Chapter 99 – The Assistant Director Is Gone
Colin Howard had tasted success himself lately. He'd been watching internet company stocks skyrocket like mad—despite many of those companies having no clear path to profitability or even a proper business model.
"Wayne, all the biggest get-rich-quick stories lately come from internet companies," Colin said, his voice filled with envy and longing.
"These startups can go public with nothing more than a concept and still raise millions. Investors are obsessed with these speculative stocks right now."
"We stick to Microsoft and Oracle, Colin," Wayne replied flatly. He didn't trust anything outside his memory. With safer options on the table, why take unnecessary risks? "This whole thing is one giant balloon—everyone's inflating it at once, and one day…"
"Boom!"
"And people will be jumping off the Twin Towers in New York again."
Wayne's metaphor was vivid—after all, it hadn't even been two years since the last market crash had sent desperate traders diving from skyscrapers.
"Only problem is, those two are hot stocks," Colin said, gulping down a large glass of water. "It'll be slow to buy in." Even he was finding Wayne's earnings pace a bit overwhelming.
"No rush," Wayne said calmly. "We buy slowly. My goal with investing is preservation, not gambling for higher returns. Let others take those risks."
Warner Bros. wiring his profit share so quickly had truly surprised Wayne. In the film industry, getting paid takes time. Studios recoup their investments slowly, and directors are often left waiting even longer for their cut.
In fact, if a director got paid within a year after a film left theaters, that was considered unusually generous.
Delays were common—and in many cases, deliberate. Peter Jackson, for instance, had sued New Line multiple times over The Loud of the Rings director's fees.
So the fact that Warner paid Wayne his share within six months of release showed real sincerity. Clearly, they were still eager to collaborate—they were still in their honeymoon phase.
"Boss, you've got a call," Nina said from the front seat before they even reached Beverly Hills. Her expression was odd, and after just a few seconds on the line, she handed Wayne the phone.
"Who is it?" he asked, noticing the amused twinkle in her eyes.
The moment he brought the phone to his ear, a sweet, flirtatious voice rang out.
"Wayne, are you busy? Can I come over to your place?"
"Cameron Diaz?" Wayne asked, puzzled.
There was a slight pause before the voice responded playfully, "Of course it's me. You haven't called me in forever—don't tell me you forgot about me?"
"How could I?" Wayne chuckled. "Garfield Manor is always open for you. Where are you? Need me to pick you up?"
"I came up with something new you're really gonna like. No need to pick me up—I'll drive myself."
"Alright then, see you soon."
As he hung up, Wayne glanced around the car. The others were all pretending they hadn't heard a thing, absorbed in their notes and papers.
He gave a helpless shrug. Phones weren't exactly private anymore—if you were even a little close, you could hear half the call.
"Okay, Jimmy, get in touch with Luke and Steve for me," Wayne said, smoothly transitioning to business. "Have them ready. Pre-production for the new project might begin any day now."
Work talk was the best way to cover up awkward moments—especially when everyone in the car had probably heard enough to make a "sugar daddy" joke.
Wayne wasn't trying to hide his personal life. He wasn't married, didn't have a family—so morality didn't really enter the equation. At most, the media might slap labels on him like "playboy" or "sugar daddy."
But compared to the truly decadent lives of many in Hollywood, Wayne's escapades were downright tame—he was practically a saint by comparison.
Back on topic, Jimmy suddenly slapped his thigh.
"You'll need to find a new assistant director."
"What?" Wayne asked, not quite following.
"Luke might not be available for the next film," Jimmy explained patiently. "Your last two hits didn't just raise your profile—they also raised his. Harbor Entertainment is producing a low-budget horror flick, and they've invited Luke to direct. They're probably already deep into prep. Shouldn't be long before they start shooting."
Wayne suddenly recalled how Luke Simmons had been quietly studying during the previous two films, never without his notebook. He'd paid close attention to everything—from directorial planning to post-production techniques—absorbing every detail like a sponge.
Luke's hard work had finally paid off—he'd earned his shot at the director's chair. In Hollywood, this kind of thing was common. No one wanted to stay a background player forever; most were constantly striving to become the one in charge.
"Any other candidates you'd recommend?" Wayne asked. The moment he lost his first assistant director, he knew he needed a replacement. Talent was never in short supply in this town, but finding someone whose vision aligned with his would take time—and luck.
"Let's talk inside." The car pulled into the estate, and the group walked into the main hall of the manor.
Losing a trusted core team member wasn't exactly a disaster, but it was no small matter either—especially with such a complex new project on the horizon.
Luke Simmons had never been just an assistant director. He was more like a production manager, a glue that held the set together. He also served as a communication bridge between Wayne and the rest of the crew, preventing friction and ensuring clarity.
In terms of organization, Luke was a genius. His people skills allowed him to connect smoothly with everyone—from lighting techs to costume designers.
What made him invaluable was his ability to completely suppress his own creative impulses to support Wayne's directorial vision. That kind of compatibility wasn't easy to replace.
Wayne slouched onto the couch, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his left hand rhythmically tapping the coffee table.
"Jimmy, we need to move fast on this assistant director issue," he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "Get the word out—see if anyone fitting shows up on their own. This isn't just another job opening—I need to meet and discuss filming philosophy in advance."
He continued thinking aloud. "This prep phase is going to be different from previous ones. Second, third, even fourth assistant directors can come from Warner's pool, that's fine. But the first AD needs to be someone who shares my vision."
"When we start shooting, the crew will be much larger than my last two films. I need someone to help control the chaos. I don't want—and can't afford—to waste time dealing with power struggles or personnel conflicts."
"I'll post the job right away and monitor it closely," Jimmy assured him. He understood Wayne's concern. Warner could greenlight the project at any moment and begin formal negotiations with Wayne. Preparation had to come first.
If this were just another $5–6 million production, Wayne could've easily held full creative control. Both he and Warner knew it was nearly impossible to lose money at that scale.
But this time, the budget was in the tens of millions. This was a first-tier Hollywood production. The crew would be massive, the hierarchy more rigid, and Wayne couldn't expect to call all the shots.
He was now focused on securing two things: first, to be credited as a producer; and second, to lock in a second collaboration with John Gray.
If John Gray could remain as lead production manager, Wayne could breathe a lot easier. John was known for his easygoing nature and wouldn't play the "producer power game" if it wasn't in service of the film.
"You guys carry on. I've got to get back to Burbank and check if the company has any internal recommendations." Jimmy nodded to Colin and Nina, then stood up to leave.
This was the busiest time for Jimmy, Wayne's production agent. Until the studio contracts were signed and official prep began, his job wouldn't let up.
He had recently moved into a new office on CAA's second floor—a testament to his performance. If Wayne's success continued, Jimmy wasn't shy about aiming for a partner's seat at the agency.
Colin Howard had just pulled out the paperwork and was about to go over Wayne's latest revenue streams when Jimmy suddenly returned—this time with a grim expression, following behind Hela.
"What's wrong?" Wayne and Colin looked up at the two of them.
Hela stepped beside her boss and whispered, "There's a guest here. Says his name is Evan Martin from CAA."
Wayne raised an eyebrow and asked Nina, "Was he scheduled?"
"No. At least, not through me," she said without even glancing at her calendar. She was certain.
"But…" Nina gave Jimmy a pointed look before continuing, "Evan Martin is one of the top figures at CAA. A partner. One of the original agents from the team that Michael Ovitz used to found the company."
"So?" Wayne asked.
"He's not from Jimmy's faction. In fact, he and Jimmy's boss, Wright Loud, are known to be on very bad terms." Nina lowered her voice. "Think oil and water."
Now Wayne understood. No major company was ever free of internal politics—often, internal rivalries were even more brutal than competition with outsiders.
"Let him in, Hela," Wayne said calmly. The man's purpose was obvious—either poaching or power plays. "Relax, Jimmy. You have nothing to worry about. Don't forget—we're friends. The others? Not so much."
Jimmy nodded stiffly and sat down, his eyes fixed on the doorway as a middle-aged white man walked in.
Evan Martin looked to be in his mid-to-late forties, dressed in a dark, impeccably tailored suit. His practiced smile radiated confidence and warmth—instantly putting people at ease.
Veteran agents like him had mastered the art of dealing with star directors: making them feel comfortable while subtly showcasing their own value.