Five o'clock in the morning.
No alarm sounded, yet Simon woke right on time. Ever since that capital started building positions, he'd been rising at this hour these days.
The woman pressed against him, the bedroom's warm fragrance—it hit Simon instantly that this wasn't his apartment in Century City.
Held like a pillow by Janet, Simon didn't get up right away. He turned his head to gaze at the still-sleeping woman, a few strands of blonde hair slanting across her flushed, fair face. Her lips pursed slightly, lashes long, her slumber laced with languor and contentment.
He watched for a moment, feeling an inexplicable sense of peace wash over him.
Perhaps.
This was his 'place of true contentment.'
So he leaned in, planting a soft kiss on Janet's lips, before carefully disentangling from her embrace.
The villa's layout hadn't changed a bit since he'd last left.
After freshening up, Simon hit the gym for a half-hour jog, followed by a shower. It was six o'clock now.
North America's futures options were limited back then, and Simon had bet everything on the one he could predict—the most heavily traded: S&P 500 index futures.
Launched by the Chicago Mercantile Exchange in 1982, S&P 500 futures saw daily volumes of 80,000 to 100,000 contracts, sometimes breaking 100,000. So Simon, this 'butterfly,' could blend in without drawing too much notice—which also fueled his confidence that the S&P 500 curve over the next few months wouldn't stray far from his memories.
With no electronic trading yet, index futures relied on old-school floor trading, Monday through Friday, from 8:30 a.m. to 3:15 p.m.
Chicago was in the Central Time Zone, two hours ahead of Los Angeles. Six a.m. here meant the CME was nearing open there.
Brewing himself a pot of coffee, Simon headed to the study, settling behind his wide desk with a mug in hand as he dialed Noah Scott.
They were murmuring about post-open trading plans when Janet drifted in, pajamas on, posture lazy. Spotting Simon, she sidled right over, curling her soft body into his lap like a kitten, eyes squinting shut again.
Simon lowered his voice, chatting with Noah Scott a bit longer before hanging up. He smiled, patting Janet. "Coffee?"
Janet shook her head. "Haven't brushed my teeth."
"Want me to carry you back to bed for more sleep?"
"No," Janet shook her head again, mustering a bit more energy. She lifted her face. "You just told Noah to buy another 800 contracts?"
Simon nodded. "Yeah."
"That's 4,500 now," Janet said, eyes narrowing as she did some quick math. "4,500 contracts, built between 270 and 275 points—that's about $60 million in margin. Position over 80%, with just $15 million left usable. Hmm, Noah's really gonna think you're nuts now. Little bastard, you're not adding more, are you?"
Simon held her warm, yielding form. "No more. This is it."
Janet's small hand traced his chest, her eyes sparkling as she gazed at him. "But little bastard, you're still wide open to losses like this. Is there really no problem?"
Simon's current position meant every 1-point swing in the S&P 500 equaled $2.25 million in profit or loss.
Though futures trading wasn't daily no-liability settlement yet, if Westeros's account racked up paper losses exceeding the remaining $15 million float, Simon would need to post more margin—or the broker would force-sell contracts to shore up the account.
By that math, Westeros's 4,500 longs, beyond the $60 million fixed margin, could only weather about a 15-point drop in the S&P 500 with all his chips in, including that $20 million loan—roughly 5% of the index.
But.
From year's start to now, in just four months, the S&P 500 had swung between 250 and 300 twice, with peaks near 20% of the market.
Against that volatility, Simon's position was untenable.
After all.
If the S&P tanked another 20%—over 50 points—each contract's theoretical low-point loss would top $25,000. For 4,500, that's $112.5 million—far beyond Westeros's $75 million principal.
Of course.
Barring a memory-like cliff-dive crash, Simon could liquidate early—but still face massive losses.
If that happened, even half gone was $37.5 million.
Dollars held real value back then.
The Palisades mansion they lived in? In two or three decades, it'd fetch tens of millions easy—but even at the '80s real estate bubble peak now, it was just $4 million.
Obviously.
Simon was teetering on the edge of losing enough for ten top-tier mansions of the era.
No wonder Noah Scott saw him as mad.
But.
Risk and reward always danced together.
Though many Wall Street analysts now pegged the market as exhausted, ripe for a downturn—and they were right—Simon vividly recalled the current 270-ish S&P as the low for the next four months.
Unlike the prior four months' wild ups and downs, the coming stretch would be a steady climb, with minimal sharp swings.
So he likely wouldn't even touch that emergency loan; Westeros's leftover $15 million should cover any minor wobbles in the overall uptrend.
Now.
Gazing at Janet in his arms, her eyes wide in feigned worry, Simon couldn't resist leaning down for a peck on her lips. "You're not secretly hoping I lose it all, are you? I could only pay with my body."
Janet raised a hand to push his head away, her concern vanishing in a blink, replaced by a beaming smile. She leaned back in, stroking his cheek. "I'd treat you so well, little Simon."
Of course that's it.
Simon sighed inwardly, then suddenly gripped her extended arm, feeling her melt into him. "See? Face reality."
Janet's eyes turned watery, staring at him, her voice a soft murmur. "Little bastard."
Simon chuckled, pulling the near-slipping, limp Janet closer, absorbing her harmless scolding. His gaze caught her movements revealing a pair of pretty feet with wine-red polish, sparking an idea.
Cupping her fair face with one hand, he studied her a moment, suddenly struck by a eureka feeling.
Janet was the type who favored a natural look, her flawless features allowing her to go barefaced anywhere.
But.
Slap on bold red lipstick, tweak her speech a bit—and voilà: sultry, alluring, accented, even that suppressed edge of danger and madness. Exactly the taxi driver he needed.
Leaning for another peck, Simon said, "Babe, my movie's missing a role. How about you play it?"
Regaining some strength, Janet wriggled. Her tone stayed soft. "Which one?"
Simon replied, "Esmeralda Villalobos."
Janet's lashes fluttered. "Sure, but I can't act."
"No problem—I'm the director. And directors love personally coaching actresses."
"Hehe, little bastard," Janet laughed, pinching him lightly. Then: "Oh, that animated film you mentioned last time—how's it going? I'm really looking forward to it."
Though they hadn't met, Simon had Neil deliver the manuscript the day after that phone call. They'd discussed it more than once over the line.
Simon shook his head regretfully. "Disney only wants the script—won't produce for us."
Janet tilted her head. "So what now?"
Simon thought of a certain animation outfit tucked away in San Francisco's nooks. "This might be better. Maybe we try a different format."
Janet blinked. "Hm?"
Simon didn't hold back. "What do you think of making it 3D?"
Janet's eyes flickered again, clearly unfamiliar with 3D animated films. No surprise—3D animation was embryonic; Pixar had only done a two-minute Luxo Jr. so far.
Simon explained patiently. "Remember the animated opening in Run Lola?"
Janet paused, then: "I got it—Pixar."
Actually, Janet recalled more.
Like.
A clipping she'd seen in Simon's study, clearly marked with Pixar's name.
Hmph.
Little bastard must've had this in mind ages ago.
Using a gift as cover to trick her.
Hmph hmph hmph.
But a smart woman wouldn't call it out.
So she didn't.
Simon, unaware of Janet's thoughts, saw her endearing daze. Though instinct told him she was scheming in this state, he didn't probe. He nodded. "Pixar, yeah. If we can, we'll buy it out and make a 3D of The Lion King."
The original Lion King grossed over $900 million worldwide, holding the top animated spot for over a decade before Toy Story 3 and Frozen overtook it.
Now.
Unless he surrendered the script, getting Disney's team to 'subcontract' was unlikely. Michael Eisner had a point: outside Disney, finding another top 2D animation crew was near impossible.
So.
Lately, Simon had hatched a bolder plan.
A 3D Lion King.
Though current 3D tech struggled for 2D's fluidity, Simon wasn't rushed—he'd delay it a few years if needed.
Tech hurdles, solvable, weren't hurdles.
Later hits proved Pixar had the chops.
As for matching the original's box office miracle in 3D? Simon wasn't too worried.
Film was the riskiest business on earth.
But also.
The purest: if quality shone, audiences paid up.
So.
2D or 3D, The Lion King was The Lion King.
Even perfectly cloning the 2D version, box office success had variables. A 3D take might add fresh appeal.
They chatted more before leaving the study.
Janet dashed off to dress and freshen; Simon headed downstairs to prep breakfast.
Around 8:30, they left the Palisades mansion—Simon for Daenerys Films in Santa Monica, Janet for her Venice Beach studio.
Their month-apart reunion sparked another massive paparazzi frenzy.
But accustomed, neither was much fazed.
It was mid-May now.
The next day, Columbia's Ishtar opened on 1,139 screens, heralding 1987's summer season.
Starring Warren Beatty, Dustin Hoffman, and French actress Isabelle Adjani, budgeted at $55 million. Seeing that in the papers, Simon could only sigh.
Last year's top ten North American earners? Half cost under $10 million.
Now.
Seemingly overnight, Hollywood had entered the blockbuster era.
Kathryn first theatrical feature, Near Dark—which Simon screened yesterday—was set for June 19. Despite his 'assistant director' hype squeezing it into summer, De Laurentiis had only secured 500 opening screens.
Yesterday, Simon had quizzed company president Martha Schumacher on that.
He didn't mind the film borrowing his name for promo. But delaying to August or September seemed smarter—off-season competition was lighter, potentially nabbing over 1,000 screens.
Martha explained Near Darkwould likely be De Laurentiis Entertainment Group's last release before bankruptcy; they couldn't wait months.
To that, Simon was powerless.
After directing Noah Scott on that final long buy, Simon shelved it, pouring all energy into Daenerys's three films.