Book Promotions discussion
This topic is about
MacGuffin
Marketing and Promotion
>
PREVIEW: MACGUFFIN by Roy C. Booth & John F. Mollard
date
newest »
newest »
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIAWEDNESDAY, AUGUST THE TENTH
SEVEN THIRTY-SIX AM
IN 1939, NOTORIOUS MOVIE executive Harry Cohn, founder of Columbia Pictures, reportedly told actors William Holden and Glenn Ford, “If you must get into trouble, do it at the Chateau Marmont.”
The Chateau Marmont, opened on the Sunset Strip in West Hollywood on February 1929, is a legendary castle-like hotel modeled after the Chateau d’Amboise in France’s Loire Valley. The hotel features rooms, pool, hillside bungalows, and garden cottages. It has served as the setting for many notable events in the lives of its large celebrity clientele.
At approximately 7:36 AM, a black stretch limousine drove east down Monteel Road at the north end of the hotel and came to a stop in front of the private back gate entrance to bungalow #3.
As the limo idled at the curb, the rear passenger doors opened, and two men in black suits stepped out: Earl and Harve Gittes–the Italian American owners of the Burbank-based For Stars Security, offering protective services to movie and rock stars alike.
Earl, 62, was a quiet, reserved, black-haired, pock-faced tough guy, while his cousin, Harve, 61-year-old, was a balding loudmouth.
Upon closing the car doors, they moved briskly through the gated entryway and walked up the palm tree-lined sidewalk to the front door of the bungalow. As they neared, they could hear The Grateful Dead’s “West L.A. Fadeaway” emanating loudly from within.
Harve glanced up at his older cousin and shrugged. “Sounds like somebody’s home,” he said in his thick Jersey-Italian accent.
Earl only grinned and bobbed his head in response.
Harve knocked on the door. “Hey, wakey, wakey!” After a moment with no answer, he pounded on the door again. “Answer the damn door, you Hollywood prick! I hate waiting on your spoiled, sorry rich ass!” Still no answer. Growing more and more impatient, he pounded his fists on the door again and again. “Come on! Come on! Come on!”
Before Harve could knock again, Earl stopped him with a stern
glare and a wave of his right index finger.
Bungalow #3 was one of two identical, adjacent, 1,500-square-
foot hillside bungalows, with two bedrooms and baths, a spacious living room, a kitchen and dining area, a private street entrance and carport, and a private garden with direct access to the hotel pool.
Inside the front door, a small entryway led into the dining area and the adjoining living room. The place appeared trashed. A pair of Gucci suitcases lay upturned on the floor by two shredded and stained corner couches. Torn designer clothing hung from a broken flat-screen television beside a shattered porcelain lamp. A set of bongo drums stood by the entryway. Crushed beer cans and broken wine bottles littered the carpet by a coffee table.
Atop the coffee table, a half-empty bottle of Cristal champagne chilled in a bucket of melted ice. A script with TEENAGE CONFIDENTIAL, PROPERTY OF PARADISE PICTURES, INC. on the front cover rested nearby. Also of note were a small stash of marijuana in a plastic bag, a rolled-up hundred-dollar bill, and a razor blade beside three neatly cut lines of cocaine. The August 10th morning edition of the Los Angeles Times lay opened to the front page with the top headline, “MURDER IN BEL-AIR: PROMINENT PLASTIC SURGEON AND FIANCEE BRUTALLY SLAIN IN BENEDICT CANYON.”
At the end of the main hall, past the kitchen, guest bedroom, and bathroom, was the spacious master suite, where a Jewish male, resembling a young Sal Mineo, slept in the middle of a king-size bed, semi-exposed, beneath gray silk sheets. He stirred from the sound of The Grateful Dead blaring from behind the closed door of the adjoining master bathroom and covered his head with a pillow to drown out the noise.
Inside the bathroom, “West L.A. Fadeaway” played over a radio sitting on the right edge of the sink, as strapping film star Christian Rivers primped himself before the mirror while talking angrily on his cell phone. “Look, Ari, as my agent, your job is to find me acting roles, not to run my personal life!” He paused and sighed. “Yeah, I saw the newspaper headline! I don’t understand what the goddamn fuss is! So, every celebrity’s living in a state of fear? Big fucking deal! Tell ’em to put in a security system and buy a guard dog!”
Hailing from Dallas, Texas, Rivers was 35 years old, had shaggy brown hair, brown eyes, a goatee, and an uneven smile, and was one of the biggest names in the movie business. He wore only snakeskin cowboy boots and a gun belt over a white bath towel around his waist.
There was another knock at the front door, which, of course, nobody heard due to the loud music.
Rivers continued his heated phone conversation with his agent, “What do I need a bodyguard for, let alone two? A man, a real man, can take care of himself, goddammit!” He paused and punched the wall, denting the sheetrock. He scowled as he spoke to his phone. “What...huh? Well...same to you, you...” He hurled the phone into the toilet. Splash! He composed himself and scoffed, “Screw me?”
He took a drag from a smoldering joint in an ashtray beside the radio, pulled on a tan cowboy hat, quick-drew a prop Colt .44 pistol from the holster on his belt, and admired himself in the mirror. “Hello, handsome!”
He winked and blew himself a kiss. He flipped off the radio and walked into the master bedroom.
Knock! Knock! Knock! Harve pounded on the front door, followed by his aggravated voice, yelling at the top of his lungs, “Uh, Mr. Rivers, sir?”
A minute later, Rivers startled Earl and Harve as he answered the front door stark naked, except for his cowboy boots, gun belt and holster, and cowboy hat over his genitals.
“Jeez!” bellowed Harve, aghast.
Rivers greeted the two cousins with a shit-faced grin. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Earl and Harve, bodyguards to the stars! How’s it hanging, boys?” With a cocky smile, he took Harve off guard and clobbered him in the nuts with an open right fist.
Harve howled in pain, his eyes rolling back. “Ow...uh...unh...!”
As Harve keeled over, Earl smiled and shook his head, amused. He said nothing.
Harve spoke through his pain to Rivers, “Mr. Rivers, uh, sir, um, we’re here to escort you to the studio.”
Rivers checked his watch. “A little early, aren’t you? It’s only...7:39 in the AM. Pick-up ain’t till 8:00 AM.”
Harve groaned, holding his groin. “Sorry, boss, but, uh...” He coughed. “...traffic is a real bitch this morning.”
“Well then...” said Rivers, moving his cowboy hat from his genitals to his head, giving Earl and Harve an eyeful of male nudity, “...I better move my sorry ass and get dressed, then.”
He winked, clicked his tongue, fired a fake shot from a finger pistol, and tipped his hat to the two beleaguered bodyguards. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me.” He turned and walked back inside, while Earl and Harve returned to the limo.
Minutes later, a fully dressed Christian Rivers, sporting his cowboy boots and cowboy hat, opened the front door of the bungalow and exited, slamming the door closed behind him. He made his way down the sidewalk and out the gate to the limo where Earl and Harve stood waiting.
As Rivers neared the limo, Earl opened the right rear passenger door for him and ushered him inside.
Rivers tipped his hat. “Much obliged there, Earl. At least one of you is earning his keep this morning.” He gestured at Harve. “Can’t say as much for the other fella whose name escapes me for the time being.”
Harve grinned crossly.
“Thank you, Mr. Rivers,” said Earl in a New York accent. “Please, watch your head.”
“Don’t mind if I do, Earl. Don’t mind if I do.”
As Rivers climbed inside the rear of the limo, Earl and Harve followed and took seats across from him. As Harve pulled the door shut, Earl pounded on the black divider between them and the front cabin to signal the driver.
The driver shifted the gear into “DRIVE” and muttered to himself, “Enjoy the ride. Heh, heh.”
The limousine crawled east down Monteel Road, gradually picked up speed, and disappeared around the curve.
PART 2 OF PREVIEW SCENE:THE BLACK LIMOUSINE DROVE east down Hollywood Boulevard in early morning traffic. In the back, Christian Rivers helped himself to a bottle of Cristal champagne, while Earl and Harve sat across from him at a respectful distance.
“Ah, Cristal. Only the best for the world’s greatest and sexiest movie star!” preened Rivers as he popped the top off the bottle and sipped down the foam which poured out.
“That’s exaggerating a bit, right?” asked Harve.
“No, I’m not,” scoffed Rivers. “I’m on the Hollywood A-List. My flicks have grossed nearly $4 billion worldwide in box office receipts, I make $20 million a picture, and I have lines of fine young fillies lined up around the block for an autograph and a taste of my sweat. Now, you tell me, boys: Am I God or what?”
Harve looked at Rivers, dumbfounded. “You’re an asshole. A selfish, self-absorbed, self-centered, maniacal, egotistical, little prick.”
Rivers swilled champagne. “Thanks for the compliment, Harve. Remind me later to fire you both.”
Without warning, the limo driver, a hunchback with bulging eyes, lowered the electric partition window and muttered to Rivers in a high, raspy voice, “Mr. Rivers...heh, heh...nice to have you onboard this morning. Heh. My two daughters really enjoy your movies.”
“Christ on a stick! W-who the Hell are you? Marty Feldman’s love child? Is the regular driver sick this morning or something?”
“Heh, heh...”
“Hey, I’m not paid to talk with the driver, okay? Especially one with a Peter Lorre speech impediment. So, if you don’t mind, please, PISS OFF!”
“Heh...my daughters would...heh, heh...really...heh...love an autograph. Heh, heh.”
Rivers sighed loudly. “If I sign one, will you leave me the Hell alone? I need my beauty sleep.”
“Anything. Heh, heh.”
“Don’t ask me to personalize it.”
“Heh...would you? Heh, heh.”
“Only if your daughters give me the world’s greatest blowjob.” “Heh, heh. Unh...?”
Rivers pulled out and autographed a publicity still of himself and handed it across to Earl who passed it up to the limo driver. Rivers hurled the pen into the front seat and closed the partition window. “Dang, the shit I gotta put up with bein’ a celebrity and all! When will it ever end?”
As Rivers grabbed the champagne bottle to take another swig, he began to feel ill and lose consciousness. He dropped the bottle onto the carpeted flooring, clutched his throat, and gasped for air.
Earl and Harve grinned back at him.
“Wh-what did you boys...uh...do...do to me?”
“Tranquilizer,” smirked Earl.
“Tranquil...?”
“A little goes a looong way,” chuckled Harve.
“Uhnnnn...”
As Rivers collapsed to the floor, “Earl” and “Harve” peeled
their prosthetic faces off to reveal their true monstrous and deformed selves: Grendel was a tall, gangly, long white-haired albino with freakish pink eyes. The other thug, Sebastian, had burn scars all over his body, plenty of tattoos, a shaved head, and a buck-toothed grin. They cackled maniacally and threw their masks at Rivers.
Sebastian stomped Rivers in the nuts. “Ain’t payback a bitch?”
Grendel pounded on the partition window. “Igor, get us the Hell out of here!”
“You got it...heh...heh...”
Igor stepped on the gas. The limousine sped up, weaving in and around any slow cars in its path.
Along the north side of Hollywood Boulevard between Wilcox Avenue and North Cahuenga Boulevard stood the legendary Casting Couch office building where aspiring actor Rich MacGuffin, aged 41 and rather nondescript, waited on the sidewalk amidst a long line of nearly one thousand other aspiring actors for an extras casting audition. He glanced up as several angry motorists honked their car horns as the limo ran through a series of red traffic lights and continued east down the boulevard until it became a small dot on the horizon.
THRILLING HOLLYWOOD NOIR WITH A HORRIFIC WEB OF INTRIGUE & SUSPENSE (ARTISAN BOOK REVIEWS)
Every year, scores of aspiring actors flock to Hollywood with dreams of stardom. Most fail and go back home, while others stay and suffer disillusionment. Some, however, are so desperate they will do anything to succeed....
HOLLYWOOD, CALIFORNIA, AUGUST 2005.
Rich MacGuffin, an aspiring actor with a talent for acting but a distinct lack of Tinsel Town looks, struggles to find work that will lead him on the road to stardom.
When a series of murders takes place by an elusive serial killer nicknamed THE HOLLYWOOD SPECTRE, and one of those victims is the star in a movie in the process of being shot, MacGuffin comes up with a unique idea that will land him the starring role.
Finally, MacGuffin gets his chance to show his acting ability, and he shines. But the killer is still on the prowl and seeking revenge against those from his past. MacGuffin unwittingly becomes involved with the LAPD and FBI as they hunt the killer and the bodies stack up.
ORDER HERE: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08B4YQR5M
Kindle: $3.99
Paperback: $12.99
REVIEWS:
"It reads like a movie, the way Stephen King's early work does." -- Crystal Hubbard, Author, KING MELVIN
"Totally enjoying [MACGUFFIN]. It's hard to put down... Damn!" -- Kristine DeBell, Actress, MEATBALLS
"Truly Hitchcockian with a modern element to die for -- MACGUFFIN delivers!" -- Stephen W. Roberts, THE DARK FICTION SPOTLIGHT MAGAZINE