"Black Pines" Golf ClubThe late autumn sun offered little warmth, lazily spreading over the manicured grass of the "Black Pines" private golf course.
The lawn here was flatter than Harvey's fake smile.
Jim Clark took a casual swing. The white ball traced a less-than-graceful arc, barely landing on the edge of the green.
"Shoot," he muttered, tossing the club to his caddy, yet his expression was as cheerful as if he were on vacation.
He turned to Link, who was preparing his shot, and grinned.
"Link, you know why I love golf?"
Link didn't answer, only slightly adjusting his stance, keeping his body axis steady.
"Because it's the one rich man's sport where even with the best clubs and the best coach, you can still get your butt handed to you by some genius who has nothing."
Clark took a cigar from his pocket, clipped it, and put it in his mouth.
"I like that unpredictability. I like the maniacs who don't play by the rules."
"CRACK!"
A crisp strike sliced through the wind.
The white ball launched into a perfect parabola, landing precisely near the cup, rolling gently, and stopping.
A textbook birdie.
Clark whistled and clapped.
"Perfect!"
Link smiled, taking the towel from the caddy to wipe his hands.
"I guess I'm that genius with nothing."
Clark burst out laughing, patting him on the shoulder. "Link, I like your humor."
They got into the golf cart and drove toward the next hole.
Sunlight flickered through the trees; the artificial lake in the distance shimmered with silver light.
Along the way, they talked about movies, rock and roll, and the crazy new toys popping up in Silicon Valley.
Clark suddenly realized that this young man lacked the smooth slipperiness of a typical Hollywood producer. Instead, he possessed an engineer's cool logic combined with the ambition of a pirate.
"I read your interviews."
Clark finally dropped the casual smile, his voice becoming sharp. "The 4,000% return rate, the technological barrier… it's a sexy story. But you know, I'm in Silicon Valley. I hear a dozen stories like that every day."
He turned, and the eyes behind his glasses, for the first time, became piercing.
"I don't invest in business plans, Link. They're all crap. I only invest in people."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice low and intense.
"I invest in the lunatics who have fire in their eyes, who want to break the old rules and forge new ones. Because I'm one of those people."
He tapped his temple. "I sold my last company not because it stopped making money, but because it became too safe, too boring."
He stared intently at Link, as if disassembling a delicate electronic component.
"So, tell me, Link. Why are you really in Hollywood?
Is it for the money? For the Oscars? Or for the pretty actresses?"
The golf cart stopped at the tee box.
Link jumped out, grabbed his club, and took a few light practice swings on the grass.
He didn't answer right away.
After a long silence, he spoke, his voice quiet, almost a confession.
"None of those."
He looked up, smiling a little self-mockingly.
"You know, Jim? A few years ago, I was living in a dumpy L.A. apartment where I could hear my neighbor snore. I was writing screenplays for other people, watching my heart and soul get credited to someone else, and turn into profitable garbage."
Clark listened quietly, expressionless, slowly clipping a cigar from his pocket. The rags-to-riches story of a poor kid wasn't exactly fresh news on Wall Street or in Hollywood.
Link's gaze was distant, as if looking at a faraway past. "Back then, I hated this place.
I didn't hate being poor; what I hated was… there was a system of rules here. A system that dictated you could only make money if you got on your knees."
He took a gentle swing of the club, the wind whistling past his ear.
"Then, we made Pulp Fiction. We went to Cannes, and we won the Palme d'Or."
"I thought we had won. I thought that by breaking the rules, we had shattered their card table."
"And then, the Oscars came."
He paused, his tone suddenly flat.
"And then—the Oscars came."
Clark stayed silent, slowly lighting his cigar.
"I watched those slick, tuxedoed old men give each other awards and smile at each other."
"In that moment, I realized we hadn't shattered the card table; we had just been invited to perform a rebellious show. Once the curtain closed, they just sat back down and kept playing the same game they've been playing for a hundred years."
At this, the corner of Clark's mouth finally curled into a faint smile. He took a deep drag on his cigar; the expelled smoke obscured his expression.
Clark's cigar trembled slightly between his fingers.
"We took home that little gold statue for Best Original Screenplay."
Link turned and faced Clark directly, his eyes holding no anger, only the deep calm of someone who has burned through all their emotion.
"I took it back to the office, and I use it to prop open the door. Because for me, its biggest value is as a doorstop."
"A doorstop?" Clark froze, then erupted in laughter, so hard he started coughing. "The highest award in cinema, and you use it as a doorstop?
You're a total psycho, man."
"Maybe." Link put down the club and looked at him, his gaze growing resolute.
"But I didn't come to Wall Street to build a bigger, more profitable casino."
"I came here to build an amusement park—one just for the lunatics and the geniuses."
"There are no gatekeepers, no fixed rides, the only rule is that there are no rules, and the only ticket is the mind-blowing idea you have in your head."
The air went quiet.
The wind rustled through the pine trees.
Clark looked at him for a full half-minute.
Then, he smiled, tossed the cigar aside, and extended his hand.
"Alright, you crazy bastard."
"I'm in."
"Eighty million, every cent.
My lawyers are going to hate my guts because I haven't even looked at your financial statement."
Link smiled too, and they shook hands firmly.
---
On the drive back, Link was at the wheel of his rented Jaguar.
Soft jazz played in the car, the atmosphere relaxed, like the wind-down after a major victory.
Link leaned back in the seat, a subtle smile on his face.
Clark was resting his eyes, seemingly still immersed in their conversation.
Just then—
The car phone vibrated in Link's pocket.
Caller ID: Cameron.
Link glanced at the napping Clark, smiled, and pressed the speaker button.
"Hello?"