After leaving the Kangaroo Bar and getting into the car, Link made sure the ride he'd ordered for Russell Crowe left first.
In Link's own car, only he and Band remained—along with Rick, Russell Crowe's former agent, slumped in the back seat like a deflated balloon.
"Link… Mr. Link," Rick croaked, his voice hoarse as if he'd just taken a punch. "Russell… he's a lunatic! Don't believe him. Today he'll betray Harvey for your 'art,' tomorrow he'll betray you for someone else's soul!"
Link glanced at him in the rearview mirror, his eyes full of pure disgust.
Rick seized on that look like it was a lifeline and leaned forward.
"We can work together!" he whispered urgently. "I know all of Russell's weaknesses—his temper, his tastes. I can help you keep him completely under control! Just… just let me stay on as his agent. Or give me a consulting contract at Pangu—"
The only sound in the car was the hum of the air conditioning.
Staring at the traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard, Link spoke calmly.
"Rick, do you know what you and Harvey have most in common?"
Rick froze.
"You both treat actors like livestock," Link continued quietly, like exhaling smoke. "You think you can tie them to a rope and drive them wherever you want. I only work with people."
Rick's face drained from red to ash-gray.
Link picked up his phone and called his lawyer, Howard.
"Howard, Mr. Rick here wants to terminate his contract with Mr. Russell Crowe unconditionally and voluntarily waive all future commissions for the remainder of the contract term. Take care of it for him. Draft the most standard termination agreement you've got—let him experience Pangu's professionalism."
"What?! I never said that!" Rick shrieked.
Link ignored him and continued into the phone. "Also, draft a new agency agreement. Pangu Pictures will set up a temporary in-house talent agency department. Yes—I'll handle it personally."
He hung up just as the car stopped at an intersection.
Link put his phone away and gestured toward the door. "Get out. Grab a cab back to Beverly Hills. It's not far."
Rick opened his mouth, but no words came out. He could only stare blankly at the door.
—
Two days later, San Francisco—Industrial Light & Magic headquarters.
The same conference room. This time, Katherine O'Connell's professional smile carried a hint of genuine warmth.
"Mr. Link, your nerve left a deep impression on the entire board," she said, sliding a thick contract across the table. "George was very impressed with you. This is our proposed agreement. The new company will be called Pangu Light & Magic."
Band was so excited his face flushed red. He picked up the contract, his hands trembling.
He flipped through it quickly, his smile growing wider with every page. "The terms are fantastic… Link, they've practically accepted everything we proposed! Forty-nine percent tech equity, Pangu holding fifty-one… We did it. We actually did it!"
Link's fingers tightened around his coffee cup, his knuckles whitening. He steadied his breathing and forced himself to take a slow sip.
Then Band reached the last page.
His smile froze. His throat went dry. "This… what does this mean?"
Katherine's smile didn't change.
"George believes cooperation must be built on sustained success," she said politely—but her words left no room for debate. "ILM's technology and talent are the most valuable resources in Hollywood. So we added a small… performance clause."
"Within the next twelve months, Pangu Pictures must secure another A-list film project for Pangu Light & Magic—one that requires extensive top-tier VFX support. The investment must be no less than fifty million dollars."
"If you fail to meet this condition," she paused, "ILM has the right to repurchase all of Pangu's shares for a symbolic price of one dollar."
Thud.
The contract slipped from Band's hands and hit the floor.
This wasn't a performance clause.
It was a trap.
Within one year, land another $50-million-plus, VFX-heavy A-level project? In all of Hollywood, aside from Spielberg and Cameron, who would even dare to play at that scale? It was an impossible mission.
"Ms. O'Connell," Band said, cold sweat pouring down his back, "this is too—"
"You painted a very compelling picture of a 'two-billion-dollar future,'" Katherine cut in smoothly. "But who's to say you're not just the next shooting star?"
Band looked at Link in despair.
Link was silent for a moment—then he smiled.
He bent down, picked up the contract, brushed the dust off it, and took the gold Parker pen from the table, pulling off the cap.
"Lawrence," he said to Band without looking up, "you seem to have forgotten something."
Band blinked. "Forgotten what?"
"We still have one movie that hasn't been released yet."
Band's mind buzzed—and suddenly it all clicked.
Link looked at Katherine, the pen hovering over the signature line.
"Katherine, you don't need to believe promises. Just look at the results that are about to be tested by the market."
A flicker of surprise crossed her eyes.
"So," Link continued, changing tone, "I'm adding a clause of my own."
"If Pulp Fiction grosses over one hundred million dollars at the North American box office, then Pangu's obligation under this performance clause will be considered automatically fulfilled. And ILM will transfer an additional two percent of its technology shares to Pangu, giving us a clear majority."
Katherine was completely stunned.
She opened her mouth—then closed it again. For the first time, she didn't know how to respond.
An independent film crossing $100 million in North America?
Either this guy was insane—or his confidence in his own film was downright terrifying.
Link slid the contract back across the table.
"So, Ms. O'Connell…"
"Do you dare to gamble with me?"