guy is definitely a little crazy. He'll croak out of sheer carelessness."

"Does he do drugs?" Bantz asked, a little worried.

They drove to the hospital in Bantz's limo, which was a big stretch job but by no means luxurious. It was fitted with a fax, a computer, and a cellular phone. A bodyguard supplied by Pacific Ocean Security sat next to the driver. Another security car with two men followed behind.

"Let me call Eli," he said. "If he gives the okay, I'll take you to the hospital." He was sure that Marrion would refuse.

The brown-tinted windows of the limo presented the city in the beige monochrome of old-time cowboy movies. As they progressed inward, the buildings became taller, as if they were penetrating a deep stone forest. Claudia was always amazed how in the short space of ten minutes she could go from a mildly bucolic small-town green to a metropolis of concrete and glass.

In Cedars Sinai, the hospital corridors seemed as vast as the halls of an airport, but the ceiling compressed like a bizarre camera shot in a German impressionist movie. They were met by a hospital coordinator, a handsome woman dressed in a severe but high-couture suit who reminded Claudia of the "Hosts" in Vegas hotels.

These suites had huge carved black oak doors that reached from floor to ceiling, with shiny brass knobs. The doors opened like gates, to a suite of a hospital bedroom, a larger, open-walled room with dining table and chairs, a sofa and lounge chairs, and a secretarial niche that held a computer and fax. There was also a small kitchen space and guest bathroom in addition to the bathroom for the patient. The ceiling was very high and the absence of walls between the kitchen niche, the living room area, and the business nook gave the whole room the look of a movie set.

She led them to a special elevator that took them nonstop to the top penthouse suites.

Bobby Bantz kissed Marrion on the cheek and said, "Eli, you look great, just great." Molly and Claudia also kissed him on the cheek. Claudia had insisted on bringing flowers, and put them on the bed. Such familiarities were excused because the great Eli Marrion was ill.

In fact, Eli Marrion was not looking "great just great." His lips were ridged with blue lines that seemed drawn with ink, he gasped for air when he spoke. Two green prongs grew from his nostrils, the prongs attached to a thin plastic tube that ran to a bubbling bottle of water that was plugged into the wall, all connected to some oxygen tank hidden there.

Claudia was noting all the details as if researching a script. Medical dramas were almost financially foolproof.

Lying on a crisp, white hospital bed, propped up by huge pillows, was Eli Marrion. He was reading an orange-covered script. On the table beside him were business folders with budgets of movies in production. A pretty young secretary seated on the other side of the bed was taking notes. Marrion always liked pretty women around him.

Marrion noted her gaze. "Oxygen," he said.

Marrion seemed to be in good humor. "Molly," he said, "you were always the toughest lawyer in this town. Are you going to harass me on my deathbed?"

"Only temporary," Bobby Bantz said hurriedly. "Makes it easier for him to breathe."

Claudia was distressed. "Eli, Bobby told us you were okay. And we really wanted to see you." She was so obviously ashamed that Marrion raised his hand with acceptance and benediction.

"I understand all the arguments," Marrion said. He made a motion of dismissal to the secretary and she left the room. The private duty nurse, a handsome, tough-looking woman, was reading a book at the dining room table. Marrion gestured to her to leave. She looked at him and shook her head. She resumed reading.

Molly Flanders ignored them. "Eli," she said, "I've explained the situation to Bobby and he needs your OK."

Marrion laughed, a low wheezing laugh. He said to the others, "That is Priscilla, the best nurse in California. She's an intensive care nurse, that's why she's so tough. My doctor recruited her especially for this case. She's the boss."

Priscilla acknowledged them with a nod of her head and resumed reading.

Bantz said angrily, "It's not unfair. He signed a contract."

Molly said, "I'll be willing to limit his points to a maximum of twenty million. It will be insurance. Why take the risk? And why be so unfair?"

Claudia was thinking many things. Obviously Marrion was sicker than anyone was admitting. And it was terribly cruel to put pressure on this old man who had to make such an effort to even speak. She was tempted to say that she was leaving, then she remembered that Eli would never have let them come except for some purpose of his own.

"Fuck you, Bobby," Molly said.

Marrion ignored them. "Claudia, what do you think?"

"Ernest is a man who does surprising things," Claudia said. "He is determined to provide for his family. But Eli, he's a writer and you always loved writers. Think of it as a contribution to art. Hell, you gave twenty million to the Metropolitan Museum. Why not do it for Ernest?"

"And have all the agents on our ass?" Bantz said.

Eli Marrion took a deep breath, the green prongs seemed to go deeper into his face. "Molly, Claudia, we will have to keep this our little secret. I'll give Vail two gross points to a max of twenty million. I'll give him a million up front. Will that satisfy you?"

Molly thought it over. Two gross points on all the pictures should yield a minimum of fifteen million but maybe more. It was the best she could do, and she was surprised that Marrion had gone so far. If she haggled he was quite capable of withdrawing the offer.

"That's wonderful, Eli, thank you." She leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. "I'll send your office a memo tomorrow. And Eli, I do hope you get well soon."

Claudia could not restrain her emotion. She clasped Eli's hand in hers. She noticed the brown specks that mottled the skin, the hand chilly with approaching death. "You saved Ernest's life."

At that moment Eli Marrion's daughter came into the room with her two small children. The nurse, Priscilla, rose from her chair like a cat scenting mice and moved toward the children, interposing herself between them and the bed. The daughter had been twice divorced and did not get on with her father, but she had a production company on the LoddStone lot because Eli was so fond of his grandchildren.

Marrion's daughter and two grandchildren stayed only a short time. But long enough for the daughter to get her father to promise to buy her a very expensive novel for her next movie.

Claudia and Molly took their leave. They drove to Molly's office and called Ernest to tell him the good news. He insisted on taking them out to dinner to celebrate.

Bobby Bantz and Eli Marrion were alone. "You're a soft touch today," Bantz said.

Marrion felt the weariness in his body, the air being sucked into it. He could relax with Bobby, he never had to act with him. They had been through so much together, used power together, won wars, traveled and schemed through the wide world. They could read each other's minds.

"That novel I'm buying for my daughter, will it make a movie?" Marrion asked.

"Low-budget," Bantz said. "Your daughter makes quote-unquote "serious" movies."

Marrion made a weary gesture. "Why do we always have to pay for other people's good intentions? Give her a decent writer but no stars. She'll be happy and we won't lose too much money."

"Are you really going to give Vail gross?" Bantz asked. "Our lawyer says we can win in court if he dies."

Bantz was astonished at this sentimentality. "Eli, you'll get well, of course you will." And he was absolutely sincere. He had no desire to succeed Eli Marrion, indeed he dreaded the day that inevitably had to come. He could do anything as long as Marrion approved it.

Marrion said smilingly, "If I get well. If not, it will be up to you. You'll be running the show."

Bantz was stunned. "They can't do a bypass?" he asked. When Marrion shook his head, Bantz went on. "Don't be ridiculous, of course you'll get a transplant. You built half the hospital, they have to give you a heart. You have another good ten years." He paused for a moment. "You're tired, Eli, we'll talk about this tomorrow." But Marrion had dozed off. Bantz left to check with the doctors and then to tell them to start all procedures to harvest a new heart for Eli Marrion.

"It's going to be up to you, Bobby," Marrion said. "The truth is that I'm not going to make it. The doctors tell me I need a heart transplant and I've decided not to get one. I can live maybe six months, maybe a year, maybe much less with this lousy heart I have. And besides, I'm too old to qualify for a transplant."

"Now what we have to think about," Vail said, "is two points good enough or should we push for three?"

Ernest Vail was in good spirits, and Claudia wondered again how anybody could believe he would commit suicide. He was bubbling over with glee that his threat had worked. And the very good red wine put them all into a merry mood that was slightly boastful. They were very pleased with themselves. The food itself, robustly Italian, fueled their energy.

Ernest Vail, Molly Flanders, and Claudia De Lena celebrated by having dinner at La Dolce Vita on Santa Monica. It was Claudia's favorite restaurant. She had memories of herself as a little girl being brought there by her father and being treated like royalty. She had memories of the bottles of red and white wine being stacked in all the window alcoves, on the back rails of banquettes, and in every vacant space. The customers could reach out and pluck a bottle as if they were grapes.

"Don't get greedy," Molly said. "The deal is made."

Vail kissed her hand movie-star style and said, "Molly you're a genius. A ruthless genius, true. How could you two browbeat a guy sick on his hospital bed?"

Molly dipped bread into tomato sauce. "Ernest," she said, "you will never understand this town. There is no mercy. Not when you're drunk, or on coke, or in love, or broke. Why make an exception for sick?"

Claudia said, "Skippy Deere once told me that when you're buying, take people to a Chinese restaurant, but when you're selling, take them to an Italian restaurant. Does that make any sense?"

"He's a producer," Molly said. "He read it someplace. It doesn't mean anything without a context."

Vail was eating with the gusto of a reprieved criminal. He had ordered three different kinds of pasta just for himself but gave small portions to Claudia and Molly and demanded their opinions. "The best Italian food in the world outside Rome," he said. "About Skippy, it makes a certain kind of movie sense. Chinese food is cheap, it brings the price down. Italian food can put you to sleep and make you less sharp. I like both. Isn't it nice to know that Skippy is always scheming?"

Vail always ordered three desserts. Not that he ate all of them, but he wanted to taste many different things at one dinner. In him it did not seem eccentric. Not even the way he dressed, as if clothes were to shield skin from wind or sun, or the way he carelessly shaved, one sideburn cut lower than the other. Not even his threat to kill himself seemed illogical or strange. Nor his complete and childish frankness, which often hurt people's feelings. Claudia was not unused to eccentricity. Hollywood abounded with eccentrics.

"I am not an eccentric," Vail said. "I'm not that sophisticated."

"You know, Ernest, you belong to Hollywood. You're eccentric enough," she said.

"That was an extremely cool-headed response to our culture," Vail said. "I was tired of being a nobody."

"You don't call wanting to kill yourself over a dispute about money eccentric?" Claudia said.

Vail had polished off his three pastas and was looking at his entrée, three pearly slices of veal covered with lemon. He picked up a fork and knife. "All that means shit," he said. "I have no money. It took me fifty-five years to learn that if you have no money, you're shit."

Claudia said impatiently, "How can you think that? You've written ten books, you've won the Pulitzer. You're internationally famous."

Vail put down his knife and fork. He patted Molly's arm. "You're right," he said. "Everything you say is true. I enjoy life from moment to moment. It's the arc of life that gets me down." He drank his glass of wine and then went on matter-of-factly. "I'm never going to write again," he said. "Writing novels is a dead end, like being a blacksmith. It's all movies and TV now."

Molly said, "You're not eccentric, you're crazy. And stop whining because you're not rich. You're not poor either. Or we wouldn't be here. You're not suffering too much for your art."

"That's all true," he said. "But a novelist can't make a good living unless he writes simple novels. And even that is a dead end. A novel can never be as simple as a movie."

"That's nonsense," Claudia said. "People will always read."

"You're just lazy," Molly said. "Any excuse not to write. That's the real reason why you wanted to kill yourself." They all laughed. Ernest helped them to the veal on his dish and then to the extra desserts. The only time he was courtly was over dinner, he seemed to take pleasure in feeding people.

Claudia said angrily, "Why do you put movies down? I've seen you cry at good movies. And they are art."

Vail was enjoying himself. After all, he had won his fight against the Studio, he had his points. "Claudia, I really agree," he said. "Movies are art. I complain out of envy. Movies are making novels irrelevant. What's the point of writing a lyrical passage about nature, painting the world in red heat, a beautiful sunset, a mountain range coated with snow, the awe-inspiring waves of great oceans." He was declaiming, waving his arms. "What can you write about passion and the beauty of women? What's the use of all that when you can see it on the movie screen in Technicolor? Oh, those mysterious women with full red lips, their magical eyes, when you can see them bare-assed, tits as delicious-looking as beef Wellington. All much better than real life even, never mind prose. And how can we write about the amazing deeds of heroes who slay their enemies by the hundred, who conquer great odds and great temptation, when you can get it all in gouts of blood before your eyes, tortured, agonized faces on the screen. Actors and cameras doing all the work without processing through the brain. Sly Stallone as Achilles in the Iliad. Now the one thing the screen can't do is get into the minds of their characters, it cannot duplicate the thinking process, the complexity of life." He paused for a moment, then said wistfully, "But you know what's worst of all? I'm an elitist. I wanted to be an artist to be something special. So what I hate is that movies are such a democratic art. Anybody can make a movie. You're right, Claudia, I've seen movies that moved me to tears and I know for a fact that the people who made them are moronic, insensitive, uneducated, and with not an iota of morality. The screenwriter is illiterate, the director an egomaniac, the producer a butcher of morality and the actors smash their fists into the wall or a mirror to show the audience they are upset. But then the movie works. How can that be? Because a movie uses sculpture, painting, music, human bodies, and technology to form itself, while a novelist only has a string of words, black print on white paper. And to tell the truth that's not so terrible. That's progress. And the new great art. A democratic art. And art without suffering. Just buy the right camera and meet with your friends."

"You are a condescending prick," Molly said. "Claudia fought for you, defended you. And I've been more patient with you than any murderer I've defended. And you buy us dinner to insult us."

Vail beamed at the two women. "Isn't it wonderful, an art that requires no real talent? What democracy, what therapy, to make your own movie. It will replace sex. I go to see your movie and you come to see mine. It's an art that will transform the world and for the better. Claudia, be happy that you are in an art form that is the future."

Claudia burst out laughing. "Ernest, you're so full of shit," she said.

Vail seemed genuinely astonished. "I'm not insulting, I'm just defining. I am grateful and I love you both." He paused for a moment and then said humbly, "I'm not saying I'm better than you."

"Just in real life," Vail said amiably. "Can we talk business a little bit? Molly, if I were dead and my family regained all the rights, would LoddStone pay five points?"

"At least five," Molly said. "Now you're going to kill yourself over extra points? You lose me entirely."

Vail said fondly, "Claudia, you have no idea what the real world is all about. Which makes you perfect to do screenplays. What the hell difference does it make if I'm happy? The happiest man who ever lived is going to have terrible times in his life. Terrible tragedies. Look at me now. I've just won a great victory, I don't have to kill myself. I'm enjoying this meal, I'm enjoying the company of you two beautiful, intelligent, compassionate women. And I love it that my wife and children will have economic security."

Claudia was looking at him, troubled. She distrusted his high spirits. "Ernest, are you still unhappy? We got you a wonderful deal. I was so thrilled."

"Then why the fuck are you whining?" Molly asked him. "Why are you spoiling a good time?"

"Because I can't write," Vail said. "Which is no great tragedy. It's not really important anymore but it's the only thing I know how to do." As he was saying this, he was finishing the three desserts with such evident enjoyment that the two women burst out laughing. Vail grinned back at them. "We sure bluffed out old Eli," he said.

"Screenwriters don't have writer's block because they don't write," Vail said. "I cannot write because I have nothing to say. Now let's talk about something more interesting. Molly, I've never understood how I can have ten percent of the profit of a picture that grosses one hundred million dollars and costs only fifteen million to make, and then never see a penny. That's one mystery I'd like to solve before I die."

"You take writer's block too seriously," Claudia said. "Just take some speed."

This put Molly in good spirits again; she loved to teach the law. She took a notebook out of her purse and scribbled down some figures.

"It's absolutely legal," she said. "They are abiding by the contract, one you should not have signed in the first place. Look, take the one-hundred-million gross. The theaters, the exhibitors, take half, so now the studio only gets fifty million, which is called rentals.

"OK. The studio takes out the fifteen million dollars the picture costs. Now there's thirty-five million left. But by the terms of your contract and most studio contracts, the studio takes thirty percent of the rentals for distribution costs on the film. That's another fifteen mil in their pockets. So you're down to twenty mil. Then they deduct the cost of making prints, the cost for advertising the picture, which could easily be another five. You're down to fifteen. Now here's the beauty. By contract, the studio gets twenty-five percent of the budget for studio overhead, telephone bills, electricity, use of soundstages etc. Now you're down to eleven. Good, you say. You'll take your piece of eleven million. But the Bankable Star gets at least five percent of the rentals, the director and producer another five percent. So that comes to another five million. You're down to six million. At last you'll get something. But not so fast. They then charge you all the costs of distribution, they charge fifty grand for delivering the prints to the English market, another fifty to France or Germany. And then finally they charge the interest on the fifteen million they borrowed to make the picture. And there they lose me. But that last six million disappears. That's what happens when you don't have me for a lawyer. I write a contract that really gets you a piece of the gold mine. Not gross for a writer but a very good definition of net. Do you understand it now?"

"TV you'll see a little," Molly said. "Nobody knows how much money they make in video."

Vail was laughing. "Not really," he said. "How about TV and video money?"

"Not the way I'll write the contract," Molly said. "It will be straight gross all the way."

Vail said mournfully, "Then I won't have a grievance anymore. I won't have an excuse for not writing."

"And my deal with Marrion now is straight gross?" Vail asked. "They can't screw me again?"

"You really are so eccentric," Claudia said.

"No, no," Vail said. "I'm just a fuckup. Eccentrics do odd things to distract people from what they do or are. They are ashamed. That's why movie people are so eccentric."

Who would have dreamed that dying could be so pleasant, that you could be so at peace, that you could be so without fear? That best of all you had solved the one great common myth?

Eli Marrion, in the long hours of the sick at night, sucked oxygen from the tube in the wall and reflected on his life. His private duty nurse, Priscilla, working a double shift, was reading a book by the dim lamp on the other side of the room. He could see her eyes dart quickly up and then down, as if checking him after every line she read.

He knew this penthouse floor held only these huge suites for very important people. Powerful politicians, real estate billionaires, stars who were the fading myths of the entertainment world. All kings in their own right and now, here in the night in this hospital, vassals to death. They lay helpless and alone, comforted by mercenaries, their power scattered. Tubes in bodies, prongs in nostrils, waiting for surgeon's knives to scour the debris from their failing hearts or, like himself, for a completely edited heart to be inserted. He wondered if they were as resigned as he.

And why that resignation? Why had he told the doctors he would not have a transplant, that he preferred to live only the short time his failing heart would give him. He thought that, thank God, he could still make intelligent decisions devoid of sentiment.

Marrion thought how different this scene was from how it would be in a movie. In a movie there would be a great deal of tension because he was hovering between life and death. The nurse would be crouched over his bed, doctors would be coming in and out. There should sure as hell be a lot of noise, a lot of tension. And here he was in a room absolutely quiet, the nurse reading, Marrion easily breathing through his plastic tube.

Number one: He was eighty years old and not a robust eighty. A heart transplant would disable him for a year, at the very best. Certainly he would never run LoddStone Studies again. Certainly most of his power over his world would vanish.

Everything was clear to him, like making a deal on a film: figuring the cost, the percentage of return, the value of subsidiary rights, the possible traps with stars, directors, and cost overages.

Number two: Life without power was intolerable. After all, what could an old man like himself do even with a fresh new heart? He could not play sports, run after women, take pleasure from food or drink. No, power was an old man's only pleasure, and why was that so bad? Power could be used for the good. Had he not granted mercy to Ernest Vail, against all prudent principles, against all his lifelong prejudices? Had he not told his doctors that he did not want to deprive a child or some young man the chance to have a new life by taking a heart? Was that not a use of power for the higher good?

He was satisfied in the life he had lived. He had fought his way from poverty to riches, he had conquered his fellow man. He had enjoyed all the pleasure of human life, loved beautiful women, lived in luxurious homes, worn the finest silks. And he had helped in the creation of art. He had earned enormous power and a great fortune. And he had tried to do good for his fellow man. He had contributed tens of millions to this very hospital. But most of all he had enjoyed struggling against his fellow man. And what was so terrible about that? How else could you acquire the power to do good? Even now he regretted the last act of mercy to Ernest Vail. You could not simply give the spoils of your struggle to your fellow man, especially under threat. But Bobby would take care of that. Bobby would take care of everything.

But he had had a long life of dealing with hypocrisy and recognized it now in himself. He had declined a new heart because it was not a good deal; a bottom-line decision. He had granted Ernest Vail his points because he desired the affection of Claudia and the respect of Molly Flanders, a sentimentality. Was it so terrible that he wanted to leave an image of goodness?

Far off he could hear a tiny bell, then the snakelike rattling of the fax machine transmitting the box office receipts compiled in New York. The stuttering making a refrain for his failing heart.

Bobby would plant the necessary publicity stories featuring his refusal of a heart transplant so that someone younger could have it. Bobby would recover all the gross points that existed. Bobby would get rid of his daughter's production company, which was a losing proposition for LoddStone. Bobby would take the rap.

The truth now. He had enough of life at its best. It was not his body that had ultimately betrayed him but his mind.

The truth now. He was disappointed in human beings. He had seen too many betrayals, too many pitiful weaknesses, too much greed for money and fame. The falseness between lovers, husbands, and wives, fathers, sons, mothers, daughters. Thank God for the films he had made that gave people hope and thank God for his grandchildren and thank God he would not see them grow up into the human condition.

The fax machine stilled its stutter, and Marrion could feel the fluttering of his failing heart. Early morning light filled his room. He saw the nurse flick off her lamp and close her book. It was so lonely to die with only this stranger in this room when he was loved by so many powerful people. Then the nurse was prying open his eyelids, putting her stethoscope to his chest. The huge doors to his hospital suite opened like the great door of some ancient temple and he could hear the rattling of dishes on the breakfast trays…

Then the room filled with bright lights. He could feel fists thumping his chest and wondered why they were doing this to him. A cloud was forming in his brain, filling it with mist. Through that mist voices were screaming. A line from a movie penetrated his oxygen-starved brain. "Is this how the Gods die?"

All of Hollywood would mourn but none more than the night duty nurse, Priscilla. She had done a double shift because she supported two small children, and it displeased her that Marrion had died on her shift. She prided herself on her reputation as one of the finest nurses in California. She hated death. But the book she had been reading had excited her and she had been planning how to talk with Marrion about making it into a movie. She would not be a nurse forever, she was a screenwriter on the side. Now she did not give up hope. This top floor of the hospital with its huge suites received the greatest men of Hollywood and she would stand guard for them against death forever.

He felt the electric shocks, the pummeling, the incision made to massage his heart with bare hands.

In reality, the nurse had gone to his bed some fifteen minutes after he was dead, so quietly had he died. She debated for maybe thirty seconds about calling an alert to try to bring him back to life. She was an old hand with death and more merciful. Why try to revive him to all the torture of reclaiming life? She went to the window and watched the sun rise and the pigeons strutting lustfully on the stone ledges. Priscilla was the final power deciding Marrion's fate… and his most merciful judge.

But all this had happened in Marrion's mind before he died, a mind saturated with thousands of movies he had watched.