Malibu, California
December 20, 1996

"Hi, Jerry!"
       Jerry Lowell looked up from the Blaupunkt stereo he'd been fidgeting with as he waited for the sturdy, classy gate that guarded the private road to swing open. The windows of the scarlet Ferrari were down, and the ocean-salted air carried the girl's voice easily to him. He straightened up, and the sound of the leather seat giving beneath him pleased him still.
       There were two girls, both on horseback, both a couple of years younger than him, both stunning. Their horses were both on the shared road of this exclusive beach community, just outside the gate. Jerry smiled, waved, and adjusted the Gianni Versace sunglasses on his face—a pair more expensive than any he'd ever considered buying in his twenty years. He'd bought them, but not with his own money. Terrance Cross had set him up with an account at an Italian place on Rodeo, insisting he suit himself accordingly for his couple of weeks of being introduced to Hollywood. Terrance had referred to the account as an investment, and good-naturedly ordered the young Phoenix playwright-turned-screenwriter to spare no expense. Hey, one didn't say no to Terrance Cross. The pants he now wore were linen, the fine black long-sleeve shirt was silk, and even his socks were imported. Imported socks. Could one possibly get more Hollywood than that?
       He let off the brake and rolled the sports car up toward the girls, not wanting to gun the engine and spook the horses. The mares only edged a little. The girls kept them well in control. Both girls, he knew without asking, had been riding since their childhood.
       "Hey, Monica," he grinned at the sweet young blonde who'd greeted him, easing the Ferrari to a halt. "Hi, Kelly," he also said to her dazzling redhead roommate, both of whom he'd met two days before when he and Shane had come back from sight-seeing and shopping. Both were college freshmen, he'd found out, back for the holidays from Yale, staying at Monica's father's beach house. Her father was a studio exec at Warner. Mom was somewhere in Europe, now Dad's ex. The step-Mom now in the picture was an actress not much older than Monica.
       "Hi, Jerry," Kelly greeted with a wave and a bright smile.
       "Been riding the beach this morning?" Jerry asked.
       "Yeah," Monica said, patting the beautiful animal she rode. "These poor things don't get much exercise when I'm at school. How come you're not on the beach? It's a beautiful day!"
       "Yeah, that it is," Jerry agreed, a part of him quietly marveling at how smooth he was being with a couple of girls that would have intimidated the crap out of him back in Arizona. Amazing what imported socks and a hundred-thousand dollar car could do for a guy's self-esteem. "But I've got a meeting with some studio people. You know how it is. Business."
       "Oh, sure," she laughed, knowing that well enough from her family life, he knew. But he also knew—and was pretty sure he wasn't just listening to his ego—that she was impressed that a guy right around her age was part of it. Again, the marveling. He was impressing this girl.
       "Well, listen," she said, suddenly brightening up even more, "we're having a party tonight down at the house. My dad's in Aspen for a couple of days, so we're having some people over. Would you come? You've got to be there!"
       "Aw," Jerry said, with polite sadness. "I'd really love to. But I'm already tied up. Got to see some people tonight. Some party up in the Hills. I'd blow it off, but I'm still making contacts, and I really can't miss it."
       "Aw," Monica said, with more genuine sadness. "That's too bad. But, hey, we'll have to get together before you guys head back to Phoenix. You're here through New Year's, right?"
       "Yeah, sure," Jerry smiled. "We can find some time in there somewhere, I'm sure. I'll talk to Chris—" After three days of the ruse, it was finally becoming natural using Shane's big-fake-protect-the-secret-identity name. "—and we'll see if we can't set something up."
       "Great!" Monica beamed. "Just give us a call. You've got the number, right?"
       "Sure do," Jerry nodded. "We'll do that. Hey, listen, hate to cut this short, but I've got to get Hollywood, so you girls enjoy the rest of your day, okay?"
       "Okay!" Monica said. "See you soon, Jerry!"
       "Bye, Jerry," Kelly said, leaning down from her horse a bit to see in the Ferrari better, giving him a look that subtly suggested that maybe these two hadn't decided which of them got to have him yet. Or, maybe that was his ego again. Maybe.
       "Bye, Kelly," Jerry smiled with a wave. He shifted, took the wheel, and slowly pulled the Ferrari past them. When he'd gotten clear enough to not freak the horses, he gingerly revved the engine and easily hugged the curves up the windy road. Soon he was checking traffic both ways on Pacific Coast Highway, and when a small space was clear, he floored it, squealing the tires and leaving the private road to the beach in the dust.
       The morning wind was in his hair, and his shirt flapped against his chest. The view of the ocean out of his passenger window still hadn't gotten old yet. Sure, he could see the ocean right out the living room window in his Malibu home (hey...for the next few days, it was his, after all), but from here, heading up PCH, he could see the whole coast.
       He left the CDs he'd bought in the case on the floorboard, opting for the rare treat of L.A. radio instead. Someone was playing old Peter Gabriel...specifically, Big Time. The irony made him break out into a smile. Then a laugh...a loud, triumphant, half-mad laugh. What good was it being in the situation he was in if he didn't take the time to sit back and just enjoy it? He was driving a Ferrari in Malibu. He was turning down gorgeous babes for parties he could only have fantasized of being invited to before. He was on his way for a meeting to discuss his future as a Hollywood player.
       And then, there was Connie.
       Howling happily out his window in celebration (and not caring who heard him), Jerry Lowell shifted again, hit the gas, and flew up the PCH, heading for Hollywood.
       Hollywood.
       Hooray for Hollywood.

Wilshire Boulevard
Beverly Hills, California

       The place was a controlled state of madness—a kind of state that descended on such gatherings after years of repetition. Just a way of life in Hollywood.
       The press were packed into their velvet-roped area for the annual event, reporters and columnists from around the world that had found their inevitable second home in this city, since this was, without fail, where the action always was. There were actually more of them than usual in town, as the big Montgomery sisters murder trial was going on in Beverly Hills, and the whole world seemed to be wrapped up in it. Flashbulbs went off regularly, and film was frantically, yet calmly, changed when the time was due. Videographers balanced their cameras on their shoulders, the feel of the weight comfortable and familiar, their practiced aim centered but ready to pivot at a moment's notice. They all vied for position, pushing against one another, never getting angry when they were on the receiving end of the nudges, an understanding known only in the press and concert mosh pits.
       Inside the main entrance to L.A.'s Planet Hollywood, the stars were indeed shining. The restaurant's four super-star partners stood near the kitchen entrance at a podium with practiced, easy smiles on their faces. Arnold Schwarzenegger and his wife Maria. Bruce Willis and his star-power-equal wife Demi Moore. Sylvester Stallone, going stag this evening, and showing a little extra weight, which he regularly assured people—friends and press alike—was just put on for an upcoming movie role. And Terrance Cross, the most recent partner to join the internationally-heralded group of actor/restaurateurs, alone as always since the much-covered and mourned death of his wife Gina years before.
       And in an unusual twist, all of them were wearing cheery red Santa hats.
       Children were gathered on the floor all around, jabbering with youthful excitement amongst themselves. This was a mix of children one would expect to never see together...children of the many celebrities gathered, and needy children from orphanages and low-income programs. But together they were, once every year, at the annual Planet Hollywood Christmas party, an event that was one part celebration, one part charity fund-raiser, and about twelve parts media frenzy.
       Terry Bradshaw, off to the side with the amazing assemblage of other household names, waved at his daughters with his half-winning, half-goofball smile, and camera flashes bounced off the plentiful baldness of his famous cranium. Next to him, Samuel L. Jackson was laughing, watching the children putting on their inadvertent comedy show that seemed to signal the season like nothing else.
       "All right, everyone," Arnold said into a mic with a Planet Hollywood logo on it (suggesting that the restaurant might actually have its own news station somewhere back in the kitchen) with his undefeatable Austrian accent. "We're about ready to start." The last word seemed to have a couple of extra vowels in it. "Is everybody having a good time?"
       A chorus of children's voices yelled out affirmative, and celebrities and press alike laughed and smiled—though a lot fewer of the press, as many were too focused on trying to figure out which kids belonged to the famous and get the shot that would bring the big cash. The kids, for the most part, cared little about such things. All they cared about was that it was Christmas.
       "Excellent!" Arnold beamed, and Maria smiled and took his arm. "Have you all been very, very good this year?"
       The children shouted yeah! again, and Christian Slayter—whose younger siblings were in the large group of youngsters, turned and gave Charlie Sheen a knowing glance. Charlie shrugged and looked innocent, and pointed to himself in a comical "who, me?" gesture.
       "Well we'll find that out soon enough, won't we?" Arnold waved a warning finger with a smile. The children laughed. He then turned to Terrance Cross, whose turn it appeared to be.
       Terrance stepped up to the mic, then. Unlike the other partners, most of his films—his acting films, back when he was making the Mac Knight series, before he became strictly a big-budget producer—were unknown to these children, since they came out before most of them were born. But many of the children's charities that would be receiving funds tonight were founded by him, and he'd visited many of the shelters and orphanages that the less fortunate children called home, and his face was known to most all of them. Even the celebrity children, who always enjoyed the occasional evening when "Uncle Terrance" would come by (often with great gifts in tow). This event had been his baby for years, and the Planet boys had just been kind enough to let him use their space and their pull to host it. This was his first year throwing it as a full partner.
       "Well first, kids," he said, "we've got a very special guest who's come a long way to meet you all."
       "Santa!" a young Hispanic girl called out, genuine love in her voice. This brought laughter from the grownups, and jitters of anticipation from the kids.
       Terrance laughed. "Well, I'm sure he's around here somewhere, too, but we're not quite ready for him yet. He's probably having a little trouble finding a parking spot for that sled."
       More laughter from the grownups, who knew L.A. all too well.
       "But in the meantime, we've brought a special friend who wanted to meet you all and wish you a Merry Christmas. Would you like to meet him?"
       The kids affirmed again. So maybe it wasn't Santa, but chances were if the grownups were making such a big deal, it must be something good.
       "Well, all right," Terrance smiled, looking oddly like a proud father. He gave the press a look at this point, loving the fact that for once, they had no idea what was about to happen. He turned toward the kitchen doors. "Why don't you come on out here and meet everyone?" he said loudly.
       The doors cautiously swung open, and a young man of twenty, dressed in a blue and white costume, wearing a mask, and carrying a short metallic board, stepped out.
       There was a marvelous (to Terrance) moment of silence, while the grownups' brains tried to figure out if this was some kind of hoax, or the real deal. Then they knew. They just knew. It wasn't some actor in a rented costume, not some publicity stunt (which wouldn't have been Terrance's style).
       It was really him.
       "Windjammer!" one of the children yelled out excitedly.
       The press went out of their minds, and the poles holding the velvet ropes tumbled over with a crash.
       "Oh, shit!" Sam Jackson said, his jaw dropping and his eyes bulging with stunned disbelief. "Terrance brought the motherfuckin' Superfriends!"

       Security had been prepared for this, just barely in advance, and large men in Planet Hollywood jackets leapt into position and fought the press back. Wrangled, the reporters kept their distance, but jerked their cameras up high, and the restaurant exploded in blinding flashes and screamed-out questions.
       Security had been prepared. Windjammer had thought he was. He was wrong.
       Shane tried hard to keep the calm, celebrity smile he'd promised himself he'd be good at, and tried not to look like the antelope in the high beams he felt like. The moment was insane. He'd been on camera before. He'd been filmed. But never this close. Never this...personal. A weird vision hit him...like every one of those reporters represented a nation, and the whole wide world was suddenly looking right at him at the same time. Some of the journalists looked frighteningly like carnivores, and he feared if they broke the through the struggling security line, they'd swallow him whole.
       He'd tried to prepare, and Terrance had tried to warn him. But there was no preparation for something like this. For the last several months, he'd started getting used to the idea of fame, and had been working through all his issues with it. But now, he'd just crossed the line, finally and completely. All of a sudden, he belonged to the world. There really was no turning back.
       "Who are you?!" a reporter screamed. "How do you fly?!"
       "Where did you come from?!"
       "Are you an alien?!"
       "—an angel?!"
       "—jets in the board?!"
       "—sent by—"
       "—why have you—"
       "—why now—"
       "—Delight—"
       "—Americana—"
       "—over here!!"
       He winced at all the flashes, and couldn't help but raise his hand against them. He was almost totally blind all a sudden. Sightless, and a whirlwind of voices and questions filling his ears. He was completely disoriented.
       He felt a hand on his shoulder, and was sure it was Terrance's. And he thanked God for that.
       "Over this way," Terrance said into his ear, just loud enough for him to hear. "And keep smiling. You're doing great."
       Terrance turned him around toward the kids, and his eyesight, spotty though it was, started to return. The children had rushed up and gathered around, and were looking up at him with awe and smiles. He'd never been happier to see a group of kids in his life.
       Bruce Willis had stepped past them and was addressing the press with his arms raised. "All right, all right, all right!" He yelled. "No questions, no interviews. Boy's just here to say hi to the kids. Just hold it back there and get your pictures, folks. Many as you want. Let's not trample any kids here."
       Security had to work a little extra at it, but managed to keep them back. But that didn't stop the questions. This had been totally unannounced. One of the greatest marvels of the modern age, every reporter's greatest wish for a scoop, and Terrance had been hiding him in the kitchen.
       Terrance spoke into Windjammer's ear again, still smiling and waving at the press. "No interviews, kid, just like I said. That comes later. We're just giving them a little taste. Keep smiling."
       And he did. And that day, a whole planet fell in love with that smile.

       Security finally dragged out the Plexiglas barriers for the press area, sheets four feet tall and sturdy. Reporters stayed corralled behind, taking their pictures, speaking feverishly into cell phones back to whatever paper or network had sent them. The reporter from "E" had to have her make-up girl rush in for some spot work, as she'd managed to pick up a black eye in all the initial commotion.
       Windjammer stood in the middle of the kids, though Terrance and Bruce had moved them all back a bit from the reporters. The kids were asking plenty of questions of their own, but wide-eyed, innocent questions, without the frantic need and buried agendas of the adults nearby. Shane was smiling, laughing every once in a while, talking to them all. He asked their names and shook hands, and held out his board for them all to touch (hey...they asked). They were helping put him more at ease. Kids always did. He loved kids...and it showed.
       "Just look at him," Demi said, leaning over to Maria. "All that, and good with kids, too? He can't be real."
       "Looks real enough to me," Maria said back, quietly.
       "Why, Maria," Demi joked slyly, nudging her friend of consequence.
       "Oh, stop," Maria said back, suddenly blushing, fighting back an embarrassed smile.
       Demi broke out into a laugh. Arnold looked back at them, saw the laughter, looked confused for a moment, and smiled and nodded at them, clearly having no idea what was going on. That made them both laugh all the harder.
       "You can really fly?" a wide-eyed boy asked, taking his turn at touching the board, cautiously...like it might come to life right under his fingers. "It's not just a TV trick?"
       "Sure I can," Windjammer said, crouching down closer to their level, and making sure every kid got their turn with the board.
       "Does the board make you fly?"
       "Naw," Windjammer smiled. "It's just a board, like a snowboard or a surfboard. I just use it ride on the wind, like surfers ride on the waves. The wind makes me fly."
       "How does the wind do that?" a little girl asked.
       "'Cause the wind does what I ask it to do."
       "Why?" the girl asked.
       Windjammer thought about it, and smiled a little to himself. "I don't know." It was a very honest answer, to a question that always traveled with him like a faithful sidekick. "I guess the wind just likes me."
       Terrance stood nearby, smiling, arms crossed, proud and victorious in his Santa hat. Oh, he was Santa today, all right. Sure, not a dead ringer like the jolly bearded actor waiting up in his office, the one he got to hand out the gifts to the kids every year. But he was giving a gift to the whole world this Christmas.
       Stallone walked up next to him, watching as Windjammer set his board down let kids take turns standing on it.
       "Kid's a natural," he said. "You were right."
       "Rocko, my boy," Terrance said, watching the press frenzy continue, and looking out at the stalled traffic on Wilshire, evidencing that word had already begun to spread. "You ain't seen nothin’ yet."

Sunset Boulevard
West Hollywood, California

       Jerry eased the Ferrari out of traffic and over to the sidewalk, downshifting and reveling in the sounds of the smooth engine. No sooner had he stopped than a sandy-haired guy around his age, dressed smartly in black pants, a white shirt and a bow tie, came jogging over. Jerry turned off the engine, pulled out the keys, and opened the door. The valet waited with a smile.
       "How are you today, sir?" he asked.
       "Good," Jerry said, handing over the keys. He reached for his wallet, trying to figure out if this valet was an actor or a writer or, for all he knew, a struggling young director. Seemed everyone in this town just had their current job to tide them over until their big break. He pulled out a twenty and pressed it into the valet's palm. In any other circumstance, he'd never think of tossing such a big tip for something simple as a parking job (even his father, a semi-regular in the Scottsdale resort circuit, wouldn't shell out more than a five unless he was really trying to impress a client). But he was in Hollywood. He also felt the need to make a good impression for Terrance's sake, no matter what the circumstance. And he was driving a Ferrari, for crying out loud. Forking over a couple of singles with that in mind would peg him, he felt, for a phony right away. And he was very much enjoying all these people thinking he was one of them. But then...he was actually on his way to becoming one of them, wasn't he?
       "Thank you, sir," his valet smiled casually, apparently being no stranger to big tippers. "Enjoy your lunch."
       "Thanks," Jerry smiled back, and left (sadly) his Ferrari behind and headed inside.
       Inside to Spago.
       All his life, Jerry had caught mentions of this world-famous restaurant, spoken of in gossip columns and celebrity sighting reports in the magazines. It was an integral part of Hollywood mythos, a place where the powerful met and brokered deals, where careers started and ended. He'd never thought he'd even see the place in his lifetime, much less be going inside...and for a meeting with studio people. He wondered, absently, just when the urges to pinch himself were going to stop on this trip.
       He stepped inside, and the sounds of the street faded as the doors closed behind him, replaced by a rumbling din of human traffic. The place was packed, and suits were everywhere. Waiters and waitresses moved briskly between tables. The people eating here rarely had time to waste, and service had to be quick and exceptional. He thought maybe another factor kept the service level up. Maybe the hired help each carried a little dream that the studio exec they read the specials off for would be so impressed that they'd offer them a part in an upcoming feature. Stranger things had happened in Hollywood.
       There was a podium just inside the entry, and a tanned man in a fine suit was there, talking quietly with a waiter, his tone suggesting great importance. The waiter was nodding, listening carefully, occasionally looking over at the table the suited man must have been referring to. Jerry looked at the podium as he approached, at the large leather book open there. He fought back the urge to get closer and read the names listed under reservations there, wondering how many of the names he'd recognize.
       The man in the suit finished his talking with a look that asked for understanding. The waiter nodded and hurried on his way. The man turned then to Jerry, and smiled non-comittaly. Jerry guessed he probably saved the whole smiles for people he knew had reservations, and spent half his time turning the unlucky others away. Jerry suddenly felt a little flush, and sort of on trial.
       "May I help you, sir?" the man asked.
       "Uh, yeah," Jerry said, trying to act casual but realizing he really didn't know what to say. A sudden fear hit him that if he didn't give the right code word, a couple of those speedy waiters would be called over to toss him out onto the sidewalk. "I've...um...I mean I—"
       "Jerry!"
       Jerry's eyes followed the sound of the voice, and a beautiful blonde with a dazzling smile stood up from her table and started heading over. He felt a double wave of relief and warmth.
       Connie.
       She was about twenty-six, and was just about everything he'd ever imagined about L.A. Women. Tall, but not too tall. Oh-oh-oh so blonde. Every time her saw her long, silky (yes, silky) hair he thought of all those slow-motion high-end shampoo commercials. He wondered which one she used, and what idiot running marketing there hadn't already signed her up for a spot. Whatever it was—he discovered the first time they'd met—it made her hair smell absolutely heavenly.
       Today she wore what passed for business-wear in West Hollywood—a green dress that was the perfect combination of high and low. Somehow, as she crossed the room toward him, he managed to be able to take his eyes off her long enough to notice the men at the tables along her path. They all (well, most) tried to be casual about it, but couldn't help stealing a glance. How could they, with legs like that in the room?
       Well, forget it, fellas, he thought, though he magnanimously "allowed" them their stolen looks. She's all mine.
       And as she stepped around the podium, smiling, and took his hand, he knew every guy in the joint now knew it.
       "Right on time," she said with pronounced fondness, and leaned in and kissed him. Okay, so it was a Hollywood kiss, kind of a semi-standard greeting, he supposed. He'd learned that when they'd first met, two days before, at Terrance's place. She'd dropped by for the initial how-do-you-do while he and Terrance were talking over details on the script. They'd had to stop talking, too, because, true to his word, Terrance had told no one—not his personal assistant Ash, and apparently not even the so-called "wonder girl" of KnightCross's script department—just what Jerry had written for him. Terrance had happily introduced them, and she had kissed Jerry on the cheek. Took him a little by surprise, but it was a nice surprise, and he took it in stride. He was even more surprised—and even less willing to complain—when at their first one-on-one meeting at her KnightCross office yesterday, the meeting that ended in the making of today's lunch plans, she has kissed him on the lips as they'd parted at the door. Sure, again, it was certainly all just Hollywood social norms—norms that (poor him) he'd just have to get used to.
       But was it his imagination, or did today's kiss last just a little bit longer?
       She smiled at him and took his arm, and led him gently back toward her table. She turned to the suit at the podium and said, "Thanks, Philip."
       Philip nodded graciously, and gave the two of them a whole smile. Apparently, Jerry mused, the code-word was "Connie".
       "Any trouble finding the place?" she asked as they walked back across the leer gauntlet. Yeah, keep looking, chumps, but it's my arm those fingers are curled around.
       "Not a one," Jerry said, taking in her perfume and trying not to look like it. "You give good direction."
       She laughed. "Was that just a Hollywood joke, Jerry?"
       He rolled his eyes in a kind of self-mocking. "Kind of a weak one, but yeah."
       "I think you're getting the hang of this town already," she smiled, she squeezed his arm a little as they reached the table. He felt her hip brush against his, and started feeling a little light above the shoulders. Would it be a breach of etiquette, he wondered, if he was just to come out and tell her how magnificent she looked in green? Maybe if he waited until after the appetizers, it would go over better...
       But, alas, he was reminded as they reached the table, the two of them weren't dining alone this afternoon.
       Oh, right. His career. He remembered that now. Career first, plunging neckline second. He would somehow try to keep that equation straight in his head.
       "Jerry," she said as they stopped, "I'd like you to meet David Carroll, VP of development over at Fox."
       A fortyish man with slicked-back hair and a really great tie (Jerry had become much more attuned to ties after his hours of shopping) stood up from his seat at Connie's table and extended his hand professionally. "Hi, Jerry," he said in a deep, confident voice. "It's a pleasure."
       Jerry shook his hand, trying not to sound nervous. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Carroll."
       The man gave a short, good-natured laugh. "David. Please," he said.
       Jerry flushed a bit, feeling like he'd just made faux pas number one (and he'd so hoped for a score of zero). This was the Hollywood elite, where they knew each other's last names very well, but probably never used them when conversing with one another. First names. Part of the etiquette. Probably okay to substitute "babe" for the first name every once in a while, of course...
       "Shall we?" Connie asked, and motioned for Jerry to sit.
       "Of course," Jerry smiled, and pulled out his chair. The three of them settled in, but he and "David" were both careful to make sure Connie was seated before they were. For just a moment, Jerry found himself thinking not about the fact that this guy was one of the most powerful people in the business, and was here today specifically to meet him, but wondering just how well he and Connie knew each other, and how long she paused before pulling away from a greeting/parting kiss with him?
       But just for a moment. Jerry was horny and needy, and, admittedly, occasionally pathetic...but was not stupid.
       "So," David said, pleasantly enough but with a knowing gleam in his eye, "you're Terrance's rising young star, eh?"
       "Oh, I don't know about that," Jerry blushed, still not used to such phrases (but starting to get used to them surprisingly fast). "We're just...talking."
       David laughed. "Just talking." He reached for the glass of wine before him and looked to Connie with a nod. "I like his style already." He turned back to Jerry after a sip of Chardonnay. "I can think of a lot of young writers—old writers, for that matter—who'd sell their souls to get the kind of red carpet serenade Terrance seems to be giving you. He must know something. Never known that man to make a move without thinking it ten steps ahead."
       Jerry didn't quite know what to say, and thankfully, Connie spoke to him and saved him from having to figure it out.
       "David and I have been here discussing Terrance's big project. His big secret. KnightCross Productions is in talks with Fox about it."
       "Oh, really," Jerry said, keeping his tone interested and attentive. Kind of felt like he was slipping into his job interview voice. Of course, he'd known Fox was involved. This was why she wanted him to meet David. But Connie was also the one who coached him a bit, and suggested that he play a little dumb on that fact. All part of the game, she'd told him with a smile.
       "Whatever it is," David added, wryly. "I must tell you, I'd be a fool not to be a little intrigued. On the one hand, the man is coming to me with a project that he won't even identify. No concept, no director, no names attached to it, no nothing. I mean, come on. Any other man I'd laugh at and reintroduce to my office door. But here's Terrance, acting like he's got the biggest thing since the Ten Commandments, and all I know is that instead of going with a marquee writer, or even one of the hot new rookies, he's giving the script to a some college kid playwright out of Arizona? Now, all respect intended here, either one grenade too many has gone off next to him on one of his jungle shoots, or that smile on the old man's face means he's got something. Something big."
       David leaned back a bit and looked at Jerry. Jerry smiled pleasantly, and he hoped non-committaly.
       "And you're not going to shed any light on this for me either, are you?" David asked.
       "Well, um..." And then apologetically, "No." He cleared his throat. "All respect intended, of course."
       David paused for a moment at this, then welled up into a laugh. It seemed like a pretty genuine laugh, too. Jerry hadn't actually meant to slip a semi-smart-ass comeback in there, and now that he'd realized he'd done it, was very grateful that it went over well.
       "Like I said, Connie," David said, taking another sip of his wine. "I like his style." His tone suggested that it wasn't just Hollywood smooth-talk this time, either. He seemed to really mean it.
       Connie smiled knowingly, and yes, a little proudly, and leaned a little closer to Jerry. "So do I," she said. And then, oh-so-delicately, her hand was on his knee. Jerry successfully fought back the urge to swallow. He turned his eyes to her, and she gave him a brief, very subtle shift in her smile—a smile within a smile meant just for him.
       This, Jerry thought to himself as she made small, slow circles on his knee with her index finger, was not a semi-standard Hollywood greeting. Say, was it just him, or was the restaurant's famed open kitchen not only reason it was getting warm in there?
       "Terrance has a lot of faith in Jerry," she said, smoothly turning her attention back to David. "That much I know. And I've read his plays myself. Very, very good work." Turning to Jerry, she said, "I was telling David about 'God's Green Earth'." She exhaled suddenly and made a very satisfied sound. She squeezed his knee as she did so, and Jerry straightened a bit, involuntarily, in his chair. He suspected he'd be replaying that sound in head, whether he did so purposely or not, for the rest of the day. "Wonderful. Moving. I read dozens of scripts a week, David, and I can't remember that last time a story touched me like this play did. Jerry just has this instinct. He knows how to get inside you."
       Okay. Stroking the writer's ego, and stroking the knee. And innuendoing to boot. Jerry realized he's probably never been this close to heaven.
       "And I think it has great adaptation possibilities," she said, speaking to both David and Jerry at once.
       "Really?" Jerry asked. He'd really never thought about it as a film. To be honest, he was having a lot of trouble trying to see it as one. The whole thing took place in one room, over the course of one night. Not exactly a formula for visual excitement.
       "Oh, Jerry," she said, emphatically. "Yes. Don't forget, I get paid to know these things. It's something you ought to think about. I know you're focused on the big project now..."
       "Whatever it is," David interjected again, with a grin.
       "But you need to be thinking ahead to your next piece. If Terrance is as sure of this other screenplay of yours as he seems to be, you're going to be in big demand."
       "You should listen to the lady," David agreed, nodding. He was watching Jerry closely as he spoke to him, sizing him up. "Your name's already starting to float around. People are like vultures on a secret in this town, and word's out that Terrance has something very big up his sleeve. Everybody's trying to figure out who this Jerry Lowell is."
       Jerry heard the words, but they seemed to sink in very slowly, as though through osmosis. Someone had just said...out loud, mind you...that people in Hollywood were 'floating' his name around. Jerry Lowell. College student Jerry Lowell. Still going to the under-clubs because he wasn't quite twenty-one yet Jerry Lowell. Set his machine to tape X-Files while he was gone on this trip Jerry Lowell. They had to be talking about some other Jerry Lowell, right? An older, more talented, more self-assured and less spastic one?
       Nope. The time for that kind of reality-check thinking was quickly passing away. It was becoming clearer and clearer that this was, in fact, his life. And it was, seemingly overnight, becoming something new and wholly unexpected. There was a new Jerry Lowell in town. And his name...was Jerry Lowell.
       Connie's hand moved on his knee again. All of a sudden, it was starting to feel totally natural there.
       "And KnightCross has got him," she smiled, looking at Jerry. She tilted her head and looked toward David. "But of course, Terrance is always willing to share. With old friends. Fox isn't so buried in existing contracts that they've stopped looking around for fresh new talent, are they?"
       David grinned at her, and took another sip of his wine. It was a knowing grin. This was how it was done. This was how things started. And how often these things started at Spago.
       A waitress (actress? Producer? Key grip?) must have spotted how empty David's glass was getting, and appeared suddenly with the bottle and one more glass for Jerry. Connie already had one in front of her, half-empty, and the waitress brought it back to the rim for her. She did the same for David, and started pouring Jerry's glass.
       "Thank you, Shannon," David said, kindly.
       "My pleasure, Mr. Carroll," she smiled. The "misters" were still par for the help, of course. The town wasn't that casual. She handed Jerry his glass. He took it, thinking, she's not even asking for my I.D. Of course she wasn't. This was Hollywood. And she could tell—he could see by the look in her eye when their gazes met for a moment—that she knew he was someone important. A player.
       "Thank you," Jerry said graciously. The girl nodded and smiled at him.
       "Can I start you off with some appetizers?" she asked the table.
       "Oh, yes," David said. He paused and looked to Jerry, tentatively. "May I?" he asked.
       Jerry shrugged and nodded. Fine by him.
       Turning back to Shannon, he said, "The seared foie gras with young arugula and cherry chutney. All around. And is Wolfgang in the kitchen today?"
       "Certainly is, sir."
       "Ah, then we'll definitely discussing duck in a little while. But that will do for now. And another bottle when you come back, please."
       "Yes, sir," she said, without having to write any of it down, and left to make the preparations.
       "Now," David said, turning back to them. "Connie." He considered his words, and spoke carefully (but with amusement. All part of the game). "You know Fox's door is always open. You never know when the next big thing is going to walk right through it." He turned his gaze to Jerry. "Wouldn't you agree, Jerry?"
       Jerry looked at Connie. She smiled, and her eyes sparkled, blue as his Malibu ocean view. He looked at David, and grinned with an easy confidence that suddenly seemed like it had always been there.
       "I certainly would," he said. He lifted his glass just short of his lips. "David."
       David Carroll smiled. He, Connie, and Jerry Lowell drank their wine—an unspoken toast.
       All part of the game.

Planet Hollywood
Beverly Hills, CA

       The local police had finally had to get involved. Traffic on Wilshire was backed up for miles, and the police had shown up for simple traffic control. But they'd quickly had to switch to crowd control. Word had spread very fast. Hundreds of people had gathered outside the restaurant, and more kept coming, running down the sidewalk and leaving their jobs behind, or abandoning their cars and joining in the struggle for just one look.
       Inside, Windjammer was standing next to an open, empty glass case that hung on the wall. Terrance, Bruce, Arnie and Sly all stood with him, and the five of them stood in pose for the dozens of photos snapping off like fireworks. Shane was holding up his first Windjammer costume—the unarmored one, the one Kip at Rising Technologies had put together for him as sort of demo for the final product. The one he'd worn the day he'd saved Porter's life...and the day Porter lost his hearing. Terrance had suggested bringing along something like it to hang in the restaurant, and since Shane didn't have a spare board lying around, he figured he'd give them that. He was holding it, and making like he was handing it to Terrance. Terrance was holding the other side of it, making like he was taking it. But, of course, neither of them were moving, making sure that every photo snapped of the moment looked like it had caught the exchange in the middle.
       When enough time had passed—it seemed to Shane to last forever, since he was the only one in the group he stood in not used to photo ops—Terrance took the costume and hung it up in the case on the specially-prepared hooks. This, too, was for show. Later some guy would be re-doing the case, putting a plaque on it and adding Windjammer photos around it. Shane was still trying to comprehend it. Something of his, hanging up alongside a shirt of John Wayne's and Mel Gibson's Lethal Weapon 2 jacket. What was wrong with that picture?
       That particular feeling had been with him for the past hour. After his visit with the kids, every grown-up celebrity in the place had wanted to meet him. People he'd grown up watching on TV and in the movies were lining up just to shake his hand and say a few words. He'd met Tom Hanks. Tom Hanks had told him that he admired him. Jack Nicholson had stepped up, too. He normally didn't show up for these kinds of things, but Terrance had placed a phone call to his old friend and told him, cryptically, that he'd be kicking himself for about seven years if he didn't make an appearance and catch the big surprise. Jack had told Shane this, and had added, with that world-renowned smile of his, that this was one of those rare occasions when old Terrance actually knew what he was talking about. The man who had invented bigger-than-life honestly seemed to be impressed with meeting Shane Doleman. And he'd even said that if Windjammer was ever in town again and wanted to catch a Laker game to look him up. Shane could have easily passed out right then and there.
       The list went on. He met Sam Jackson. Alec and Kim. Magic Johnson. Even Tori Spelling. Shane had fought so hard—while talking with her—not to think about all the times Jerry had referred to her as "that bug-eyed freak". The most exclusive club of individuals in the world—the celebrity elite—seemed to falling all over themselves for him. It was beyond surreal. It was unimaginable.
       Terrance closed the case, and shot a final smile to the press. The group of five broke ranks then and started to slowly head back over to the rest of the celebrity circle.
       "It's going to be standing room only the next few weeks, gentlemen," Terrance said to his business partners. "There's going to be a line out the door to see that thing."
       "Better make sure security's on twenty-four seven," Stallone said, waving over his shoulder at the paparazzi. "I can almost guarantee a break-in."
       "What, for that?" Windjammer asked, looking back at the case, and at what Bruce had dubbed 'the Windjammies'. "You're kidding."
       Stallone looked at him, studied him, and grinned. "I love this kid," he said to Terrance, and patted Shane on the shoulder before heading off to mix with the beautiful people.
       "All right," Terrance said, looking around the room. "I'm going to go make sure the exit path is clear." He pointed subtly at this watch, and nodded at Shane. Shane understood. As Terrance had told him, they would finish with the costume ceremony, and then it was time to wrap things up quick. He didn't want to give the world too much of Windjammer at once, he's said. Just enough to drive them crazy and get them begging for more. "Arnold, why don't you head up to the office and make sure Santa hasn't gotten into my bourbon? He's on in a few minutes."
       "Good idea," Arnold agreed. The Terminator paused to shake Shane's hand. "It was very nice to meet you, Windjammer. I hope we'll be seeing more of you around here."
       "Thanks, sir," Shane said. Letting himself really enjoy this handshake. This was one of his biggest heroes, and no matter what everybody seemed to think today, Shane knew he was the lucky one getting to meet this guy. "It was really, really great meeting you."
       Terrance and Arnold took their leave, and Bruce walked with Windjammer.
       "You did good, kid," Bruce told him, the New York still not quite gone from his voice, even after all these years in L.A.
       "Oh, man," Shane said, liking how the use of the word 'did' in that phrase meant that the shoot really was over. "That was insane. How do you guys do that all the time?"
       Bruce grunted a laugh. "Practice, kid. You'll get used to it, too. All a part of the being famous thing, and you don't get much more famous than you right now."
       Again, the irony. Bruce Willis was telling him this. Again...was no one else finding this strange?
       "So, you thinking about moving out here?"
       Shane was a little taken aback. Where heck had that question come from?
       "Thinking of what?" he asked back.
       "Moving. Out here, California. L.A. Just thought that might be where this was all going, Terrance putting on the dog and pony show and all."
       "No," he said, and was now not only puzzled by the question, but was a little freaked at it. "This is just a visit, really. I'm going back to Phoenix. That's my home."
       "Okay," Bruce said, backing down after realizing he'd inadvertently struck a nerve. "Just asking." But he did offer, "You could do a lot worse, though, you know. Sure looks like this town would love to have you."
       Shane followed his glance to the front doors. Though the glass, he could see the masses gathered, pressed together, fighting for position, craning their necks. A girl was multiple facial piercings was screaming his name.
       "Got a whole lot more bad guys around here, too. LAPD sure wouldn't mind the help."
       Well, true, that was a point. Where there was the occasional bank robbery or hostage taking in Phoenix he had to deal with, such drama happened almost daily in LA. Plus high speed freeway chases, riots, all the gang stuff... He wouldn't be bored as an LA super-hero, that was for sure. God, he'd never be able to sleep...
       Bruce grinned. "Just something to think about. Anyway...." He took Shane's hand and shook it. "...great meeting you, kid. Thanks for showing up. Meant a lot to the kids."
       "Thanks, Mr. Willis," Shane said.
       “Bruno,” Mr. Willis reminded.
       Shane grinned. "Thanks for having me. It was really great."
       "Pleasure was all ours." He smiled, and looked over his shoulder back toward the other celebrities. "Speaking of which, I gotta go tell my wife to stop staring at your ass. I'll see you."
       With a final slap on the back, he left Windjammer standing there with a red face.
       Terrance returned, moving through the crowd and pausing to say a quick hello to Steve Martin (a major contributor to the fund-raiser, as always). By the time he reached Windjammer, fresh questions were already being screamed at Shane by the press. Once again, he was very happy to have Terrance show up and rescue him.
       "All right," Terrance said to him, looking around. "It's clear. You know what to do, right?"
       "Yeah," Windjammer said, exhaling. "I got it."
       "Great." Terrance was smiling again. "You were perfect. Exactly what we needed. Now let's just end thing with the right exit. You ready?"
       "Ready." Actually kind of giddy at the idea of being able to get out of there.
       Terrance leaned in and said into his ear, "Give me a call in the morning. We'll go over everything then. Go home and relax."
       Relax. That was sounding just fine.
       That said, Terrance put an arm around his shoulder, looking like they were posing at the case again, and spoke loudly to the room (especially to the press).
       "All right, folks. Sorry to break the news, but Windjammer here has to be getting back to Phoenix."
       The press started frantically calling out their last questions as flashbulbs exploded everywhere. Windjammer didn't answer one of them, just as Terrance had told him. Terrance held him there for a moment, letting the photographers get their last shots of the two of them together. Terrance smiled, and Windjammer did, too...but did he ever look uncomfortable up there. Wouldn't it have been nice if he really was going back to Phoenix? That was just a pre-arranged little fib to make sure he could enjoy the rest of his stay without the press thinking he was still in town and hunting after every place that Terrance was even slightly connected to.
       Slowly, Terrance turned him, and led him back through the celebs, into the waiting kids. The kids all gathered around to say their good-byes. Shane said a few parting words to them, shook some small hands, and even ruffled one kid's hair. As he walked away, leaving them and Terrance behind, he gave a final wave, and the children all waved back. It was possible that getting to meet him might have even been as good as Santa Claus. If he'd only brought gifts, it would have been no contest.
       Shane opened the service door—his pre-arranged exit—and took one last look back. As anxious as he was to go, he forced himself to pause and just take in the sight, so he'd always remember it. All the celebrities, the famous and the beautiful, all standing there in one place. Looking at him. Smiling at him. Acting very much like the excited fans that followed them wherever they went.
       Holy cow.
       He smiled at them all, gave one last wave, and went through the door.

       The press herd had broken up immediately, and they spilled out onto Wilshire, breaking through the wall of onlookers and police outside. They ran in different directions, but all circled the building, trying to find whatever back or side exit he'd be coming out of. This divided the crowd outside some, too, as groups of them ran after the press, trying to get their last look.
       "Up there!!"
       A tourist from North Dakota was the first one to spot him and shout out, and the man pointed up toward the roof of the building's entrance. Other picked up quickly, and soon, the cheering started, and rose to deafening levels in a matter of seconds.
       Windjammer stood next to the Planet Hollywood sign, board in hand. As arranged with Terrance, he'd used the roof access to leave the building. And now, also by Terrance's direction, he was standing at the edge of the roof, giving the crowd outside a good long look.
       It was a near mob scene as the sea of humanity rushed the entrance, jamming together. Many climbed atop the stopped cars on Wilshire. One guy started jumping up and down on the roof of a Mercedes excitedly, much to the dismay of the owner inside.
       So this, he thought, is what Michael Jackson feels like.
       Horns honked. Arms waved. Beautiful girls screamed out that they loved him as he stood there next to the big globe with the Planet Hollywood logo on it. He tried to take it all in stride and keep smiling, as Terrance had told him. Hey, he'd dealt with crowds like this before, right? Back in Phoenix?
       But back in Phoenix now seemed somehow very different. There, he was the hometown hero. Phoenix had gotten used to him, to the idea of seeing him show up every once in a while. Everyone around town seemed to have a Windjammer sighting story (and Shane often got a kick out of hearing people around campus telling them between classes). If such a thing was possible, seeing a flying super-hero around town had become relatively commonplace since his first real public appearance at—ironically—Phoenix's Planet Hollywood several month before..
       This was different. He was out of his element. These people were seeing their first super-hero for the first time. And the look in their eyes wasn't just civic pride like back home. What he saw there made his hands go clammy.
       They looked at him like a god.
       Feeling he'd stood there long enough—and starting to get worried about the people down there hurting themselves if he hung around much longer—Windjammer tossed his board down in front of him. Hands in the crowd below reached up frantically, as gravity dictated that it would be coming right down to them. But he called a wind, and it caught the board, and held it there, hovering in mid-air. Those few left in the crowd who were thinking it wasn't really him, and just some actor instead, saw their doubts vanish.
       He stepped onto the board, and it held his weight easily, and now he floated above them. The roar of the crowd reached a fever pitch, and he waved down to them. A bigger wind swirled beneath him and he slowly began to rise. When he'd cleared the roof level of the surrounding buildings, he pulled a wicked mid-air twist, dropping down toward the street again, and soared down Wilshire. Drivers hung out of their car windows in the stalled traffic watched, gape-mouthed, with amazement.
       He went high, intending to get his bearings and find his way back to Studio City, where he'd left the Mercedes parked. He found out he wasn't alone. There was a helicopter up there, and not by chance. It had the KTLA logo on it, and a cameraman hung out the side, focusing his lens. Geez, they were everywhere! He was reminded that his getting back to his car would have to be done very carefully. Terrance had pre-arranged a safe, discrete place for him to park it and change into his costume. He'd flown to Planet Hollywood then, just before the sun came up, and was able to get in unseen. He'd been there, waiting, all day. Now, the trick was getting back to the car and driving back to Malibu while making everyone think he'd left for Arizona. He could do it, he was pretty sure, but not with a news copter on his tail.
       That was okay. Wasn't like they'd be able to keep up with him.
       Windjammer gave a charismatic wave to the camera, and to the home audience, and then took off like a rocket. As the copter tilted forward in the pilot's attempt to follow, it was already too late. He was gone.
       Up among the winds, and with Planet Hollywood behind him, he felt all the pressure and stress drain away. Los Angeles was spread out beneath him, and somehow much more manageable when viewed that small. The sun was in his face, and the wind in his hair. He had done it. He had made it though the day.
       And all of a sudden, the strangest feeling came over him. All the worry, the fear, all sweat...it all melted away. And Windjammer, not even intending to, started to smile. By the time he passed over Westwood, he even started to laugh. Because, despite everything, he had suddenly realized the truth.
       That was most amazing thing that had ever happened in his life.

Hollywood Hills
Hollywood, California

       The lights of Los Angeles were spread out like an ocean of captured stars below. And Jerry Lowell was talking with Quentin Tarantino.
       He wasn't even sure whose house it was, to tell the truth. He'd been introduced to so many people in the past two hours that he'd really lost all track of who was who. But whoever it was was loaded, and knew how to throw a party. There were upwards of a hundred people in there, moving from room to room, smoking cigarettes, shaking hands, laughing, posturing. A pretty girl in a skimpy Santa outfit was milling around with mistletoe and giving out holiday kisses. Jerry had thought he'd heard she was involved with the house's owner. Whoever that was.
       The crowd was both large and elite. Industry people. Lawyers. A few musicians. Actors. And some just plain rich and lucky enough to live in a city where they could mix with such groups. Jerry had overdosed on names, and knew he'd never be able to remember all of them if he needed them again. How was a guy supposed to keep up with all of them when he was being introduced to everyone in sight? There were a few that were guaranteed, though. At one point, he had seen a guy that looked a lot like Ethan Hawke. It had turned out to be Ethan Hawke.
       Most of them were still inside, but Jerry and a handful of others were out on the observation deck, escaping the claustrophobic mix and taking in a few minutes of the cool night air. The sky above was clear like crystal. And Quentin, as usual, was on a rant.
       "No, no, no," he held up a finger, explaining to Jerry with great animation. "He wasn't a Wookie. He was a Mexican."
       "A Mexican?" Jerry asked, wary but amused. He was savoring every detail of this conversation, no matter how cool he was coming off. He wanted to be able to relate it to Shane verbatim if he could. He just wished Shane was there. But then, they'd both have a whole day's worth of celeb stories to tell back the beach house, wouldn't they?
       "Oh, yes," Quentin said. "Look at the film. Look at the bandoleers he's wearing. They all call him 'Chewy'. He doesn't speak the language. What does he do on the Falcon? He's the mechanic. He fixes the engine for like four bucks an hour. Han's off getting laid, and what's Chewy doing? He's back at the Falcon trying to put Threepio back together again. The shit work. He's the film's token minority. Fuck Lando, man. He's management. He's running Cloud City, getting fat on corporate Imperial contracts. He's white like rice. No, Chewy. That's the film's underclass. Han might as well walk around saying, 'Hi, I'm Captain Solo, and this is my spic co-pilot, Chewbacca.' He's...a...Mexican."
       "Never would have caught that," Jerry grinned, not sure he was buying it, but enjoying it anyway. "And again, Ben Kenobi...?" he asked, clarifying an earlier point from the conversation.
       "Pedophile," Quentin said with a very pronounced 'P'. "Why do you think Uncle Owen didn't want Luke going out to play at old Ben's desert pad while he was growing up? Oh, Ben wanted to teach him about 'the Force', all right. That's what most people missed about the Jedi. They're all gay. It's a big gay brotherhood. What's the first thing that happens when a couple of them get together? Out come the lightsabres. Come on, you've seen how the things turn on. The slow, sensual rise to full erectness? And what do you think 'the dark side' is to them? What did Darth Vader do that pissed them all off so much? He had kids. He had a woman, Jerry. He turned his back on their gay teachings and went straight. That's why they want him dead, and they want to make sure Luke stays true and goes the gay way. That's the genius of the Star Wars trilogy. Made billions of dollars, and no one realized it's all just about gay sex."
       Jerry was laughing, and Quentin—fully enjoying having a receptive audience—was going on to point out how Luke started out so horny in the first film he was lusting after his own sister, but had lost all interest in women by Return of the Jedi, when Connie opened the sliding door and came out, a couple of drinks in her hands. She'd exchanged her green dress for a black one that was even shorter, and the breeze made her hair come alive. Jerry met her gaze, and she smiled softly at him. She was, to him, at that moment, perhaps the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
       "Okay, wait wait wait," Quentin said, talking with his hands. "Let me tell you what Battlestar Galactica was really all about..."
       "You boys having fun?" Connie asked, walking up and handing Jerry his single malt Glenfiddich and putting her arm around his waist.
       "Hey, Connie," Quentin said. "One of those for me?"
       She smiled and took a sip from the one drink remaining in her hand. "Sorry. General rule. I only fetch drinks for the guy I came with. Girl's got to have her standards."
       She pulled closer to Jerry, and bunched her shoulders as if chilled by the night air. Jerry took a hit off his own drink and felt his ego stretch out even more. He was the guy that came with, and she wasn't bothered by letting everyone know it.
       "Besides," she said, cocking her head towards the door, "Mira's looking for you."
       "Oh, yeah," he said, quickly looking at his watch. "We've got that thing at George's. God, how many Christmas parties can you squeeze into one trip to the coast? We've still got to fly back and do a big one at her Dad's place in New York tomorrow. I'm fucking O.D.-ing on holiday cheer."
       "I'm sure you'll pull through," Connie offered.
       "Yeah, yeah," he said. "I gotta run. Hey, Jerry, it was great meeting you, man." He stuck out his hand, and Jerry shook it. Quentin's shake was so vigorous that Jerry almost spilled his drink. "Look forward to reading your stuff sometime. Give me a call, okay?"
       "Yeah, great," Jerry said. "Great meeting you, too."
       "Connie, a pleasure as, always," he said. He took her hand, leaned in, and the two exchanged quick cheek kisses. "Give us a call if you're in New York."
       "I will," she said. "Merry Christmas, Q."
       "You, too," he said, and turned to go. He turned back and pointed to Jerry for a moment before his exit. "You keep this kid out of trouble, all right?"
       "Oh, I will," she smiled, looking at Jerry. Quentin headed back through the slider, and into the mass of peoples inside. He paused near the kitchen and greeted Eric Stoltz. Mira would have to wait a little longer.
       Connie smiled at Jerry over her drink, took a sip, and took a step back to the rail and leaned on it. Jerry looked back at the house, though the glass.
       "Did Quentin Tarantino just tell me to give him a call?" he asked.
       "Mmm hmm," she said, closing her eyes for a moment and breathing in the night air. "I can get you the number."
       Jerry shook his head in quiet amazement, sighed, and walked over to join her at the rail. He put his arms on it and looked out over the sparkling valley below. Connie, with her back to the rail, slid her elbows onto it and turned her head to him.
       "You're a hit," she said. "Everybody really liked you."
       "You think?" he asked. "I can barely remember anything I said, I met so many people."
       "You did just great," she reassured. "Believe me. And you were just amazing this afternoon. I think David was really impressed. He doesn't impress easy, either. You played it just right. I was really proud of you."
       "You were?" he asked, turning to her.
       "Mm hmm," she nodded. She reached over and took his free hand gently with hers. His light-headedness came back. And it wasn't the scotch. "It's all just starting for you, Jerry. You're in the game now. People are going to start to know your name. Pretty soon, the sky's the limit."
       "Man," he sighed, looking up for a moment at the sky she's just mentioned. "This is all happening...really, really fast."
       "That's the best way," Connie said. Still holding his hand, she edged closer to him at the rail. "The door doesn't open that often. When it does, you just run for it. And the door is definitely open for you, Jerry."
       "I've got to tell you," he said, perhaps finally feeling a little bit scared by all of it. "It's a...pretty big door. I just hope I've got what it takes to get in."
       "You do," she said. She set down her drink on the rail, and slipped her hand around the small of his back.
       "You haven't even read my screenplay yet," he reminded, but his momentary neurosis started to deflate and the feel of her touch. "Are you sure?"
       "I'm sure," she said with a sultry smile. She seemed to glide the last few inches, and then was softly pressed against his chest. Her hand worked up his back. "I get paid to know these things, remember?"
       Her eyes disappeared from his sight as she lowered her head a softly kissed his neck. Once. Twice. Jerry tried not to shudder, and failed. He had absolutely no idea what to do with this drink.
       Then her eyes were back, in front of his.
       "You're going to be huge, Jerry," she whispered, her lips hovering in front of his. "I know. And I'm going to be there to help you."
       She kissed him, long and passionate. Jerry didn't think about doubts or fears anymore. In that moment, how could there be doubt? The world belonged to Jerry Lowell, and there was no evidence to the contrary anywhere in sight.
       She finally pulled back from his lips, and he swallowed, feeling heat coming over him in waves. Those eyes were there again, and he had never imagined in his life that he'd be kissing someone so beautiful. Someone so unreachable. Someone who even knew that he was six years younger than her, and didn't seem to care.
       A thought hit him suddenly, and he turned his head quickly. He remembered that they weren't alone out there on the deck. The handful of others were talking among themselves, smoking, and hadn't seemed to notice their kiss.
       Connie's finger touched his cheek, and she turned his face back toward her. Her eyes went briefly to where he'd been looking, and then back to him. Her lips curved up in a sexy smile.
       "Let them watch," she said. And she kissed him again.
       Jerry's glass slid off the railing and over the side of the deck, and his drink spilled all over the hill below as it tumbled down the grassy slope and into a dark patch of small palm trees. A fingernail moon shone down over Hollywood Hills. The night, for this time of the season, was very close to perfect.
       And the night was still young.

Malibu, California

       Shane sat on the couch, and the hands of the fine clock hanging on the living room wall said it was midnight. He didn't have many lights on, and was playing a playing a Duncan Sheik CD on the stereo. That particular CD always relaxed him. He had it on just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the waves that the open glass doors were letting in.
       He was leaning over the glass coffee table, one elbow on his knee and a hand curved thoughtfully over his mouth. His eyes stared blankly at nothing in particular as he sat in quiet contemplation. He wore jeans and his ASU tee shirt, and was barefoot. A half-emptied can of Mountain Dew stood on the table, along with a leather folio—courtesy of Terrance and Chester Fein, given to him two days before—a cordless phone, a scrap of paper with writing on it, and Jerry's laptop. Jerry had borrowed the money from his folks to buy it before the trip, thinking a real writer shouldn't be traveling without one. In the kitchen, across the room from him, the dishes that remained from the dinner he'd made for himself rested in the sink.
       Jerry was still out at the party that girl Connie wanted to take him to. The two roommates hadn't seen each other since the night before, and would certainly have a lot to talk about when Jerry showed. It was still early, as parties went, and Shane really hadn't expected to see him by this time. He found himself listening for the sound of the Ferrari anyway. He would really have appreciated the company. For all his problems with the crowds earlier in that unbelievable day, just then, he was feeling more alone than he could ever remember feeling in his life.
       He reached down and filed through the paperwork from the folio, mostly just spreading them around absently. The papers comprised a proposal. It was his future. Windjammer's future. Two days ago, when they had met at Terrance's house with Chester, Cross's publicist had handed him the package. About three months before, Terrance had met with him in Phoenix and made the initial pitch—that he (and Chester) would manage Windjammer—his publicity, his press, marketing, everything. That offer was still on the table, and the main reason Terrance had invited him here for these two weeks. And there it was, in black and white before him. The basic proposal. It laid out a lot of broad strokes, with the particulars to be filled in later. It talked about copyrights and trademarks. It talked about contracts and endorsements. There were proposals for viable product tie-ins and ad campaign suggestions. There were action figures mentioned...a whole toy line. There was a book deal. A timeline for press exposure and which news programs and talk shows would get him first. There was a tour mentioned. An actual promotional tour, where he could repeat today's madness over and over in cities across the country...and possibly around the world. Around the world. He'd never even been to Canada, for crying out loud. And, of course, the big topic was the Windjammer movie. The wheels were already turning on that one.
       And there were breakdowns of profit involved with all of the above. If this all panned out as planned, Shane was not just going to be famous. He was going to be rich. He would be a millionaire. A twenty-year old millionaire.
       He looked at Jerry's laptop, which was set up for internet access. A phone cord led from it to the jack behind the couch. Shane thought about it. He could call the Scott house, and get Janis on the phone. She could get Porter to sign onto his own computer. They wouldn't even need the TDD phone. They could just chat online. And Shane could unload the things on his mind. He could turn to Porter, like he had so many times since they'd met. It was very tempting. But it wasn't only the late hour that kept him from giving in to the urge. He knew Janis and Porter would never mind the call. It was the same reason that he'd waited until the last moment to tell Porter, his mentor, about the trip. About the proposal. Porter was the one who'd taught him how to be a hero. Porter, oh-so-briefly, had been a hero himself. And Shane knew Porter well enough to know how he felt about the idea of movie deals and product endorsements. He'd never tell Shane about that—he wouldn't try to make his decisions for him. But Shane knew it all the same. And that had put a wall between them, at least on this subject. And that wall kept Shane from making the call.
       He could call his mom. He had checked in once already during the trip, but hadn't called her today. He really should have, considering that the Planet Hollywood footage was probably on every channel all over the world by now. She'd want to hear all about it, wouldn't she? Or would she? Or was she sitting awake in her bed right now, worrying herself into insomnia, seeing all her fears of her son becoming a part of Hollywood—as she had been twenty years before—coming true on a ridiculous scale? He thought of her crying in the kitchen the morning she'd driven him to the airport. Was she crying now? No, he couldn't call her. Not tonight. With everything else going on in his head, he didn't need to guilt himself more on top of it.
       Renee. He missed Renee so much. Of course it was too late too call her, because there was the time difference between L.A. and Denver, and she was staying at her folks' place with a houseful of siblings and relatives. Wouldn't that make a good impression with them, him calling and waking everyone up? No, that was out of the question. God, for so many reasons. What good would it do to talk to her? He'd had to lie to her about the whole trip, telling her he and Jerry were just staying with some old friends of his mother for the holidays, trying to make a few Hollywood connections. Okay, that was just about laugh-out-loud funny, all things considered. Jack Nicholson. Lakers tickets. He couldn't share any of that with her. He couldn't share any of what he was going through with her. And that was killing him. The Windjammer part of his life was totally unknown to her. And that part of his life was suddenly starting to consume everything. Shane Doleman, college student? Shane Doleman, actor? That was starting to look like a fantasy, a make-believe he was clinging to while events were inevitably drawing him further and further away. It was all changing. Did he even belong in Phoenix anymore? That question had never even occurred to him before today. And then Bruce Willis had innocently brought it up. He'd never thought about moving away from Arizona, from his home. But with all this talk of movies and world tours? How could he not be away from home, at least a good deal of the time? And was a move to L.A. for him what Terrance had in mind?
       And how did Renee fit into all this? They had gotten much closer lately, more than he'd expected (probably more than either of them had). He cared about her very much. He'd never felt as right about a girl he'd been involved with. But she didn't know about this part of him. Would he end up telling her? How would she react? Would she be able to handle it? Would she hate him for keeping so much from her so long? Or would she even want any part of this celebrity insanity? She seemed to genuinely care about Shane Doleman, but would Windjammer's life be too much for her? God, was he really starting to talk about himself in the third person?
       All he knew was that he wished she was there right then, to lay with him on the couch, to listen to him spill his guts and all his worries, and to nod and understand and ask those probing questions she used that had a way of helping him get to the root of what was really bothering him. To kiss him and make him feel that everything was going to be all right—or at least that if it wasn't, she was going to be there to help him though it, so he wouldn't be alone.
       He looked down at the coffee table. At the small slip of paper next to the laptop. It had two folds evident on it. Though it was open now, it had been folded in his wallet for the past month. Folded was too simple of an explanation. It had been hidden in his wallet, in the clear plastic foldout between his social security and medical insurance cards. Just on the off-chance that Renee might be in there.
       The wave of guilt and shame hit him, and his hand went briefly to his eyes and covered them.
       How dare he be sitting there, thinking about needing Renee, about caring about Renee, when he had been staring at Delight's phone number for the past hour?
       It has been three days since he'd landed in California. He'd been very conscious of her number being there in his back pocket the whole time. But he'd been putting off taking it out. With all the other things going on, he'd had good reason. Besides...the girl had not known the exact date he was arriving, so it wasn't as though she was necessarily waiting by the phone. But after today, the whole world knew he was in L.A. That meant she did, too, and that she'd be expecting his call. Why? Because he'd promised.
       He remembered so clearly the night she'd given it to him. He'd probably never be able to forget it, since it was one of the most emotionally frightening moments of his life. She'd come to Phoenix to find him again, after their brief but spectacular meeting last summer. He'd thought she'd just come to hook up with him, romantically. But it had been so much more. She'd needed him. She was all alone in the world and afraid, just like he felt right now, there in his borrowed Malibu home. All the horrible things that had happened to her in her life; just thinking about them gave him the chills. And when he'd held her, when she was breaking down there in front of him and so vulnerable, he'd wanted nothing more than to hold on, to be that person who didn't let her go. To be there for her...the way he wished Renee was there for him now. Another jolt of self-loathing hit. It was even less pleasant than the first.
       He had rationalized his choice so many times. The girl...had...powers. Like he did. There were a ridiculously small number of people on the face of the Earth that could say that. How could he not want to talk with her, get to know her, share with her all the things no one else in his life could understand? It wasn't like he knew how to get ahold of this Americana back east, or whoever the other chick was that rumors were flying around about out of Boston. Delight was there, within reach, and wanted to share with him. She needed to, in fact. She'd practically begged him to come to L.A., to take Terrance up on his offer so they'd have a chance to get together in her town. How could he say no, after the night they'd been through under the Arizona stars, when she'd bared her soul to him? How could he when she was the only other person he knew that could fly? Maybe she was right. Maybe they needed each other.
       But there was more to it than that, and he knew it. They'd kissed. They'd been emotionally intimate in a way he and Renee had never—could never have—been. And there was more to their seeing each other than just swapping super-hero tips, wasn't there? He could try to rationalize things (he was, after all, getting a lot of practice at it lately) with the duality of his own life. Shane was with Renee, and she didn't know about Windjammer. Delight wanted to be close to Windjammer, and knew little of his life as Shane. The maddening part of it, too, was that each of them filled a need in each facet of his life that the other could not. But all the dual life crap was just that...crap. When it came right down to it, he was involved with one woman, and off secretly seeing another. All his life he'd been disgusted by men who did such things. Lo and behold, he was suddenly one of them.
       It was such a mess it made him almost physically sick. He'd gotten himself into the situation, and didn't know what to do about it. If his life was a normal one, and these were two normal women, it wouldn't even be an issue for him. But there was so much more going on. Did the normal rules apply? Did any rules apply? He just didn't know. Had anyone set the precedent before him? The Windjammer part of him seemed to be taking over all, and he was starting to wonder if that meant leaving the old life, the other life, behind. Did he have any choice anymore, or was some manifest destiny he didn't understand dragging him along and making those choices for him?
       That thought made him put both hands over his face. And brought him back to the real reason why he was so afraid, why after he'd finally started to let himself enjoy the events that had happened today, he was back doubting and fearing and feeling lost and helpless and alone.
       The dream.
       It had stopped before he'd left for L.A., but he'd had it so many times, it was etched on his memory. It was the dream—nightmare, really—that had slowly made him believe he had to make this trip. In the final effect, it wasn't Terrance or Delight or anything else that made him come here. It was the repeating, vision-like dream of Los Angeles in ruins, covered in living darkness. In it, a dark king and his queen stood atop the millions or corpses. In it, Windjammer and a number of others, others he could never make out except in symbols, stood alone against the darkness. All that death. All that darkness. What could he possibly do?
       The dream always ended the same. The view switched to first-person, and was from an outdoor cafe. Across the street was a bank called Pacific Federal. The bank's clock/sign would flash, every time, a temperature of 83 degrees, a time of 3:37, and a date of 12/31/96. It never changed, just like the rest of the dream. The same every time, and soon he was sure he was losing his mind. Regardless of what the movies tell you, people just do not have the exact same dream over and over. The subconscious just doesn't work that way. The occasional repeater, sure, but at least some details would vary. This was exactly alike each time, and real in a way like no other dream he'd ever had. And this was the greatest secret in his life, this dream. He hadn't shared this with anyone else. How could he? It didn't make any sense. But he couldn't shake the feeling that it was telling him to come to L.A. It even gave him a date and time, for crying out loud. A date that just happened to coincide with an offered vacation from Terrance Cross made before the dreams ever started.
       So today, after he'd gotten back to Century City and gotten the Mercedes, he'd picked up a Thomas Guide and looked through a phone book. Pacific Federal. It was a real bank. But he could have known that from somewhere else, he reasoned. There were four branches of the bank in L.A. He decided he'd check them all. He had to. He had to know.
       He'd been able to quit after the second one.
       He ended up back in Beverly Hills. He found their branch of Pacific Federal. He looked across the street from it, and his heart stopped. There was a cafe there called Geneva's. He'd crossed the street on watery legs. The cafe had tables outside. A hostess outside saw him looking at the tables, and asked if he'd like a seat. With a hoarse throat, he'd said yes, and asked to be seated outside (as she'd figured). There were three other people out there...locals, he could tell. There was a television set up. At the moment, it was showing footage of him flying by the KTLA copter. He later found out that the set was there, specifically, to watch live court footage of the Montgomery sisters trial, which was of particular interest to the peoples of Beverly Hills, because the sisters, and the father they killed, were all local.
       He'd sat down in his chair slowly, and his hands were trembling. He'd turned his head to his right, and stopped breathing. It wasn't just the exact same view from the dream. He was sitting in the exact same spot.
       He'd watched the sign flash through it's temp, time and date. Part of him was happy that he wasn't crazy after all. The other part wished he had been. It was no delusion. It was real. Something was calling him to Los Angeles, something speaking right to his mind. Something was going to happen on New Year's Eve Day. And if the rest of the dream was as accurate as the end of it, it was something he didn't even want to imagine.
       How was this happening? Why was it happening to him? And why did it all have to be happening at once? Shane was overwhelmed to the point of screaming. He kept thinking how unfair it all was. He was twenty years old! He was supposed to be partying and going to college and seeing movies! Why did the weight and the fate of the whole world seem to be pressing down on him? And why did he have to be going through it all alone?
       He sniffed and ran his hands back through his hair. The CD had ended, and wasn't helping anyway. He was worse off than over. And he felt like he was about to snap. He thought about grabbing his board and flying out over the waves by night. He hadn't done that yet, as he'd told himself he would while he was here. But right now, even that didn't sound like it would help. Gliding over that vast, black emptiness would surely make him feel even more alone. And alone was the last thing he wanted to be right now.
       He looked down at Delight's phone number. Her handwriting was distinctly feminine, curly and cute. She had written it on a scrap of paper torn from one of his notebooks he'd had in his jeep. She had cried in his arms that night and told him how different, how completely alone in the world she felt. That she'd needed him.
       She needed someone who understood.
       He reached for the cordless phone on the table, and paused one last time before dialing the number to her place in Venice Beach. He worried, briefly, about the time.
       She was awake.
       And she was there twenty minutes later.

TO BE CONTINUED