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Once Julian and Richard reached an agreement, the collector-book project officially began.
“If we do this well, it becomes more than a one-time cash grab,” Julian told him before he left.
“Call it cultural merchandise if you want.
Costumes, themed shoes, limited prints, archival photography, premium reissues.
Playboy has more than fifty years of stories.
We should stop acting as if the magazine is the only product.”
Merchandise worked only when it carried mythology.
The company, whatever its sins and decline, had mythology in abundance.
More practically, if the project succeeded, it would relieve the company’s cash pressure and put a large amount of money back in Julian’s hands.
There was another benefit too.
The women who had appeared in the recent press had all signed confidentiality agreements, but silence was never permanent.
Bringing them back under his umbrella would make them easier to manage, and they could still generate profit.
One move, several gains.
After watching Richard leave, Julian picked up his phone and called a contact saved as Miss X.
Three months earlier, this was the woman who had helped him reach a number of former Playmates.
The call connected quickly, then ended just as quickly.
She was probably busy.
Fifteen minutes later, she called back.
“You promised you would never contact me again,” a wary female voice said.
“What do you want?”
“I have a job.”
Julian leaned into the chair and looked out at the pale Chicago sky.
“A well-paid job in Chicago.
Better than running around Hollywood for bit parts while producers stare at you like they are shopping for meat.
No rent panic, no discount racks, no wondering whether the next audition is real.”
“Trying to keep a mistress without your family finding out?” she asked.
Julian laughed despite himself.
“In corporate language, that is called human resources.”
“How much?”
“We should discuss that in person.
I can book you a ticket to Chicago.”
“I need to think about it.
My audition is starting.
I will call you back.”
Summer Altice hung up and rose from her chair.
“I’m here.”
“Good.
Come with me,” said the man in the suit.
Summer was twenty-seven, and in Hollywood terms she lived on the outer edge of recognition.
She had appeared in television and film projects, enough to have a resume but not enough to break through.
She was not a newcomer, but she was not secure either.
The work paid less than people imagined, and the gaps between roles were brutal.
She followed the man down the hallway to an elevator.
“Isn’t the audition on this floor?” she asked.
“Mr.
Weinstein’s schedule changed,” the man said, impatient.
“He is waiting in a hotel room upstairs.”
“A room?”
“Is that a problem?”
“No.
Sorry.”
Summer stepped into the elevator and tightened her grip on her resume.
Harvey Weinstein had been one of Hollywood’s power brokers for years.
Producer, studio executive, Oscar campaigner, the sort of man who could make a project visible or bury a career by refusing to return a call.
His companies had been attached to prestige films, famous directors, and actresses whose careers had become industry mythology.
This was supposed to be her chance at the fourth Rambo film.
Risk and opportunity had always walked together in Hollywood.
As the elevator rose, Summer lowered her head and shifted the pepper spray inside her purse into her hand.
“He is inside,” the suited man said when they reached the top floor.
“Go in.”
Then he walked away.
Two security guards stood at the door, one on each side.
When Summer approached, one of them opened it and jerked his chin toward the room.
The door closed behind her.
That was when she saw him.
Weinstein stood near the bed in a bathrobe.
His hair was gray and messy, his face heavy with stubble, his body broad and slack in a way that made the half-open robe feel deliberate rather than accidental.
Summer’s stomach turned.
“Sorry,” he said, waving her closer.
“I was about to take a shower.”
“You invited me to audition for Rambo,” Summer said, lifting her resume as if it could serve as a shield.
“I came today to-”
“I know why you are here.” Weinstein sat on the edge of the bed.
“Come here.”
The robe gaped enough to make his intentions clear.
Summer forced herself not to look.
“The lead is being decided today,” he said.
“I think you should start by giving me a massage.
Shoulders, at least.
Unless you want to watch me shower first?”
“I’m leaving.”
Summer turned and pulled the handle.
The door did not move.
It had been locked from the outside.
“Let me out!”
She yanked at the handle, but the heavy wooden door held firm.
“Where do you think you are going?”
Weinstein’s voice came from behind her.
His weight slammed into her back, pinning her against the door.
“Get your filthy hands off me!”
Summer sprayed pepper spray straight into his face.
Weinstein screamed and stumbled back, clawing at his eyes.
“You bitch!”
Summer grabbed the nearest lamp and swung it at his head.
Her mind went blank.
She only wanted to make sure he could not get up again.
“Help!
Help!”
The guards burst into the room and dragged Summer away.
Before they could pull her fully out, she kicked Weinstein twice and spat at him.
The next thing she knew, she was at the Hollywood station of the Los Angeles Police Department.
“Inside.”
The holding-cell door slammed shut behind her.
Summer flexed her sore wrists and looked around.
The women in the cell were a grim sample of the city’s underbelly: one shaking in a corner, one hunched near the wall with a fresh bruise darkening half her eye, three more dressed for the street and watching everything with hard, exhausted faces.
Great.
She would spend the night with addicts, abuse victims, and women who had learned not to expect mercy.
Before being locked up, she had called the lawyer whose card she carried.
The number was disconnected.
Her parents could not help.
Better not to terrify them.
Her landlord might help, if she could first pay the rent she already owed.
“Damn it.”
Summer rested her forehead lightly against the bars.
Across the room, she saw a familiar shark in a tailored suit.
Weinstein’s lawyer.
Beside him stood a uniformed LAPD officer whose chest and shoulder insignia carried gold oak leaves.
Summer did not know the rank system, but every detective who passed him nodded with visible respect.
Her stomach sank.
The lawyer and the officer spoke quietly.
Then the officer called over a subordinate and pointed toward her.
The blow came later in an interrogation room.
Pain burst through Summer’s face.
Her vision swam, and blood ran warm from her nose.
Someone grabbed her by the hair and yanked her upright.
A lamp shone directly into her eyes.
“We have investigated the situation,” a man’s voice said.
“You attempted to seduce Mr.
Weinstein in exchange for a role.
When he refused, you attacked him.”
“Sign the statement and you can leave.
If not, we can take our time.”
Summer could not see the speaker clearly.
Only the voice reached her, oily and cold.
“You framed me.
I want a lawyer.
I want reporters.”
Hands tightened around the back of her neck.
“The little actress screams a lot,” someone said.
“Maybe we should gag her.”
Another voice laughed.
“Why waste time?
Strip her, search her properly, let her learn how this works.”
“She is dangerous,” a third man said.
“Could be hiding contraband.
We need a full search.”
Summer felt despair break through the anger.
Tears slid down her cheeks.
Then the door opened.
A voice came from outside.
“Boss, her lawyer is here.
He is demanding to see her now.”
‘A lawyer?’
Even Summer did not understand where one had come from.
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