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“It used to be ten percent, didn’t it?”
“Times have changed. Sign both copies at the bottom and date them.”
Peter did so.
“Good. That means your first commission payment to Mort will be three million dollars.”
“What?”
“That’s fifteen percent of twenty million dollars.”
“What are you talking about, Dad?”
“Twenty million dollars is what Centurion Studios are paying you for your film, if you approve.”
Peter’s mouth dropped open.
“Oh, and it’s not an outright sale; you’re licensing them the rights to the film for seven years, then you can either extend the license for a further payment, to be agreed upon, or the rights revert to you. Centurion will square everything with the unions before the release. By the way, Hattie, they’re offering you one hundred thousand dollars as a fee for writing the score.”
“Yes!” Hattie shouted, and she and Peter exchanged a high five.
“When are they going to release the film?” Peter asked.
“That’s still to be determined by the studio, but don’t expect it to be the Christmas movie at Radio City Music Hall.”
“Why did they pay so much?” Peter asked. “I was hoping for maybe half a million.”
“Three reasons: first, because they like it and they know it would have cost them twice that to produce it themselves; second, because they think they will make a lot of money on it; and third, because you have a very good agent.”
Peter and Hattie were hugging.
Tim Rutledge stood outside the house in Turtle Bay and watched the two large men hustle Peter Barrington and a young girl into the downstairs law office. A couple of minutes later, the men put the car into the garage, then left, walking toward Third Avenue. Rutledge took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then exhaled in a rush. Now was the time; it wouldn’t get any better. He would be in Mexico tomorrow.
He unbuttoned his co
at to access the shotgun, which hung by a strap from his right shoulder. The weapon was loaded and racked; all he had to do was release the safety and fire, after he had had a few words with Mr. Barrington. He wouldn’t kill Barrington, just his son. Then the man could live the rest of his life with his grief. He started across the street toward the downstairs door of the house.
Inside, the doorbell chimed, and Joan reached for the button that released the door. She was expecting Herbie Fisher, who had requested a meeting with Stone. She pressed the button.
She heard the door open, and a man she had never seen walked in, pulled back his coat, and pointed a shotgun at her. “Be quiet,” he said. He walked to her desk, unplugged her telephone, and took it with him. “If you leave this office, I’ll kill you, too,” he said, then he disappeared down the hall toward Stone’s office. Now Joan knew exactly who he was, and there wasn’t time to dig out her cell phone and call the police.
Stone looked up and saw a man coming down the hall, carrying a shotgun in a firing position. He stood up as he recognized Tim Rutledge-bearded, but himself, nevertheless.
Peter and Hattie jumped to their feet, too.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Barrington,” Rutledge said.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Rutledge,” Stone replied. “How much time would you like to do?”
Rutledge looked confused. “What?”
“One to five for assault, five to twenty for manslaughter, or life without parole for first-degree murder?” Stone was playing for time; he didn’t know what else to do. “Also, New York State has the death penalty.”
Rutledge took a moment to sort that out, and Stone saw Joan come out of her office and begin to creep silently down the hall.
“I’m going to kill your son,” Rutledge said.
“And why would you want to do that?” Stone asked, edging toward Peter.
