THE CHAIRMAN
Part 1: Chewing-Gum Money
“A million dollars?” my college buddy scoffed. “That’s chewing-gum money to this guy.”
“Who spends a million dollars on gum?”
“He doesn’t. That’s the point.”
I laughed into my bourbon.
My friend had been manufacturing impossible stories since freshman year. Every rumor became a conspiracy. Every wealthy businessman secretly controlled a government somewhere. Every actress he claimed to have met had nearly fallen in love with him.
We were sitting in a worn-out Irish pub just off Flamingo Road. The place smelled of stale beer, fryer grease, and a carpet that had survived too many closing times. Above the bar, Madonna danced across a fuzzy television screen, singing “Like a Virgin.”
My friend leaned closer. “A West Coast tabloid started digging into the old man’s past.”
“So?”
“He bought the newspaper.”
I shrugged. “And?”
“Then he shut it down.”
I took another drink. “That’s one way to cancel a subscription.”
“No reporters. No archives. No printing presses. Gone.”
I pushed my empty glass toward him. “I’m genuinely touched by your concern for my career. Bartender—two Budweisers and two Jamesons. Since you’re changing my life tonight, you’re paying.”
He ignored the joke. “You remember that action star everyone thought was finished?”
“That narrows it down to about half of Hollywood.”
“His production company was dead. Bankruptcy lawyers were circling. Then, overnight, somebody poured tens of millions into it.”
That made me look up.
The story was true. A production company everyone had written off had suddenly announced three major action pictures. Nobody knew where the money had come from. Agents whispered. Executives behaved as though they had known all along.
My friend wasn’t connected enough to know any of that.
Unless—
I set down my glass. “Who’s the old man?”
He smiled. “Now you’re listening.”
“I was always listening.”
“No. You were flirting with Madonna.”
“She gets me. Now give me the name.”
He waited just long enough to irritate me.
“They call him the Chairman.”
“What does he do?”
“No one’s completely sure.”
“That usually means organized crime.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“He has more money than anyone can explain. Politicians return his calls. Men with bodyguards get nervous when they hear his name.”
“So what’s his actual name?”
He glanced toward the kitchen. “The fish and chips here look depressing.”
“No.”
“A steak might improve my memory.”
I stared at him. He stared back.
“Fine.” I raised my hand. “One T-bone. Medium rare. Put the steak on my tab.”
He grinned like he had just won something.
Then he finally told me.
I knew the name.
Not from Variety. Not from the business pages.
It was a name that came up whenever people talked about violence, organized crime, or the Mafia. They usually lowered their voices before saying it.
My smile disappeared.
That night, I barely slept.
In screenplay terms, every version of this kind of action noir or thriller ends more or less the same way.
Anyone who crosses paths with a man like the Chairman wakes up unimaginably rich—or quietly disappears from the world.
One or the other.
If I went through with it, I doubted I would be the exception.
Three days later, I put together a FedEx package.
The letter alone ran six pages—about five pages longer than any sane person would send to a man whose name made people lower their voices.
On the first page, I introduced myself. On the next five, I told him about the movie I intended to make. I explained why it mattered, why it could work, and why every respectable financier in Hollywood had suddenly lost the courage to touch it.
Then came the screenplay.
All eighty pages of the first draft.
I printed every page myself, checked the order twice, squared the stack against the edge of my desk, and fastened it with two black binder clips. By the time I slid it into the envelope, the package had enough weight to feel less like a proposal than a challenge.
I wanted him to understand that I wasn’t sending an idea.
I was sending the movie.
At the end of the letter, I informed him that I would be stopping by his house on Thursday evening.
I didn’t ask whether Thursday worked for him.
At twenty-six, confidence and stupidity were close enough to pass for twins.
I believed determination could open any door.
What I hadn’t learned was to ask who might be waiting on the other side.
Thursday night, I left the lights of Flamingo Road behind and drove northwest toward the old estates of Rancho Circle.
To be continued in The Chairman, Part 2.
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