purchase.”
“Jesus
.…” Chancellor was stunned. The figure Joshua Harris alluded to was in the range of a quarter million dollars. “For what?”
“For you to walk away and not make waves over the adaptation.”
Peter stared at the billowing drapes in front of the glass doors. There was something very inconsistent, terribly wrong.
“Are you still there?” asked Harris.
“Wait a minute. You say controversy could only help the receipts. Yet Sheffield’s willing to pay all that money to avoid controversy. He’s got to lose. It doesn’t make sense.”
“I’m not his analyst. I just heard the money. Maybe he wants to keep his balls intact.”
“No. I know Sheffield, believe me; I know the wayhe operates. His balls are expendable.” Suddenly, Chancellor understood. “Sheffield has a partner, Josh. And it’s not the studio. It’s the government. It’s Washington! They’re the ones who don’t want the controversy. To quote from a far better writer than I’ll ever be, they ‘can’t stand the light of day’! Goddamn it, that’s
it
.”
“It crossed my mind,” admitted Harris.
“You tell Sheffield to shove his bonus. I’m not interested!”
Again, the agent paused. “I may as well tell you the rest. Sheffield’s collected statements from all over Los Angeles and points north and south. The picture isn’t pleasant. You’re described as a wild alcoholic and something of a menace.”
“Good for Sheffield! Controversy hypes the gross receipts. We’ll sell twice as many books!”
“He says he has more,” continued Harris. “He claims he has sworn affidavits from women who accuse you of rape and physical abuse. He has photographs—police photographs—that show the damage you’ve inflicted. One’s a kid from Beverly Hills who’s fourteen years old. He has friends who’ll swear they removed narcotics from you when you passed out in their homes. He says you even attacked his wife, which is something he’d rather not make public but will if he has to. He says they’ve been cleaning up after you for weeks.”
“They’re lies! Josh, that’s crazy! There’s no truth in any of that!”
“That may be the problem. There’s probably a few grains of truth. I don’t mean the rape or the abuse or the narcotics; that stuff’s easily manufactured. But you’ve been drinking, you haven’t returned calls, there’ve been women. And I know Sheffield’s wife. I don’t rule her out, but I’m sure you weren’t the cause of it.”
Chancellor lurched from the bed. His head was spinning, the pain in his temples throbbed. “I don’t know what to say! I don’t believe this!”
“I know what to say; I know what to believe,” said Joshua Harris. “They’re not playing by any rules I’ve ever heard of.”
Varak leaned forward in the velvet sofa and opened his briefcase on the coffee table. He withdrew two file folders, placed them in front of him, and moved the caseto one side. The morning sun was streaming through the windows overlooking Central Park South, filling the elegant hotel suite with shafts of yellowish white light.
Across the room Munro St. Claire had poured himself a cup of coffee from a carafe on a silver tray. He sat opposite the intelligence man.
“Are you sure I can’t get you a cup?” asked Bravo.
“No, thanks. I’ve gone through several pots this morning. Incidentally, I appreciate your flying up. It saves time.”
“Every day is vital,” replied St. Claire. “Every hour those files are missing is an hour we can’t afford. What have you got?”
“Just about everything we need. My primary sources were Chancellor’s editor, Anthony Morgan, and his literary agent, a man named Joshua Harris.”
“They cooperated so easily?”
“It wasn’t difficult. I convinced them it was standard procedure for a minimum-security clearance.”
“Security clearance for what?”
Varak separated a page in the left file folder. “Before his accident Chancellor had
“Jesus
.…” Chancellor was stunned. The figure Joshua Harris alluded to was in the range of a quarter million dollars. “For what?”
“For you to walk away and not make waves over the adaptation.”
Peter stared at the billowing drapes in front of the glass doors. There was something very inconsistent, terribly wrong.
“Are you still there?” asked Harris.
“Wait a minute. You say controversy could only help the receipts. Yet Sheffield’s willing to pay all that money to avoid controversy. He’s got to lose. It doesn’t make sense.”
“I’m not his analyst. I just heard the money. Maybe he wants to keep his balls intact.”
“No. I know Sheffield, believe me; I know the wayhe operates. His balls are expendable.” Suddenly, Chancellor understood. “Sheffield has a partner, Josh. And it’s not the studio. It’s the government. It’s Washington! They’re the ones who don’t want the controversy. To quote from a far better writer than I’ll ever be, they ‘can’t stand the light of day’! Goddamn it, that’s
it
.”
“It crossed my mind,” admitted Harris.
“You tell Sheffield to shove his bonus. I’m not interested!”
Again, the agent paused. “I may as well tell you the rest. Sheffield’s collected statements from all over Los Angeles and points north and south. The picture isn’t pleasant. You’re described as a wild alcoholic and something of a menace.”
“Good for Sheffield! Controversy hypes the gross receipts. We’ll sell twice as many books!”
“He says he has more,” continued Harris. “He claims he has sworn affidavits from women who accuse you of rape and physical abuse. He has photographs—police photographs—that show the damage you’ve inflicted. One’s a kid from Beverly Hills who’s fourteen years old. He has friends who’ll swear they removed narcotics from you when you passed out in their homes. He says you even attacked his wife, which is something he’d rather not make public but will if he has to. He says they’ve been cleaning up after you for weeks.”
“They’re lies! Josh, that’s crazy! There’s no truth in any of that!”
“That may be the problem. There’s probably a few grains of truth. I don’t mean the rape or the abuse or the narcotics; that stuff’s easily manufactured. But you’ve been drinking, you haven’t returned calls, there’ve been women. And I know Sheffield’s wife. I don’t rule her out, but I’m sure you weren’t the cause of it.”
Chancellor lurched from the bed. His head was spinning, the pain in his temples throbbed. “I don’t know what to say! I don’t believe this!”
“I know what to say; I know what to believe,” said Joshua Harris. “They’re not playing by any rules I’ve ever heard of.”
Varak leaned forward in the velvet sofa and opened his briefcase on the coffee table. He withdrew two file folders, placed them in front of him, and moved the caseto one side. The morning sun was streaming through the windows overlooking Central Park South, filling the elegant hotel suite with shafts of yellowish white light.
Across the room Munro St. Claire had poured himself a cup of coffee from a carafe on a silver tray. He sat opposite the intelligence man.
“Are you sure I can’t get you a cup?” asked Bravo.
“No, thanks. I’ve gone through several pots this morning. Incidentally, I appreciate your flying up. It saves time.”
“Every day is vital,” replied St. Claire. “Every hour those files are missing is an hour we can’t afford. What have you got?”
“Just about everything we need. My primary sources were Chancellor’s editor, Anthony Morgan, and his literary agent, a man named Joshua Harris.”
“They cooperated so easily?”
“It wasn’t difficult. I convinced them it was standard procedure for a minimum-security clearance.”
“Security clearance for what?”
Varak separated a page in the left file folder. “Before his accident Chancellor had
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