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then he remembered the date and smiled at its significance. Today was the Fourth of July, a perfect time to start his production. The birth of the nation and the birth of his masterpiece. People would remember them together for years to come.

2
    Monday, July 5
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    It was shortly past seven in the morning when Tony Rocca stopped at the Mister Donut on Hollywood Boulevard and bought two cinnamon twists for his partner, two maple bars for himself, and a cup of coffee to go. The frizzy-haired matron at the cash register, who had obviously taken full advantage of her Mister Donut employee discount, peered over the tops of her glasses to read his T-shirt. Her bright red lipsticked mouth moved painfully as she sounded out the words. This morning Tony was wearing a navy blue short-sleeved Hanes that proclaimed GENIASES CAN’T SPEL in bright red letters.
    Balancing the coffee precariously on the passenger seat of his dark green Volvo, Tony eased his way back out into traffic. Three blocks later he turned down a side street and pulled into the lot of the Schwartzvold Building.
    Tony parked in his space and locked his car. This morning Tony opted for using the front entrance. He needed a little fresh air after the party yesterday. Tony and his wife, Allison, had hosted a Fourth of July barbecue at their home in Studio City, and Tony had sampled one too many of the margaritas he’d mixed. He cut through the alley and dashed up to Hollywood Boulevard.
    Tony liked this area with its old substantial look, but it was definitely rundown. People were still waiting for what they called the “Hollywood Renaissance.” The land barons were playing a slow game of chess with their Hollywood holdings. There hadn’t been any strong moves thus far, but they’d created enough interest to raise the rents. The owner of the Schwartzvold had announced an increase last month. Tony had accepted the rent hike even though he was really strapped for money right now. It was worth it to work in Hollywood, where there was a feeling of film history.
    Frederick’s of Hollywood was a bright purple erection at the end of the block, and as Tony walked past, he noticed that they’d changed their window display. Perhaps he’d drag Erik inside one of these days, just to see him blush and stammer. For someone who could write the best raunchy dialogue Tony had ever read, Erik was strangely provincial when it came to the real world. Even though they’d been friends for years, there were times when he didn’t understand Erik at all.
    Tony had been a tough punk from L.A. when he’d enlisted and been sent to the Middle East. Once there, the giant melting pot of the army had teamed him with an unlikely buddy. Erik had been a straight-laced Minnesota farm boy on his first trip away from home, but his innate common sense coupled with Tony’s streetwise cunning had helped both of them survive the horrors of combat. When their tour of duty was over, they’d lost touch except for the annual Christmas card. At least, Erik had thought they’d lost touch. Since Tony had a buddy in Minnesota, he’d kept tabs on Erik. He’d found out about the family farm that had gone bankrupt, the college degree that Erik had financed through the GI Bill, and the move he’d made to L.A. after his parents had died. Tony even knew about Erik’s disastrous marriage to a young starlet who’d screwed him six ways to the center. And fifteen years later, when they’d gotten together again at a veteran reunion, Erik had filled in the missing years. He’d told Tony about the farm, the college degree, and his job teaching English in L.A., but he hadn’t mentioned his marriage. Since Tony was well acquainted with Erik’s touchy sense of privacy, he hadn’t brought it up, either.
    As Tony walked rapidly down the street, he nodded at the white-haired man who was kneeling on a folded rug in front of Greta