a leather micro-mini. The woman on the billboard did not exist in
Serial Killer.
Maxi looked up at it again. Large text beside the sleek pair of legs read: THE LAST TIME YOU WILL EXPERIENCE A NEW JACK NATHANSON THRILLER !
Maxi winced. Beyond tasteless. This exploitive publicity so soon after Jack’s murder had to be the work of the notorious Alan
Bronstein, Monogram’s head of production. Bronstein—brilliant, charming, and a touch sinister by reputation—was coinerof the credo “It’s not how you play the game, but whether you open at number one.” He had met the young Janet Orson when she
was the new “girl” in the steno pool back when they were both at Fox. He’d been her protector and big brother, and the one
who’d encouraged her to become an agent. And she turned around and brought a lot of hot stars and great scripts his way. A
symbiotic relationship. Diller and Von Furstenburg. And it was common knowledge in this company town that Bronstein was, and
had been for years, in love with Janet Orson.
If it weren’t for Janet, industry gossip had it, Bronstein wouldn’t have
looked
at a Jack Nathanson movie. The two men had clashed famously several times through the years. Bronstein hated Nathanson, and
he especially hated that the brash, charismatic actor had married the woman he loved. Also, Bronstein was a businessman, and
Jack Nathanson hadn’t made a hit movie in ten years. That Monogram was distributing
Serial Killer,
Maxi knew, was strictly a gift for Janet.
Alan Bronstein was thinking about Janet Orson on the drive over Coldwater canyon to his lunch meeting at Mortons, the restaurant
where he and Janet had had a long-standing habit of having dinner together on Thursday nights. When Janet met Jack Nathanson,
Alan had warned her not to get involved with him. This was a bad guy, Alan had told her repeatedly, citing atrocities, stories
about how badly Nathanson had treated people in the course of business or pleasure. But Janet was not to be dissuaded. Then
came her call saying that Jack didn’t want her to have those Thursday night dinners with him anymore, because he wanted that
time with her himself.
Soon after, Janet Orson became the third Mrs. Jack Nathanson. For a long time Bronstein had no contact with her, and that
hurt. Until the day she turned up at his office unannounced. He’d surprised himself at how choked up he became. And then she
laid it on him. Jack’s production company neededa distributor for
Serial Killer,
and she wanted Alan to take the project on.
“Really!” Alan had said, raising his eyebrows. “But Jack doesn’t even
talk
to me. Why would he want me bringing out his picture?”
He would, she’d told him, and she didn’t have to explain why. Word was out that the picture was a dog, and nobody wanted to
touch it. But Alan Bronstein could never say no to Janet Orson.
She’d looked so small in his office, sitting opposite him in one of the big leather club chairs, Janet gamely standing by
her man. Bronstein, who had always been in the industry gossip pipeline, knew exactly what was going on in that marriage,
what he’d known was bound to go on, because Jack Nathanson was an animal who wouldn’t change. He was cheating on her in Vegas,
partying with Sammy Minnetti and the good old boys when he’d go there to gamble or see a fight; he’d cheat on her on movie
locations; he was even doing it right under her nose with some tough hooker disc jockey, Bronstein had heard.
He worried about Janet. He worried about Jack bringing home diseases. He worried that Janet would be publicly humiliated.
And he worried about her assets, worried that being married to Jack, who was rumored to be pretty much tapped out, her money
would go out a lot quicker than it came in. Somebody, he’d vowed to himself that day, had to stop Jack Nathanson.
He pulled into the parking lot at Mortons now, and a young parking attendant rushed over. “Hi,
Serial Killer.
Maxi looked up at it again. Large text beside the sleek pair of legs read: THE LAST TIME YOU WILL EXPERIENCE A NEW JACK NATHANSON THRILLER !
Maxi winced. Beyond tasteless. This exploitive publicity so soon after Jack’s murder had to be the work of the notorious Alan
Bronstein, Monogram’s head of production. Bronstein—brilliant, charming, and a touch sinister by reputation—was coinerof the credo “It’s not how you play the game, but whether you open at number one.” He had met the young Janet Orson when she
was the new “girl” in the steno pool back when they were both at Fox. He’d been her protector and big brother, and the one
who’d encouraged her to become an agent. And she turned around and brought a lot of hot stars and great scripts his way. A
symbiotic relationship. Diller and Von Furstenburg. And it was common knowledge in this company town that Bronstein was, and
had been for years, in love with Janet Orson.
If it weren’t for Janet, industry gossip had it, Bronstein wouldn’t have
looked
at a Jack Nathanson movie. The two men had clashed famously several times through the years. Bronstein hated Nathanson, and
he especially hated that the brash, charismatic actor had married the woman he loved. Also, Bronstein was a businessman, and
Jack Nathanson hadn’t made a hit movie in ten years. That Monogram was distributing
Serial Killer,
Maxi knew, was strictly a gift for Janet.
Alan Bronstein was thinking about Janet Orson on the drive over Coldwater canyon to his lunch meeting at Mortons, the restaurant
where he and Janet had had a long-standing habit of having dinner together on Thursday nights. When Janet met Jack Nathanson,
Alan had warned her not to get involved with him. This was a bad guy, Alan had told her repeatedly, citing atrocities, stories
about how badly Nathanson had treated people in the course of business or pleasure. But Janet was not to be dissuaded. Then
came her call saying that Jack didn’t want her to have those Thursday night dinners with him anymore, because he wanted that
time with her himself.
Soon after, Janet Orson became the third Mrs. Jack Nathanson. For a long time Bronstein had no contact with her, and that
hurt. Until the day she turned up at his office unannounced. He’d surprised himself at how choked up he became. And then she
laid it on him. Jack’s production company neededa distributor for
Serial Killer,
and she wanted Alan to take the project on.
“Really!” Alan had said, raising his eyebrows. “But Jack doesn’t even
talk
to me. Why would he want me bringing out his picture?”
He would, she’d told him, and she didn’t have to explain why. Word was out that the picture was a dog, and nobody wanted to
touch it. But Alan Bronstein could never say no to Janet Orson.
She’d looked so small in his office, sitting opposite him in one of the big leather club chairs, Janet gamely standing by
her man. Bronstein, who had always been in the industry gossip pipeline, knew exactly what was going on in that marriage,
what he’d known was bound to go on, because Jack Nathanson was an animal who wouldn’t change. He was cheating on her in Vegas,
partying with Sammy Minnetti and the good old boys when he’d go there to gamble or see a fight; he’d cheat on her on movie
locations; he was even doing it right under her nose with some tough hooker disc jockey, Bronstein had heard.
He worried about Janet. He worried about Jack bringing home diseases. He worried that Janet would be publicly humiliated.
And he worried about her assets, worried that being married to Jack, who was rumored to be pretty much tapped out, her money
would go out a lot quicker than it came in. Somebody, he’d vowed to himself that day, had to stop Jack Nathanson.
He pulled into the parking lot at Mortons now, and a young parking attendant rushed over. “Hi,
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