The atmosphere in the office was electric, like a holiday.
Bander was holding a thank-you letter personally written by the Dean of UCLA, flipping it over and over, his grin stretching almost to the ceiling.
"'Redefined the standard for film seminars'! Link ! You're practically a professor now!"
Quentin propped his feet on the desk, proudly blowing smoke rings at the ceiling: "Professor? Nah, he's the Godfather."
Link leaned back in his chair, saying nothing.
The words of that old man named Sheldon, said as he was leaving, still echoed in his mind:
"I'll still vote for 'The Last Letter.' It makes me feel... more comfortable."
Comfortable.
Comfortable, my ass.
Link picked up the latest gossip tabloid on his desk. The front-page headline featured a picture of Harvey Weinstein accompanying the director of The Last Letter to a charity gala for World War II veterans.
In the photo, Harvey looked utterly solemn, with what appeared to be a tear welling up in his eye.
Link tossed the newspaper into the trash.
Just then, Martha pushed the door open, her face pale.
She slammed a freshly faxed proof of The Hollywood Reporter onto the table.
"Link ... Harvey..."
Quentin snatched it up. He only needed to see the headline to watch his face instantly turn black.
"Quentin Tarantino: Hollywood's Arrogant Punk—'Scorsese Is Old, Coppola Is Washed Up'"
The report had taken a few things he'd bragged about years ago while working at a video store, twisting them out of context and sensationalizing them.
"Those sons of bitches!" Quentin kicked the filing cabinet, which responded with a loud CLANG. "That's taken out of context! When the hell did I ever say that?!"
Bander rushed over, grabbed the paper, his hands shaking.
"It's over... it's all over..." His voice was dry. "The one thing those Academy veterans care about most is legacy... and that bastard Harvey is tripping us up again!"
Link ignored the chaos in the office.
He picked up the phone and dialed his assistant, Martha.
"Book me a restaurant. Italian. I need the quietest private room."
"Then, send out two invitations for me."
He paused, then named two names.
"Martin Scorsese."
"Francis Ford Coppola."
"Invite them in Quentin's name."
He hung up, smiled, and then dialed the next number.
---
Three days later, Matteo's Trattoria.
It was one of Hollywood's most old-school Italian restaurants; rumor had it that Al Pacino had negotiated his Godfather contract right here.
Quentin sat in the private room, barely able to hold his fork.
He was fidgeting, tugging at his tie one moment, trying to light a cigarette the next, only to be stopped by a sharp look from Link.
The door opened.
Martin Scorsese walked in. He wasn't tall, but the intensity in his eyes, hidden behind thick lenses, was startling.
He was followed by Coppola, who was heavier now but still carried the presence of a sleeping bear.
Quentin shot up out of his seat, his mouth opening and closing without a single word coming out.
Link stood up, smiling as he shook hands with the two legendary directors.
"Mr. Scorsese, Mr. Coppola, thank you for coming."
"Quentin's buying, not you." Scorsese took off his glasses, wiped them, and glanced at Quentin. "Kid, I saw your movie. It's got guts."
Quentin's face instantly flushed bright red.
The dinner began.
No one mentioned the Oscars, and no one mentioned Harvey.
They only talked about film.
Coppola recounted how he almost went crazy in the Philippine jungle while making Apocalypse Now. Scorsese talked about how he had to fight the studio dummies shot by shot while making Taxi Driver.
"...They wanted De Niro's character to find redemption in the end." Scorsese took a sip of red wine and shook his head. "I told them, some people just aren't meant to be redeemed."
Quentin was mesmerized, his eyes wide. He forgot to eat, forgot to be nervous; he was like a kid stepping into a candy store for the first time.
"Me too!" He suddenly slammed his hand on the table, flushed with excitement. "When I shot Jules, I wanted to show that sometimes, putting down the gun takes more courage than picking it up!"
Coppola chuckled, pointing at Quentin.
"You kids are just like we were when we were young. Trying to cram the whole world into a small viewfinder."
He paused, then raised his glass.
"To the movies."
The dinner ended, and the two great directors left.
Quentin was still stunned in his seat, his eyes misty.
Link patted him on the shoulder.
"Let's go, Director."
On the way back to the company, Link's phone rang.
It was Sarah Jenkins from The Hollywood Reporter.
"Link ," her voice carried an undeniable excitement, "I have a story here you might be interested in."
Link smiled: "Tell me about it."
"Three directors from three different eras, a secret dinner about cinema. I've already got the headline—"
"Passing the Torch."
Link watched the lights blurring outside the window, the curve of his smile growing wider.
"Sarah," he said, "I'm sending you one more photo."
"Tomorrow morning, a new newspaper will be waiting on Harvey's desk."
"And on it will be a picture of Quentin, Scorsese, and Coppola, embracing like old friends outside the restaurant."