Hollywood is an All Volunteer Army by Steven Paul Leiva

Riksbank, the central bank of Sweden. Of course, the Sveriges Riksbank did not particularly want to own Olympic Pictures, it did so by default. Specifically the default on a billion dollar loan they had given to one of their least moral and least sane countrymen, Per Hjalmar, who had developed some of the same interests that had inspired George Pangalos, thereby creating, with the bank’s money, a continuity of a sort after Olympic had been gutted in the Eighties by a fat financier from Atlantic City who sold off most of Olympic’s film library and all of its Hollywood studio facilities, leaving behind nothing but the husk of its logo, a bright burning torch grasped in a strong hand. That is what Per Hjalmar convinced the Sveriges Riksbank to bank on, as he knew that Hollywood was becoming very brand name conscious. It was pure sleight-of-hand. A certain officer of the bank—no longer with the bank, of course—was charmed by Hjalmar into keeping his eye on the hand with the logo in it, rather than Hjalmar’s other hand, the empty one, the one that was supposed to be holding collateral.
    The rumors had it that, after several years of new management headed up by Sara Hutton, the Sveriges Riksbank was ready to sell, hoping to recoup at least the billion dollars of the original loan, if not the near billion they had had to pay to keep Olympic up, running and producing pictures to make it marketable enough to—
    Speak of the devil.
    As I was standing there musing on the recent history of Olympic Pictures, Sara Hutton emerged from the building. She was bundled up against the cold, but there was no mistaking her. Sara Hutton was more unattractive than any other person I could think of. Although unattractive may not be the right word, for she did attract—enough to have lovers of both sexes, enough to climb the Hollywood corporate ladder, which is surface sensitive, and enough to make more money than most. Nonetheless, she had a face that, by comparison, made the ugly look plain, the plain look beautiful, and the beautiful look divine. This was clearly demonstrated the second Bea Cherbourg followed Hutton out of the building. She was radiant; beaming. She and Sara smiled at each other; laughed; linked their arms the way women do, and began to walk up the street.
    It seems another couple had kissed and made up at my suggestion.
    ~ * ~
    The flight home offered no amusements. The movie was one of those vanity films forced into production by a still gleaming star of action and sex determined to reveal the deep soul within. The screenwriters and director, though, had obviously had a hard time finding the deep soul within, although I’m sure they looked just about everywhere, for the film was just simply small, dark, and quiet, but not at all soulful. Roee spent the time scribbling on a new play, so conversation was out. I had been hoping for Gilgamesh Paul, of course, but.... As we were traveling in the guise of the chairman & CEO, and the president of Prosthetics of Providence (Roee had put on our business cards the legend: Let Us Give You a Hand), we were not even graced with the solicitous attention of a VIP flight attendant. So I slept.
    And dreamed of Bea Cherbourg.
    It was a strange dream. It was flesh. Bea’s flesh. I could see it, feel it, smell it, taste it. It was the center and all that surrounded. It was soft and warm and gave when I pressed into it. It was well shaped and fit. It was not naked. Naked had no relevance. It just was. Then it was her eyes. Then her smile. Which smile? The one that she had given the waiter? The one she had given Sara Hutton? Hey! Where’s mine? The flesh is given. The smile is not. The eyes condemn—
    The rude sound of landing gear locking into place woke me up. I took in a deep breath; scrub-cleaned the old brain with recycled oxygen, and stretched. Then there was a momentary sense memory of Bea Cherbourg’s flesh in my arms—then it passed.