Brad Thor - Full Black

Realizing he wasn’t going to be going back to bed, Hank McBride disengaged from the TV and offered to cook breakfast while his two guests, or the two “fugitives,” as he had referred to them until Ralston told him to drop it, continued their conversation at the table.

“It’s all very complicated and convoluted,” said Salomon as he held his mug out for Ralston to top off. “It’s like a shell game the way foundation money gets moved around. In fact, Shell Game had been Jeremy and Chip’s working title for the project. I thought Well Endowed was a little more provocative and would help the film get more attention.”

“Sell the sizzle,” said Ralston, reflecting on an old advertising adage he had often heard Salomon use, “not the steak.”

“Precisely. Documentaries are a tough sell anyway, but a documentary about endowments? Forget it. The only way we were going to get people interested was to sex it up.”

Ralston had his reservations about whether a pithy double entendre would make much of a difference, but with the film business, you never knew. “So how did Jeremy and Chip get on your radar screen? Was it at a film festival or was one of them a waiter at one of your favorite dinner spots?”

A fatigued yet knowing look crept across Salomon’s face. Hollywood was packed with wannabe actors, wannabe screenwriters, and wannabe directors. Anyone with even a semblance of power who could help get a movie made was under constant assault by those looking to break into the business. Producers, in particular, had pitchman horror stories, including being wooed while in the dentist’s chair, as well as the mother of all famous stories, involving a producer being pitched at a rather sensitive moment in her gynecologist’s office.

“What difference does it make?”

He was being cagey again and Ralston pressed him on it. “Why do you keep holding out on me?”

The producer looked up from his coffee. “I’m not holding out on you.”

“You’re not answering my questions and I’m beginning to think maybe Hank was right. Maybe you were making porn. Maybe you ran up a huge drug debt with the Russians too and they came to collect.”

“I’m not making porn,” insisted Salomon, “and you know me. I have never touched drugs in my life.”

Ralston did know his friend and he didn’t believe for a second that Salomon was making porn or into drugs, but he didn’t like having his questions parried. “Larry, I’m going to chalk a lot of your current condition up to-”

“My current condition?” interrupted the producer. “What are you talking about?”

Ralston held his hand up for him to stop. “What happened tonight would put anyone into shock. Add to it that this would have been Rachael’s birthday.”

“It is Rachael’s birthday.”

“No, it isn’t. It’s the anniversary of Rachael’s birth. She’s gone, Larry.”

Salomon went off like a flare. “You think I want you to spell it out like that? You think I give a good goddamn about how you see it? She wasn’t your daughter, Luke. Don’t you ever forget that.”

The outburst was so intense it froze Hank in mid-scramble over his eggs at the stove.

Ralston motioned for the old SEAL to bring the bottle of Bushmills from next to the fridge.

As Hank placed it on the table and retreated to the stove, Ralston pulled the cork from the bottle and poured a generous amount into each of the coffee cups. He was feeling the effects of everything that had happened as well. A little anesthetic would be good for them.

Salomon took a deep drink of his Irish coffee and said nothing. Ralston respected the silence, just as he had hours earlier in the producer’s driveway. Even Hank maintained a respectful distance in the kitchen.

“I’m sorry,” the producer eventually said.

Ralston reached out and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “There’s no need to apologize.”

“Jeremy and Chip were good people; good filmmakers. I think Rachael would have liked them. And they her.”

“She was a wonderful girl, Larry. You have every right to be proud of her.”

The producer smiled, taken away for a moment by a thought from a happier time in his life. As his attention returned, his expression became more serious. “I met Jeremy and Chip at a social function.”

“If you don’t mind my asking,” said Hank as he brought over three plates of food and set them down on the table, “how’d you lose your daughter?”

“Let’s not go there,” Ralston replied, trying to protect Salomon.

“That’s okay.” Looking up at Hank, the producer said, “My daughter was murdered during a trip to Israel three years ago.”

Hank sat his considerable frame down onto a chair. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope they caught the fuckers and strung them up.”

Salomon shook his head. “Unfortunately, they didn’t catch them. That’s the hardest part for me. How can anyone move on, knowing that person, or persons, is still out there and probably still committing unspeakable acts? How do you even begin to let that wound heal?”

Ralston knew that talking about Rachael would only end up sinking Salomon deeper into depression, so he decided to change the subject. “So you met Jeremy and Chip at some social event, right?”

The filmmaker nodded and scooped up a forkful of eggs. “That’s right. I didn’t know much about Chip before that. It turns out that he was a real agent provocateur via his blog sites. He’d broken a handful of scandals before the mainstream media even realized what was happening.”

“And Jeremy?”

“Jeremy was Chip’s protege. The two of them were looking to broaden their platform beyond the blogs. They saw a potential niche for certain types of documentary films they thought could really do well. Between them, they must have had a hundred different ideas, many of which were very topical and actually quite interesting. To get started, though, they had to narrow it down to just one.

“Some whistleblower had approached Chip with a story for one of his blogs a while back. She worked for the Ford Foundation and had uncovered some unusual activity that she felt should be brought to light.”

“What kind of unusual activity?” asked Ralston.

“Financial; who the money was being funneled to, how it was being funneled, that kind of thing. But before he could go to press with the story, the woman disappeared. Chip received a note, allegedly from her, saying that she had made it all up.”

“Why would she do that?”

Salomon shook his head. “Nobody knew. They figured somebody had gotten to her.”

“So what happened?”

“Chip and Jeremy kept after the story. The more they looked into it, the more they uncovered. They started thinking it was too big for the blogs. That’s where the idea for the documentary came in. They pieced together a short rough cut, and were screening it for different people who they thought might be interested in helping to get it made. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

“Yet you didn’t want any of your Hollywood pals to know you were working on it. That’s why you were doing it out of your house?” mused Ralston.

The producer nodded and took a bite of his bacon before replying. “With technology these days, especially for a documentary that doesn’t require any special effects, we didn’t need to be at the studio; we could do it all from home.”

“You said you were worried the production was going to ruffle a few feathers. I can see ticking off some foundations by exposing what they might have been up to, but I can’t picture them getting together and putting out a hit on you,” said Ralston. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Not until you understand how much money is involved and what’s at stake,” Salomon replied. “One hundred years ago, there were only eighteen American tax-exempt private foundations. Today, there are more than sixteen thousand.