Sunset Boulevard, Smoke House Bar
The dim lights of the iconic bar cast a warm glow over the polished wood, the faint hum of jazz blending with the chatter of patrons. In one of the corner booths, Leonardo leaned back, a bottle of red wine in hand. The cork popped, and he poured two glasses, one for himself and one for Nicholson, who sat across from him, the shadows playing over his face.
Leonardo's brow furrowed as he swirled his glass. "Martin, that bastard, actually stood us up."
Nicholson lifted his glass with a casual air, savoring the first sip before responding. "Heard Hard Hastings is the founder of Netflix, right?"
Leonardo, always one to know more than he let on, nodded with a smirk. "Founder and still the chairman. Built the whole thing from the ground up."
Nicholson eyed him, losing interest as the conversation veered into names and numbers. "Didn't Martin invest in Netflix ages ago? How much is he sitting on now?"
Leonardo chuckled, raising his glass in a small toast before answering. "Not just Netflix. He got in early with Apple and Tesla too. As for his assets? I could take a guess."
But Nicholson's mind wandered to Lorraine, a flicker of irritation crossing his features.
Unbothered, Leonardo did some quick math aloud. "Martin holds a hefty chunk of Apple stock, started buying back in 2006, long before it went through the roof. He's got at least $2 billion from that alone."
Nicholson clenched his jaw at the figure.
"And Tesla? We've dealt with Musk enough to know. Martin's stake there is easily over $1 billion." Leonardo paused, savoring the drama. "Then there's Netflix, his holdings are probably worth a minimum of $1.5 billion."
Nicholson took a harder look at Leonardo, his gaze sharp and assessing. Despite Leonardo's bravado, the man sitting before him was far from impressive, pudgy, unattractive, hardly a threat when it came to Lorraine.
Leonardo wasn't done yet. "Don't forget Davis Film and Television Studio. It's not public, but it owns the rights to some blockbuster films. That alone is worth another $500 million, at least. And Martin's got more, Coca-Cola partnerships, real estate, endorsements bringing in nearly $100 million annually, high film remunerations, and residuals."
Nicholson tapped his fingers on the table, mentally tallying the numbers. "At least $6.5 billion in assets."
"That's the conservative estimate," Leonardo confirmed. "Forbes had Hard Hastings at just $3 billion last year, not even half of what Martin's worth."
Even though Nicholson wasn't a finance guy, he could spot the basics. "Martin's been smart about raising capital. He knew how to play the game."
Leonardo raised his glass in agreement. "The guy's got a golden touch. Movies, investments, you name it, now he's the richest of us all."
Nicholson's mind made a decision. He was done with Leonardo. "Fine, I'll drop it. You and Lorraine can do what you want, I don't force people. It's not my style."
"Wait!" Leonardo cut him off, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice. "Lorraine and I are solid, okay?"
Nicholson shrugged, giving a dismissive wave. "Sure, whatever you say." But his eyes flicked past Leonardo, locking onto Martin as he strolled into the bar, closing the distance. Nicholson shifted the conversation deliberately. "Let's set a new goal…"
Leonardo perked up, seizing the bait. "Exactly! We get Martin to marry Lorraine, skip the prenup, and then split his fortune. I just need half!"
Before Nicholson could retort, Martin slipped in behind Leonardo, locking an arm around his neck. He dug a knuckle playfully into Leonardo's temple, grinning wickedly. "Say it ten times, you're the biggest idiot and waste in America, or I'll crack your skull!"
Without missing a beat, Leonardo jabbed a finger at Nicholson. "Jack's the biggest idiot and waste in America!"
Martin shoved him aside with a laugh and grabbed a high chair, sliding it next to them.
Leonardo, unflustered, topped off Martin's glass. "You get everything wrapped up with Gennafe?"
"Yeah, we talked about a project." Martin nodded, his thoughts drifting for a moment. "Actually, speaking of projects, you've been around Hollywood forever. Know any good scripts or books about chess? Non-fiction or otherwise?"
The conversation, now poised to take a new turn, held the promise of more scheming, more deals, and perhaps, another fortune to chase.
Leonardo shook his head, a small sigh escaping as he leaned back into the booth. "Chess? It's a pretty niche topic. Honestly, I can't recall ever coming across anything like it. Not exactly the kind of subject that draws much attention, so I've never really kept it on my radar."
Nicholson, furrowing his brow as he searched the depths of his memory, finally spoke up. "Chess, huh? I might've seen something a long time ago, but it's pretty hazy. Give me a second to think."
Silence settled over the table as the two men waited. Nicholson's thoughts wandered back to a distant time, his fingers absently tracing the rim of his wine glass. After a long pause, he finally nodded as if pieces of a forgotten puzzle had just clicked into place. "Back in the 70s, around the time when Sharon Tate was gone, I remember reading a novel by Polanski. You know how he was into chess, right? The book was about that. A young girl, an orphan, who rises to become one of the best chess players during the 50s and 60s."
Leonardo and Martin exchanged curious glances. Nicholson continued, his voice more certain now. "The title… I think it was *The Queen's Gambit.*"
Martin quickly pulled out his phone, fingers flying over the screen as he searched online. Nothing. Not a single relevant hit. He frowned, doubting whether such a novel even existed or if Nicholson's memory was playing tricks on him. "You're sure about the title?"
Nicholson smirked, leaning back with a confidence that suggested he'd put his chips on a sure bet. "Yeah, *The Queen's Gambit*. No mistake."
Taking him at his word, Martin opened his messaging app and fired off texts to Thomas and Jessica, instructing them to dig into the novel and see if there were any scripts tied to it floating around the industry.
As the conversation shifted, Leonardo took the opportunity to ask Martin, "Weren't you planning to check yourself into some mental therapy center for research? When's that happening? And it's in New York, right?"
Martin shook his head. "No, I'm not heading to New York. My psychiatrist, Laura, connected me with a facility out in California. It's a physical therapy center that specializes in treating patients with severe mental illnesses. I'll be spending some time there to observe and, you know, get a feel for it."
Leonardo, recalling his own experiences, couldn't resist a jab. He turned to Nicholson with a grin. "Jack, we need to make sure we visit Martin often, drag him out for parties. Wouldn't want him going full psycho on us."
Nicholson lifted his glass with mock solemnity, clinking it against Martin's. "Here's to hoping you lose your mind sooner rather than later."
Martin downed his wine in one gulp, laughing as he wiped his mouth. "If I do go crazy, the first thing I'll do is blow up both your houses and drag you both down with me."
Leonardo chimed in, laughing, "And then we'll all march on Washington together?"
Martin raised his glass in agreement, toasting, "To all of us going crazy together!"
Over the following days, between his work on the post-production of *The Shallows*, Martin began his visits to the therapy center, studying the case files Laura provided. He interviewed patients with dissociative identity disorders, immersing himself in the intricacies of their conditions, all in preparation for a role he had in mind.
One morning, Thomas burst into Martin's director's office at Disney Studios, a triumphant grin on his face. He tossed a stack of documents onto the desk, along with a novel, and declared, "Finally tracked it down."
Martin snatched up the script and glanced at the title, *The Queen's Gambit*. It matched the novel in Thomas's hand. "Walter Tevis," he murmured, reading the author's name. He flipped to the cover page of the script and saw that the screenwriter was Alan Scott.
Thomas leaned against the desk, still catching his breath. "The book and the script are pretty obscure. We had to be careful not to draw too much attention, but we managed to get the details and contacted the author through the publisher."
Martin's eyes scanned the script. It was different from what he expected, a film script, not a series, but the storyline was strikingly similar to what he remembered. An orphaned girl rises against all odds, eventually taking down a Soviet chess champion and claiming her place as a top player.
Satisfied, Martin picked up the novel and flipped through a few pages. "What's the status on the rights? Who's holding them now?"
Thomas's expression darkened slightly. "That's where it gets tricky. A few years ago, Heath Ledger bought the film and TV adaptation rights from Alan Scott."
Martin's gaze sharpened, the wheels in his mind already turning. This was going to be more complicated than he'd thought, but he wasn't one to shy away from a challenge.
Martin's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Heath Ledger owns the rights? That's unexpected."
Thomas nodded, providing more context. "Back in 1992, Alan Scott bought the film and TV rights and spent years trying to develop it into a movie. He wrote multiple drafts, but no one in Hollywood wanted to take a chance on a chess drama. It was practically a dead project until a few years ago, when he crossed paths with Heath Ledger. The two of them had a history, both shared a struggle with addiction, which bonded them in some strange way. They ended up discussing the script, and Scott sold it to Ledger."
The pieces started to fall into place for Martin. This script had been floating around Hollywood for over two decades, ignored and gathering dust. No one had the vision or perhaps the courage, to bring it to life. Yet somehow, it landed in Heath Ledger's hands, who had his own turbulent journey in the industry.
Thomas leaned in, lowering his voice. "I reached out to Alan Scott through Ivan. From what we gathered, Heath Ledger's acting career has pretty much flatlined. He's persona non grata in Hollywood these days. No major studio is willing to bet on him for a leading role anymore. He's faded into obscurity, but he's not ready to slink back to Australia and settle for small gigs. He's determined to reinvent himself as a director."
Bruce, who had witnessed the clash between Martin and Ledger during the infamous fight over *The Joker* role, nodded knowingly. "The real draw for him was the character of Beth Harmon, the heroine in *The Queen's Gambit*. Her struggle with addiction mirrored his own. Ledger thought he could channel that raw, personal connection into something special, maybe even redemptive."
Martin couldn't help but let his mind drift back to the sour history between him and Ledger, a feud that had rippled through Hollywood years ago. In this timeline, Ledger hadn't spiraled down to his tragic end, but instead found himself stuck in a career purgatory, clinging to this one last shot at relevance.
It was clear to Martin that Ledger's path back to the spotlight as an actor was blocked, leaving him to grasp at directing as his final chance. The question was, how far was Ledger willing to go to protect that dream?
Thomas broke Martin's thoughts. "We decided not to approach Ledger directly. Given your history with him, it's a safe bet he wouldn't sell, or if he did, he'd demand an outrageous price."
Martin rubbed his chin, considering the options. "Is Ledger still using?"
Thomas had done his homework. "Unfortunately, yes. He never really kicked the habit. That's why he's in the state he's in now."
Martin shifted his gaze to Bruce. "I want you to dig deeper into Ledger's situation. I need to know where he's at, mentally and physically."
Thomas added, "The original rights agreement between Scott and Ledger has no restrictive clauses. Technically, we could send in a new face to negotiate with Ledger, someone he wouldn't suspect. We might be able to acquire the rights without raising alarms."
Bruce nodded, agreeing. "Let's see where Ledger's at first. Depending on what we find, we'll figure out the best approach."
---
Venice Beach, Los Angeles – Late Afternoon
The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden shimmer over the waves as Heath Ledger drove along the coastal road. He turned into a secluded parking lot, pulling his car into a shadowy corner. He glanced around nervously before switching off the engine, settling in to wait.
It wasn't supposed to come to this. Back when Michelle Bryan was alive, she had been his steady supplier, expensive, yes, but the product was pure and the arrangement discreet. After her suicide, he was forced back onto the streets, scouring for a new connection, gambling on strangers.
Ten minutes ticked by. Then, a sleek black Mercedes-Benz SUV rolled up beside him. The windows were heavily tinted, masking the figures inside. Heath's pulse quickened. He checked his rearview mirror before lowering his window slightly.
The man in the SUV leaned over, his face a blur behind the glass. A dull thud of knuckles rapped against Heath's window. Heath unrolled it further, pulling out a crumpled wad of cash and handing it over without a word. The other man, expressionless, accepted the money and discreetly passed a small paper bag in return.
For a brief moment, both men inspected their goods, one counting the money, the other feeling the weight of the bag. They exchanged curt nods before speeding off in opposite directions, disappearing into the anonymity of Los Angeles.
Back in his car, Ledger stared at the bag in his lap, his mind racing. Whatever chance he had left to turn his life around was tangled up in his fading dreams of directing. He knew he was on borrowed time, clinging to the hope that *The Queen's Gambit* could be his redemption.
Heath Ledger carefully pulled out a small plastic bag, the contents glinting under the dim light of his car. He opened it, held it up to his nose, and took a deep sniff. Genuine. The kind of purity that kept him coming back. He let out a small sigh of relief, at least this deal hadn't gone south.
The man in the SUV next to him, a seasoned dealer with a smirk that hinted at greed, counted the cash before flashing Ledger a thumbs-up. "If you need more, you know how to reach us," he said, his voice slick with satisfaction. These desperate souls were his best customers, feeding his endless stream of wealth.
Ledger shoved the goods into his jacket pocket, feeling the familiar rush of anticipation rising in his chest. Without another word, he revved the engine and sped out of the parking lot, heading back to the shabby single-family house he rented in Venice, a far cry from the luxury he once knew.
As he parked by the curb and hurried inside, a sleek car slipped into the shadows nearby. Ivan, watching Ledger's every move from behind the wheel, dialed Bruce's number. The two exchanged quick updates, with Bruce's voice tinged with the cold efficiency of someone used to getting what he needed, no matter the method.
Minutes later, a red BMW pulled up, parking just behind Ledger's car. Gemma Ward, Ledger's girlfriend and a once-promising Australian model, stepped out, her eyes already glassy with the weight of addiction. She barely glanced at Ledger's car as she entered the house, her mind set on one thing.
Inside, she found Ledger sprawled on the couch, eyes half-open but completely vacant, like a man lost in a dream. His hand hung limply off the side, still holding onto the paper bag he'd brought home. Gemma didn't waste time; she made her way to the coffee table, grabbed the bag, and fished out her own little plastic escape.
She dropped onto the couch next to him, opened the bag, and took a deep breath, letting the chemicals do their work. The two sat in a daze, the lethargy quickly giving way to a surge of energy, eyes sharpening, muscles twitching. It wasn't long before the high took hold, turning the living room into a chaotic mess of entangled limbs and fevered whispers.
Despite his once-glorious reputation in Hollywood, Ledger was now infamous for all the wrong reasons. Even though Gemma was still recognized as a top model, their bond was forged not through love, but through a shared addiction, a downward spiral they both embraced.
As the evening wore on, the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving the room draped in darkness. Eventually, Ledger roused himself enough to order takeout while Gemma, trying to regain some sense of normalcy, tidied up. Her primary concern was hiding the drugs. After all, even in a place like this, the wrong eyes could bring trouble.
As she tucked the goods away in a tin box, she frowned. "Is this really all you got?" she asked, her voice tinged with worry.
"That's all I could afford," Ledger replied, his tone almost dismissive. "It's barely enough for us to last the week."
Gemma's frustration was clear. "Heath, that money was supposed to cover more than just this. We're behind on rent. If we don't pay up, the landlord's going to kick us out."
Ledger waved a hand, unconcerned. "Relax. If he tries anything, I'll tell him I'm a non-binary, gender-fluid lesbian who identifies as a parrot. We'll see him try to argue with that. In this town, it's all about who shouts the loudest about discrimination."
Gemma wasn't convinced. While she had been molded for the runway since she was barely a teenager, she lacked the cunning her boyfriend had developed in Hollywood's cutthroat world. "It's not just the rent, Heath. We need food, and what about next week? My advance for that fashion show is all we have left. What happens when we run out?"
Ledger stared off into the distance, tuning her out, the drugs already numbing his sense of reality. He wasn't interested in logistics or survival. He was chasing a different high, the fantasy that he could claw his way back to relevance.
Seeing that her words weren't getting through, Gemma shifted tactics. "What about that script you bought a few months back? The one you said could be your big break? Did you get any investors?"
Ledger's eyes flickered, a spark of remembrance igniting. He clumsily got up, scanning the cluttered room, until his gaze landed on a worn manuscript buried under a pile of old magazines. He pulled it out, dusting it off to reveal the title: *The Queen's Gambit.*
This script was his lifeline, his last-ditch attempt to reclaim his name in a city that had long since turned its back on him.