Page 1 of All That Glitters

Chapter one

How Not to Sell Your Screenplay

Beneath a starry Beverly Hills sky stood the kind of mansion you see in movies, a sprawling Tudor of half-timber and pale stucco. A vast yard surrounded it, with clusters of trees, designer landscaping, and a ten-foot perimeter wall to keep out trouble.

They were going to need a bigger wall.

Tony Harding crouched behind a clump of trees near the wall, taking in the mansion and yard, and having serious second thoughts about this whole harebrained scheme.

At twenty-three, Tony had the impulsiveness of a twelve-year-old, something his friends never tired of pointing out.

And tonight was about to prove them right.

He scanned the yard, with the soft landscape lighting providing just enough illumination to spot his target. It was a massive oak near the house, with a branch extending over a second-floor balcony. Tony tightened the straps of his worn backpack, took a deep breath, and made his move.

Tony sprinted across the open yard toward the tree, keeping his footfalls as quiet as possible. He somehow managed to avoid triggering the motion sensors as he reached the tree and caught his breath. He looked up, gauging the distance to the branch above. It was maybe twenty feet.

“Just like the tree house,” he told himself. He and his friends had climbed plenty of trees as kids, so hopefully those childhood skills were still in there somewhere.

Tony wrapped his arms around the trunk and began his climb, using the rough bark for handholds. Halfway up, he made a mental note to bring gloves next time, assuming he was crazy enough to try this again. A fairly safe bet.

He finally reached the branch and eased out onto it, feeling it bend and creak ever so slightly beneath him.

“Don’t you dare break,” he whispered as he inched along the branch toward the balcony, with nothing but a lot of empty air between him and the ground.

He was near enough now to make out the expensive stone tiles and glass doors leading to what he presumed was a bedroom.

With a final push, Tony launched himself from the branch onto the balcony, landing with a soft thud.

He crouched low, waiting, and listening.

When no alarm sounded, he crept to the balcony door and tested it.

To his surprise and relief, it slid open.

He wouldn’t need the lock-pick in his backpack after all.

The bedroom inside was like a palace, with custom furnishings that probably cost more than his entire year’s rent. A California king took up one side of the room, with original paintings hung on the walls, looking like they just walked out of the Getty.

Tony tip-toed across the plush carpet to the hallway door. He eased it open and peered out into the hallway outside. Warm lights along the walls cast soft glows across framed movie posters, each bearing the name Preston Jordan as producer; the man whose home Tony just snuck into.

Tony slipped out the door into the hallway and quietly crept down it to a room at the far end. Through the cracked door, he saw what appeared to be another bedroom that had been converted into a home office.

Tony eased through the door into the new bedroom, finding it almost as spacious as the first one.

Another king-size bed rested against one wall, with an antique desk in a corner.

On the floor beside the desk stood several piles of screenplays, each one three-hole punched, with title pages in bold black type.

Tony quickly unzipped his backpack and pulled out his own screenplay for ‘The Frat,’ a horror-comedy about a fraternity of vampires.

It had taken him several months to write this work of genius, burning through his savings and maxing out his last credit card, only to find out that no one with any power in Hollywood wanted to read an unsolicited screenplay from an unknown writer.

So Tony’s unconventional mind had concocted this unconventional scheme to get it in front of a producer.

Tony had just slid his screenplay into one of the piles, when the faint sound of voices came from the hallway outside, heading his way. He quickly scanned the room for somewhere to hide and spotted a closet near the bed.

Tony rushed over and slipped inside the closet, easing the door closed behind him, with just enough of a crack to see through.

Seconds later, the bedroom door swung open and in stumbled two people, drunk off their butts.

The first was a stunning blonde woman who could have stepped right off the cover of a men’s magazine.

Behind her came a middle-aged man with thinning hair, a heavy paunch, and a suit that had to cost more than Tony’s college tuition.

Tony recognized him from photos of Hollywood premieres and glamor magazines he had read.

He was Preston Jordan, a big-time Hollywood producer and owner of the mansion Tony was about to get caught in.

And apparently, he was also a cheating husband.

“Come on, Preston,” the blonde purred, her voice slurred but still seductive. “Let’s play a game.”

Preston held his finger to his lips in an exaggerated gesture of silence. ‘Shhh.’ He peeked out the door into the hallway, scanning it both ways, before shutting the door and locking it with a soft click. He turned back to the woman with a lecherous smile.

“What should we play?” he asked, sauntering toward her with the confidence of a man accustomed to getting what he wanted.

The blonde — Bambi or Barbie, or something like that — sprawled across the bed, posing like a vintage pinup. “How about I be the na?ve young starlet,” she offered, her voice dropping to a breathy whisper, “and you be the big, mean Hollywood mogul.”

Preston’s grin widened. “I like that one. And you’ll be a naughty starlet?”

“Only if you promise you’ll punish me,” she said with a giggle that somehow managed to be both childish and provocative.

“Wait right there,” Preston said, heading toward what Tony presumed was a bathroom across the room.

Tony took a breath to steady his nerves. This was bad on an apocalyptic scale. His mind raced through different ways to extract himself from this mess, but each scenario played out even worse than the last.

“Ooh, mister studio mogul,” Bambi’s voice drifted through the closet door. “That’s not your camera.”

Tony cringed. You seriously couldn’t make this stuff up if you tried. He risked a glance through the crack in the door and saw Preston now hovering over the bed in a bondage getup of leather straps, a chest harness, and a gimp mask. It was as if the Village People and Darth Vader had a baby.

Just then, new footsteps came from the hallway. Determined footsteps, followed by a woman’s voice.

“Preston, honey. Are you in there?”

Preston froze, looking like a comically perverse statue. The blonde’s eyes opened wide with panic. “Your wife?” she whispered, and he gave a short, terrified nod.

“Preston?” The voice came again, more insistent this time.

“Yes, dear...?” Preston called back, his tone artificially bright as he scrambled to remove the leather mask and frantically looked around as if a suitable explanation might materialize from thin air.

“Preston, honey. The door’s locked,” his wife said, her voice hardening with suspicion.

“It is? How odd.” Preston’s voice cracked with nerves. “I was just...”

The doorknob jiggled violently, followed by determined pounding. “Preston, you open this door right now!” Mrs. Jordan’s voice had lost all pretense of patience.

Preston grabbed Bambi by the arm and dragged her toward the closet where Tony was hiding. “Coming, honey. Be right there,” he called, trying to conceal the panic in his voice.

“What’s that noise? Is someone in there with you?” The pounding intensified.

“Uh, no, dear. Of course not,” Preston stammered. “Just finishing up a screenplay.”

The closet door swung open, and Preston shoved Bambi inside. She stumbled backward, brushing within inches of Tony, who held his breath and pressed himself further into the corner. The blonde collided with hanging suits, her perfume a cloud that threatened to make Tony sneeze.

“Be right there,” Preston hissed before shutting the closet door.

In the dark confines of the closet, Tony found himself sharing oxygen with a terrified starlet. He could feel her trembling, hear her shallow, panicked breathing. Through the sliver of space where the door hadn’t fully closed, he watched the unfolding disaster in the room beyond.

“DAMMIT PRESTON! YOU OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW!” Mrs. Jordan’s voice had escalated to a roar.

Preston hurriedly closed the closet door, then hobbled across the room, yanking up his pants as he went. “Coming, dear. I’m coming,” he called, his voice artificially cheerful.

He opened the bedroom door with the sheepish expression of a child caught stealing cookies. “Aw, there’s my little boofy cakes.”

Tony would have laughed if the situation weren’t so terrifying. In the doorway stood a formidable middle-aged woman, her highlighted hair perfectly coiffed, designer loungewear immaculate, and a shotgun clutched in her manicured hands. Her expression could have curdled milk.

“Don’t you ‘boofy cakes’ me,” she snarled. “You’re up to something, Preston Jordan. It’s written all over your face.” She stormed past him into the room, her eyes scanning every corner. Preston noticed the whip still in his hand and quickly hid it behind his back, smiling weakly.

“Honey? Maybe you should put the gun down, and the two of us talk about this,” he suggested, his voice quavering.

In the closet, the footsteps grew closer. Tony could feel his heartbeat in his ears, pounding so loudly he was certain everyone in the house must hear it.

“No, dammit! I’m through talking,” Mrs. Jordan snarled. “Now you tell me where she is.”

Bambi’s breathing quickened beside Tony.

She backed further into the closet, clearly trying to disappear into the hanging clothes, when suddenly she bumped against something solid.

She turned, her eyes widening as they met Tony’s in the dim light filtering through the crack in the door. A strangled sound escaped her throat.

Outside, Preston was still attempting damage control. “Dear, there’s nobody here but us. Now put down the gun before someone gets hurt.”

Mrs. Jordan’s footsteps approached the closet. Through the crack, Tony saw her raise the shotgun, aiming it directly at the door. “Is this where she’s hiding?”

And that’s when Bambi lost it. She let out a bloodcurdling scream that echoed through the closet and into the room. Before Tony could react, she flung the closet door open and bolted out, crashing directly into Mrs. Jordan.

The impact sent Mrs. Jordan staggering backward, the shotgun swinging wildly upward. BOOM! The weapon fired into the ceiling, sending plaster raining down on them all.

In the chaos, Tony saw his chance. He dashed out of the closet, colliding briefly with Preston. Their eyes met for a split second, just long enough for Preston to get a good look at this intruder, then Tony tore past him and out the door.

Tony raced down the hallway, the sounds of domestic warfare erupting behind him.

“Nobody here but us?!” Mrs. Jordan’s enraged voice echoed down the corridor.

“Honey, wait! I can explain,” Preston pleaded.

BOOM! Another shotgun blast. And then the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. Tony guessed Preston had also decided to flee.

Tony ducked into the bedroom he’d entered through earlier, slamming and locking the door behind him. He leaned against it, breathing hard, as Preston’s footsteps thundered past.

“Honey, please. Be reasonable,” Preston’s voice faded down the hallway.

BOOM! A third blast from the shotgun was followed by more running. Then, new footsteps approached, stopping directly outside the bedroom door.

“Dammit! I saw you go in there, you little pecker,” Mrs. Jordan called. “Now open up!”

Tony darted across the room and out onto the balcony. Behind him, the bedroom door splintered as another shotgun blast tore through it. Apparently, Mrs. Jordan wasn’t above destroying her own home in pursuit of her targets.

On the balcony, Tony leaped up, grabbing hold of the same branch he’d used to enter. He scooted along it toward the trunk as quickly as possible, while the wood creaked ominously beneath him. Behind him, Mrs. Jordan stormed onto the balcony, shotgun raised.

“You think you can help my husband cheat!” she shouted, aiming at him.

BOOM! The branch splintered just ahead of Tony. For a moment, he thought he might make it... then with a sickening CRACK, the branch gave way completely.

Tony dropped like a rock, landing hard on the manicured lawn below. With a painful groan, he struggled to his feet, while Mrs. Jordan leaned over the balcony railing and took aim.

BOOM! A divot of grass and soil exploded inches from his foot.

Tony sprinted across the yard toward a cluster of trees, ducking behind the thickest trunk he could find. His mind raced, trying to process the absurdity of his situation.

From across the yard came the deep, menacing barks of dogs. Tony peered around the tree to see two muscular Dobermans racing his way. His eyes went wide. Dobermans definitely hadn’t been on the bingo card. And neither had a crazy woman in designer loungewear with a shotgun.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Tony bolted through the trees toward the concrete perimeter wall, while the dogs gained ground with every second. Reaching the wall, he scrambled up and over it, landing hard on the sidewalk outside.

In the distance came the sound of rapidly approaching sirens. Tony turned and tore off down the block in the opposite direction.

As with the rest of his harebrained schemes over the past year, everything that could go wrong just did. Spectacularly.