A PERFECT RENDEZVOUS

Crescent Hotel

1988

"Move those damned steers out of here, the stench is enough to gag a corpse!" Seated on a black canvas chair with the word DIRECTOR stenciled in white above his name, Zayn Malik snapped the order and glowered at the cattle moving around in a temporary pen near a sprawling, modernistic ranch house, then he continued making notes on his script. Located forty miles from Dallas, the luxurious residence with its tree-lined drive, lavish riding stable, and fields dotted with oil wells had been leased from a Texas billionaire for use in a movie called Destiny, a movie that, according to Variety, was likely to win Zayn Malik another Academy Award for Best Actor as well as one for Best Director—assuming he ever managed to complete the picture that everyone was calling jinxed.

Until last night, Zayn Malik had thought things couldn't possibly get worse: Originally budgeted at $45 million with four months allotted for filming it, Destiny was now one month behind schedule and $7 million over budget, owing to an extraordinary number of bizarre production problems and accidents that had plagued it almost from the day shooting began.

Now, after months of delays and disasters, there were only two scenes remaining to be filmed, but the elated satisfaction Zayn Malik should have felt was completely obliterated by a raging fury that he could hardly contain as he tried ineffectually to concentrate on the changes he wanted to make in the next scene.

Off to his right, near the main road, a camera was being moved into position to capture what promised to be a fiery sunset with the Dallas skyline outlined on the distant horizon. Through the open doors of the stable, Zayn could see grips positioning bales of hay and best boys scrambling up in the beams and adjusting lights, while the cameraman called directions to them. Beyond the stable, well out of the camera's range, two stuntmen were moving automobiles bearing Texas State Highway Patrol insignias into place for a chase scene that would be shot tomorrow. At the perimeter of the lawn beneath a stand of oak trees, trailers reserved for the main cast members were drawn into a large semicircle, their blinds closed, their air conditioners laboring in the battle against the relentless July heat. Beside them the caterer's trucks were doing a land-office business dispensing cold drinks to sweating crew members and overheated actors.

The cast and crew were all seasoned pros, accustomed to standing around and waiting for hours in order to be on hand for a few minutes of shooting. Ordinarily, the atmosphere was convivial, and on the day before a final wrap, it was usually downright buoyant. Normally, the same people who were standing in uneasy groups near the catering trucks would have been hanging around Zayn Malik, joking about the trials they'd endured together or talking enthusiastically about a wrap party tomorrow night to celebrate the end of shooting. After what had happened last night, however, no one was talking to him if they could avoid it, and no one was expecting a party.

Today, all thirty-eight members of the Dallas cast and crew were giving him a conspicuously wide, watchful berth, and all of them were dreading the next few hours. As a result, instructions that were normally given in reasonable tones were being rapped out with taut impatience by anyone in a position to give them; directions that were normally carried out with alacrity were being followed with the clumsy inaccuracy that comes when people are nervously eager to finish something.

Zayn could almost feel the emotions emanating from everyone around him; the sympathy from those who liked him, the satisfied derision from those who either didn't like him or were friends of his wife, the avid curiosity from those who had no feelings for either of them.

Belatedly realizing that no one had heard his order to move the cattle, he looked around for the assistant director and saw him standing on the lawn, his hands on his hips and his head tipped back, watching one of the helicopters lift off for a routine run to the Dallas lab where each day's film was taken for processing. Beneath the helicopter, a typhoon of dirt and dust swirled and spread out, sending a fresh blast of hot gritty wind laced with the odour of fresh cow manure straight at Zayn Malik. "Tommy!" he called in an irritated shout.