Beverly Hills.
In a coffee shop near WMA's headquarters on Camino Street, after seeing off the other two, Simon and Jonathan sat back down.
Flipping through the novel they'd just secured the adaptation rights for, titled Dances with Wolves, Simon glanced at the paparazzi lurking outside the glass window and smiled at Jonathan. "ICM's bound to get nervous. You just signed Robert De Niro, and now you're going after one of their stars."
ICM—Innovative International Management—was Hollywood's third-largest talent agency after WMA and CAA, boasting heavyweights like Arnold Schwarzenegger and Eddie Murphy. Its clout was nothing to sneeze at.
The pair who'd just left were Michael Blake, the author of Dances with Wolves in Simon's hands, and Kevin Costner.
In the era Simon had been reborn from, most people might remember Kevin Costner mainly as Jonathan Kent, Superman's adoptive father in Man of Steel. But in truth, thanks to blockbusters like Dances with Wolves and The Bodyguard, Costner was one of the hottest superstars of the nineties.
Right now, Kevin Costner was an ICM client—not yet the megastar he'd become, but already making a name for himself.
Jonathan Friedman had smoothly signed Robert De Niro the previous week. Hearing Simon's comment, he shook his head with a laugh. "Kevin and Bob are both the introspective type—reserved performers. I'm not as greedy as CAA; one is plenty. Speaking of which, Simon, including Dances with Wolves, that's eight rights you've bought up lately. Planning to keep going?"
Simon caught the note of caution in Jonathan's tone but replied, "If I spot something promising, sure."
Even as he said it, Simon felt a twinge of frustration inside.
Of the eight rights he'd acquired—novels, remakes, or original scripts—only two truly caught his eye: Dances with Wolves and Forrest Gump. The rest were just decoys, scooped up casually to muddy the waters.
Technical limitations meant Forrest Gump, an Oscar winner for Best Visual Effects, couldn't go into production anytime soon.
Forrest Gump had only been published last year, and its author, Winston Groom, had some industry recognition. But compared to his other works, the book's sales could only be called a flop.
From last year to now, it'd sold fewer than ten thousand copies.
After Jonathan reached out, Groom initially threw in all sorts of conditions. But when Simon bumped the offer to $200,000, Westeros snapped up the film adaptation rights for the next ten years without a hitch.
As for Dances with Wolves.
In the original timeline, the film had turned a $22 million budget into over $400 million worldwide, snagging Oscars for Best Picture, Best Director, and more.
Unlike Forrest Gump, it had no tech barriers.
But Simon couldn't rush this one either.
Daenerys Films simply lacked the muscle to handle a global $400 million grosser right now, and he had no intention of handing off distribution rights to another studio.
Over the past weeks, Jonathan had been negotiating mainly with Michael Blake over the rights term.
Blake had written the novel at the urging of his friend Kevin Costner, which explained why he insisted Costner star as the lead—even demanding it be written into the contract.
Beyond that, if selling to Westeros, both Blake and Costner naturally wanted Dances with Wolves greenlit as soon as possible.
That, however, wasn't something Simon could promise.
After weeks of back-and-forth, they'd hammered out a deal: Daenerys would buy three years of adaptation rights for $100,000. Blake hadn't tried to gouge on price. But if, within those three years, Daenerys couldn't launch the project per agreed terms, they'd owe Blake $500,000 upon expiration.
Beyond Forrest Gump and Dances with Wolves, many other films from Simon's memory were either unavailable or untraceable.
And anyway.
He couldn't make a big splash with this; it had to be quiet, gradual nibbling.
Eight rights had cost him just over a million bucks. Jonathan's mind flickered to the young man's amassed tens of millions, and seeing no sign of heeding his advice, he dropped it. Instead, he said, "Simon, I've been thinking—since 'Sally' isn't going to Sean, could she audition for Sally's friend Marie?"
The Sean in question was, of course, Sean Young, Blade Runner's Rachael.
A while back, when Simon confirmed he'd produce When Harry Met Sally, Jonathan had pushed Sean Young.
Simon, giving Jonathan face, had met with her specially—sparking a flurry of gossip. But he'd already had his own plans, and her impression hadn't wowed him, so it fizzled out.
Now, hearing this, Simon said, "Joe, didn't she join Oliver Stone's Wall Street crew?"
Oliver Stone had won the Oscar for Best Director in March for Platoon and started his next film last month—a business thriller called Wall Street, backed by Fox.
Jonathan nodded with a wry smile. "Sean's playing Michael Douglas's wife. But Oliver and Michael aren't fans; it's already a minor role under ten minutes, and it'll probably get cut even shorter in the final edit."
"She's too stunning for Marie. And Joe, you can't seriously think she'd mesh well with the When Harry Met Sally team?"
Simon could only shake his head in refusal. After a moment, he added, "Actually, Sandy, Liz, and Nicole—they've all got real potential. Joe, Sean's sharp-tongued edge just doesn't fit this town. No need to invest too much in her."
Jonathan noted Simon hadn't mentioned Courtney Cox, whom he'd known longest, and felt a pang of sentiment. Still, he explained, "Sean's dad, Donald Young, is a TV producer. Back when I was in New York, we were good friends—he helped me out more than once."
Favors could bury you.
Simon thought as much but couldn't risk letting in someone who might unsettle the whole set.
They chatted a bit longer before Simon bid Jonathan goodbye and headed to De Laurentiis Entertainment's headquarters, also in Beverly Hills.
It was May 13th.
A Wednesday.
After over a month of intense post-production, Near Dark had its final cut. Catherine had called yesterday, inviting Simon to view the print.
Truth be told, he'd wanted to help with Near Dark's post as much as possible. But after his fallout with Janet, she'd acted guilty herself, politely turning down his offers to assist—only calling occasionally for advice.
So.
In this time, Simon hadn't seen either of the two women he'd grown closest to since arriving in this era.
Leaving Camino Street, Neil Bennett pulled the Chevy SUV to a stop outside a three-story office on nearby Alden Drive in under five minutes.
Before Simon even stepped out, he spotted a wine-red Land Rover Range Rover parked ahead.
Compared to his Chevy, the Range Rover—touted as the British royals' off-road vehicle of choice—was leagues above, its vibrant wine-red body likely custom.
Most importantly.
After all this time together, if Simon hadn't noticed Janet's fondness for wine-red, he'd be hopeless.
Sure enough.
Stepping out and approaching, he found Ken Dixon lounging in the driver's seat, reading a newspaper—the bodyguard who'd stayed with Janet after their 'asset split' last month.
Spotting Simon, Ken Dixon got out and greeted him. "Mr. Westeros."
Simon nodded back. "Where's Janet?"
Ken Dixon gestured to the roadside building. "Miss Johnston's already inside."
As they spoke, the paparazzi—sensing a scoop—swarmed in, snapping furiously at Simon chatting with Ken. Neil Bennett stepped up to block the surge, and Ken deftly shielded Simon's other side.
Ignoring the barrage of chaotic questions amid the flashes, Simon strode into De Laurentiis Entertainment's lobby, wondering if he'd ever shake these pests for good.
Inside, producer Edward Feldman and a tall, blonde woman in her thirties approached. Introductions revealed her as Martha Schumacher, the company's president.
After brief pleasantries, Edward Feldman caught Simon's searching gaze and explained, "Catherine was just here, but Miss Johnston pulled her aside. Simon, let's head upstairs."
Simon nodded and followed them up.
In a spacious third-floor office, Janet and Kathryn had been murmuring on the reception sofa. Seeing Simon enter, both women rose.
Edward Feldman smiled, saying he'd prep the screening, and left with Martha Schumacher. Kathryn hugged Simon briefly, then vanished on some pretext.
Soon, the office held only Simon and Janet.
Once alone, Simon eyed Janet, still standing there. Today, her hair cascaded in big waves, with a long side-swept bang. She wore a wide-plaid blue shirt with a long hem over white slacks, high-heeled sandals on her feet.
After his gaze lingered, Janet finally caved, stepping closer and tilting her chin up to extend a hand. "Hello there."
Simon glanced at the pretty hand, then reached out—not to shake, but to clasp her pale wrist.
The sudden grip, though gentle, triggered something etched deep in her bones. Janet's whole body softened, her cheeks flushing crimson. Her watery eyes glared at Simon without menace, her voice melting. "You little bastard, bullying me."
Simon had only meant to tease, but sensing her melting, he quickly pulled her close. Janet clung like a koala, kicking off her sandals with two soft thuds.
Cradling her soft form, Simon felt her tender cheek nuzzle his neck, full of clinging affection. Finally, she nibbled lightly like a mouse, as if testing.
Softly, he asked, "Still breaking up?"
Janet didn't answer that, her voice still velvet. "Little bastard."
Simon carried her to the sofa edge, intending to set her down, but her limbs tightened, refusing to part. He turned, sitting himself, hands encircling her waist to test the feel. With a smile: "You've put on weight. Guess you haven't missed me at all."
Janet shifted against him, a hint of grievance in her tone. "As if I'd miss a bad boy like you who causes trouble all day."
Simon protested. "Haven't done a single bad thing. Really."
Janet burrowed her head into his neck again, sniping, "Pathetic."
Simon could only chuckle, inhaling her lovely scent. "My place tonight?"
Janet twisted lightly before replying. "No. Palisades."
Simon nodded. "Fine by me."
They held each other in quiet embrace for a moment until Janet broached a topic. "What do you think of Noah?"
Simon shook his head honestly. "Don't know him well. What about him?"
Janet said, "After you two met last week, he called me—said you're tough to deal with."
Simon turned, brushing his cheek to hers. "I don't know why, but I just can't click with him."
Janet paused, then burst into laughter, her small hands scratching at him. "Lion."
Simon blinked. "Hm?"
Janet lifted her face from his neck, eyes sparkling as she gazed at him, her smile wide, voice still soft. "A lion king can tolerate many females around him, but he'll never allow another adult male in his territory that threatens his status."
Simon sighed. "Is that it?"
Janet leaned in, bit his lip gently. "Haven't you noticed? You don't even have a single male friend your age—and you clearly prefer girls' company."
Simon knew that bite hinted at Sandra; the gossip had spotlighted a pap shot of her biting him.
Baring his teeth playfully back, he said, "I figure it's got nothing to do with lions. More like this guy from an Western novel."
Janet's curiosity piqued. "Who?"
Simon grinned. "You wouldn't know if I told you. But his theory is, women are made of water, men of mud. He feels at ease with women, but men make him uncomfortable all over."
Janet's lashes fluttered. "Really? Hehe, sounds just like you. I'll have to read that book sometime—find it for me."
Simon nodded. "Sure."
Janet pecked his lips, then nestled back into his neck, savoring the intimacy. After a pause, she shifted topics. "Noah called again this morning. Little bastard, have you really bought 3,700 S&P long contracts?"
Simon nodded. "Yeah."
Janet clearly laughed. "Noah says you're crazy."
Starting last week, the S&P 500 had hovered between 270 and 275. Simon had been directing Noah Scott to steadily buy September S&P 500 futures longs.
Now.
At 3,700 contracts, with margins around $13,600 each, he'd burned through over $50 million. Excluding the $20 million loan buffer in his personal account, his position ratio hit 67%.
Index futures contracts fell in March, June, September, and December. Skipping the near June ones for September's was for the long haul.
Noah Scott had clearly seen that.
Most index futures traders kept long positions cautiously under 30%. Simon's 67% was a recipe for wipeout, even under current lax rules.
No wonder he been called nuts.
These thoughts flashing through, Simon stroked Janet's soft form. "Do you think I'm crazy?"
Janet nodded. "Mhm."
Simon feigned defeat. "Alright, guess I am."
"Hehe," Janet chuckled lightly, arms tightening around him with unmasked certainty. "You're my boyfriend, little bastard. How could Janet Johnston's boyfriend possibly be normal?"