As July rolled in, the 1987 summer blockbuster season had already slipped past its midpoint without much fanfare.
Aside from Beverly Hills Cop II, no other domestic release looked poised to crack the nine-figure mark at the box office.
Jack Nicholson's The Witches of Eastwick, Arnold Schwarzenegger's Predator, and the Tom Hanks-Dan Aykroyd team-up Dragnet—all projected to haul in fifty or sixty million domestically—were turning modest profits at best, falling short of the studios' hopes.
Among them, Matthew Broderick's new film Project X—from the guy Simon had clashed with before—had been slotted by Fox for a June 5 release. It opened on 1,022 screens, pulling in $4.57 million its first weekend, with a June total scraping just over $12 million. Against a $15 million budget, Fox might break even through ancillaries, but the movie was nowhere near justifying its prime slot and marketing push.
Simon had clocked the film before its release, but it barely registered anymore.
That old beef was water under the bridge. As long as Matthew Broderick stayed out of his way, Simon had no plans to cross paths with him again.
On another front, July 2 saw the S&P 500 punch through 290. After a month and a half of silence, Simon started feeding trading orders to Noah Scott again—gradually unwinding Westeros's original 4,500 contracts while rebuilding the position anew.
In an era before daily mark-to-market settlements in index futures, traders had plenty of perks, but the downside was Simon couldn't just roll his paper profits from the 4,500 lots straight into new buys. Scaling up meant a full unwind and reload.
He'd hoped to handle the turnover between 290 and 295 on the S&P. But after navigating the choppy June delivery month, the index's climb picked up steam.
Westeros had built its May positions around an average of 272; the unwind wrapped at roughly 295 average.
A 23-point gain meant about $11,500 profit per contract.
After settlement and fees, the 4,500 longs netted $50.65 million in a month, bumping Simon's capital to $125 million.
Post-turnover, Westeros's long holdings swelled to 6,800 contracts—still a risky 80% allocation.
Luckily, from July 2 to 10, the S&P closed at 298 that Friday. In those few days alone, the fresh longs racked up another hefty unrealized gain.
Simon realized he might not need to touch that Wells Fargo loan at all. Truth be told, unless things went south, he didn't want to anyway.
Breaching the loan terms was secondary; the real risk was exposure. Tapping it could blow the lid off his futures plays.
Against the Chicago Merc's daily volume topping 80,000 contracts, Westeros's thousands were a drop in the bucket.
But if word got out that the kid who'd just smashed Hollywood box office records was in the game—and already banking big—then per Soros's reflexivity theory about market participants shaping the market, Simon's moves could ripple out, warping the trends he remembered.
Meanwhile, in its final week of principal photography, the Final Destination crew flew back from New York to L.A., knocking out the opening plane crash sequence on a Fox soundstage. The film wrapped smoothly on July 9.
Simon spent a few days hashing out the detailed post-production plan with Wes Craven. Then, on July 13, after months of prep, Pulp Fiction kicked off shooting.
Inside a Venice Beach bar.
Day three of production, and the crew was capturing Marsellus Wallace sweet-talking Butch Coolidge into throwing the fight.
The final cut would layer in music, but right now, the bar hummed with quiet focus.
Departments buzzed efficiently around the actors playing Marsellus and Butch. The only sound cutting through was Ving Rhames as Marsellus, delivering his monologue.
"When this is all over, you'll find you're the one laughing last. Butch, you're still strong now, but the sad truth is, you won't be for long..."
With the camera locked down, Simon didn't need the monitor for framing tweaks. He stood just outside the circle of cinematographer, gaffer, and crew, arms crossed, watching Robert De Niro—who had maybe a handful of lines total—and mentally stacking him against the original's Bruce Willis.
Among the Stallones and Schwarzeneggers of the action pack, Willis had the chops edge.
But in the original Pulp Fiction's scene, watching old Bruce sit there soaking up the mob boss's lecture, most folks couldn't shake it: that's Bruce Willis, that's Bruce Willis, that's Bruce Willis...
Now.
Simon eyed De Niro in the scene—shoulders slumped, lips pursed in barely contained rage and resentment, but too cowed by the mobster to erupt—and felt: that's Butch Coolidge, some washed-up boxer with a flicker of skill left, but no shot at the big time.
In Pulp Fiction, Butch had as much room to shine as Vincent or Jules. But in the original, thanks to phoned-in acting or zero effort, the role came off as a Bruce Willis cameo crash.
Probably why folks raved about Vincent, Mia, Jules—but skimmed right over the boxer with the hefty screen time.
By contrast, De Niro's rep for dedication shone through; his months of prep for this part had even wowed Simon.
Sure, Butch was a fighter, but he never stepped in the ring on-screen. Still, to nail the look, De Niro had bulked up with two months of training.
For this scene alone, he'd dissected Butch's mindset and delivery tweaks with Simon multiple times, even having Rhames record the lines for endless study.
This was De Niro's first scene post-start, and Simon knew: this Butch would etch himself into viewers' minds right alongside Vincent and Jules.
Three minutes later, as De Niro and Rhames wrapped their first take, Simon called a break and waved them over to the monitor.
Video assist tech was still new in the '80s; the screen was a puny six inches, but the rental rivaled the camera's cost.
He'd skipped it on Run Lola Run to pinch pennies.
No skimping this time.
The trio huddled around the phone-sized display for playback. Simon paused on a frame catching De Niro's subtle lip twitch, then turned to him. "Bob, what do you think?"
De Niro studied it, then shook his head with a chuckle. "Overdoing it."
Simon nodded. "As a small-timer, Butch is scared stiff of Marsellus. His long silence already screams resistance—he wouldn't dare flash outright defiance. Dial it back a notch next time."
De Niro kept it brief. "Simon, give me a minute to reset."
Simon waited until De Niro reclaimed his seat, then shifted to Ving Rhames as Marsellus.
Like Samuel L. Jackson as Jules, Rhames was an original cast holdover.
And in other ways, too—both were classically trained. Rhames had studied drama at SUNY and Juilliard—the "Harvard of music"—earning a BFA, with Broadway creds and a string of bit parts in Hollywood.
From Jackson and Rhames, it was clear Hollywood's racial biases ran deep. Plenty of Black stars boasted solid educations. Whites, meanwhile, faced a lower bar to the American Dream.
Thanks to that training, Rhames's three-minute off-camera delivery had been a masterclass in voice work that left Simon impressed.
They chatted a bit; Simon warmed to the actor's mild real-life vibe despite the mobster role. Finally, he extended a hand. "Ving, your line work's killer. I bet we'll team up again down the line."
Rhames gripped firm and smiled. "Absolutely—looking forward to it."
With De Niro signaling readiness, Simon cued the crew back in.
Today's slate centered on Butch, Marsellus, Vincent, and Jules's bar scenes. The persuasion sequence took an hour of retakes before Simon called it good.
John Travolta and Samuel L. Jackson, already in makeup, jumped right into the next setups.
They hustled until five p.m., when the crew wrapped for the day.
As folks dispersed, Simon confirmed tomorrow's plan with the ADs, then personally shuttled the dailies to Fox's lab. By then, it was 6:20.
Inside the Fox lot.
Simon glanced at Jennifer Rebould, who'd become his shadow these past weeks. After his invite, she'd quit George Norman's firm pronto to join him.
Slowing his pace on the asphalt path, he asked the girl at his side, "Jen, how's it feeling so far?"
Jennifer clutched her briefcase, folder in hand, her mind flashing back. Late last month, her snap decision to ditch law had stunned everyone, her parents even flew in from New York.
But the lifelong good girl wasn't backing down this time.
After some battles, she'd won out.
Though not without concessions: she'd promised to sit the July California bar and snag her license, keeping the door open for a return.
Then.
July 1, she officially became Simon's personal assistant.
Secretary and assistant overlapped some, but differed big-time—assistants typically wielded more clout in a company.
These two weeks, she'd been getting her bearings.
Truth was, Simon's Hollywood empire was just budding; not much to hand off yet.
But once his futures windfall hit, the cash flood would explode his holdings. Then she'd be swamped.
Hearing him now, she said, "I feel like I'm not helping much yet. Maybe I should audit some film courses at USC."
Simon chuckled and shook his head. "No need, Jen. In Hollywood, experience trumps degrees. And I'm not grooming you for producer anyway."
She tilted her head. "Then what?"
"Just my assistant," he said with a grin, pausing. "Actually, I've got other irons in the fire—but can't spill yet. Give it time; you'll be running ragged soon enough."
ko-fi.com/GodOfReader