Ultimate Power Read Online Free PDF

nostrils.
    He crouched, resting his arm on a knee. “C’mon girls, you're wasting cocaine in the pool, that stuff isn't free you know.”
    “We're sorry, Mr. Grenard,” they shouted in unison.
    He stood up and shook his head. Kids . In Hollywood they lived and died by their own set of stupid rules. One snort, one blow.
    Now where the hell was his man? He had seen him come in. He looked around. Aha. Wes Coleman was seated alone at a secluded table at the furthest end of the roof, probably trying to get as far away as possible from the booming bass.
    Grenard grabbed a chair and walked over to the man. He was sipping his usual, Bourbon on the rocks. An unscrewed bottle stood next to an overflowing ashtray. Grenard could tell he was in a foul mood.
    He took a deep breath, then put the chair down next to Wes. “Mind if I sit?”
    The man gave a noncommittal wave, the ash from his cigarette falling onto the table.
    Grenard plonked himself down next to the man. “You ready to start shooting?”
    The man snorted, gazing out over the green suburban sprawl.
    Gerard waited for him to make the next move. He was a temperamental bastard, but he was the best in Hollywood. Almost a minute of uncomfortable silence ensued, Wes Coleman puffing on his cigarette.  
    He downed his drink and turned to Gerard. “This is bullshit.”
    “The movie?”
    “It was going to be a political epic, shot on location in Vietnam to show the other side of the story.”
    “Okay?”
    Wes pulled a crumpled wad of paper from his jacket and tossed it on the table. “The script.”
    “I’ve read the script.”
    “The original fucken script, Lance,” he said, slamming the table with his hand. His pink face was turning red.
    “Calm down, Wes.”
    He tapped the script with his finger. “Explain to me, Lance, how it became a shoot-em-up, kill Charlie and burn the jungle down fuckfest?”
    Lance leaned back in his chair and folded a leg over his knee. “Look, Wes. The viewing public don't want a soppy long-winded historical documentary explaining why the war was wrong. Those type of movies don't sell.”
    Wes Coleman leaned forward. “Dammit, Lance. That was the brief I gave you when I sent you the script.”
    “So we changed it to make it work.”
    Wes snorted, lit another cigarette and peered over the landscape again. Like a naughty child, Lance thought. Okay, it was time to take his toys away.
    Lance leaned forward. “Look, Wes, you're one of the best directors in Hollywood.”
    “The best.”
    “I need you on this project.”
    Coleman pursed his lips.
    “But there are many other guys that will take the job in the blink of an eye.”
    The man's head jerked around. “It was my script, Lance.”
    Gerard chuckled. “And now it's mine. I bought it, remember?”
    The chair scraped back as Wes stood up. “You know what, you guys are a bunch of arrogant pricks. I worked my ass off on the script. Decades of research.” He pummeled the wad of paper with a forefinger. “This is going to be an epic, Lance, think Titanic, think Schindler's list.”
    Lance shook his head. “It isn't, Wes. I sell movies. It is more like The English Patient, da Vinci code.”
    “I happened to love both those movies.”
    “But the public didn't. They tanked at the box office.”
    The man's shoulders slumped.
    “It's not the flavor of the month, anymore, Wes. People want zombies or post apocalyptic thrillers, end of the world kind of stuff.”
    Wes fell back into his chair. He shook his head slowly. “Why?”
    “Because everything is going for a ball of shit, Wes, look around you.”
    Wes turned to Lance with a deeply furrowed brow. “I don't know if I can do this, Lance.”
    Lance stood up and patted his back. “Off course you can. Twenty-five percent royalties in a billion dollar block buster movie says you can.”
    The man rested his bearded chin on his fist. Sighing, he closed his eyes.
    Lance Grenard chuckled and slapped his back. “C’mon Wes, let's go get a