Free Heartland by Davis Bunn Page B

was money. Big money. Enormous. So big the numbers did not matter. Only the power the money represented. If Harry Solish’s consortium green-lighted a picture, it got made. It was that simple.
    In any season, about ninety major features were green-lighted. A major these days was a film that cost sixty-five million and up. Add another third on top of that for marketing and distribution. Harry Solish and his group held pieces of as many as forty of these ninety feature films. Without Harry Solish’s approval, more than half of these would never have been made.
    Harry Solish was a product of modern science. His age was as big a secret as the names of the investors he represented. Martin Allerby guessed Solish’s age at somewhere between sixty and a hundred and forty. Harry Solish looked as perfectly groomed and lifeless as a guy wearing a coffin and his final suit. Even his voice held no sign of life.
    â€œBox office sales are down,” Harry Solish replied. “What do I want with a stake in a new studio?”
    â€œNot just any studio, Harry. A studio that is dedicated to producing a steady stream of hits.”
    â€œAnd the others aren’t?”
    â€œSure, okay, yes. Of course they all want every film they make to strike gold. But look at the other things they count as important.” Milo gave no sign he was stressed. He was a small man with a flair for expensive suits and subtle gestures. Martin knew his family had fled Communist Romania, and Milo had sent himself through Dartmouth on government loans. Milo was rabidly American, and fervent about one thing above all else—Milo Keplar’s rise to the top of the Hollywood pile. Martin had no problem with Milo’s ambition. Milo was also loyal. Loyalty trumped almost anything in this business.
    Milo began counting points off his almost ladylike fingers. “Most studio execs want to be big with the critics on both coasts. They want attention on Oscar night. They want the top names. They want to do what is fashionable. They want to be leading-edge . But the Centurion Studios we intend to build will care about only one thing, Harry. Generating profit for our investors. A lot of profit.”
    Solish had been nipped and tucked so many times he did not have the spare skin on his neck to let him turn to where Martin sat beside him without swiveling his body. “You’ve been awfully quiet today, Martin.”
    Martin held to the party line he and Milo had worked out over the nineteen weeks it had taken to set up this meeting. Their spiel was centered upon the one point his spies had confirmed. “America’s middle-class core has been left behind in this postmodern craze for the dark and the dreary and the hopeless. The films of the forties and fifties represented classic storytelling. That’s what we want to bring back.”
    â€œAnd not just the films,” Milo said, retaking the lead. “We want to develop new faces to match the new stories.”
    â€œAnd thus cut down the costs,” Martin added.
    â€œBut also the box-office potential,” Solish countered.
    â€œOnly at first, Harry. Only at first.” Milo’s only sign of nerves was the way he repeatedly ran one hand down the front of his woven silk tie. “And any face we bring in, we own. Just like in the old days. As the star’s name rises, they are associated only with our sorts of films. Sure, we can loan them out to other studios. But only on films where we have preapproved the script.”
    Solish looked from one man to the other, then supplied the line. “And taken a share of the profits.”
    Martin leaned back and breathed deep for the first time since entering Harry Solish’s home office. Not just drew in enough air to keep from passing out. Really breathed. “Not profits, Harry. A percentage of the gross.”
    Harry settled farther into the sofa and opened the prospectus. Harry Solish was famous for his