Sonny Morningstar

Sonny Morningstar

(1,511 words)

The guard at the front gate looked like something out of a theme park. Dressed in his crisp pastel blue suit, starched white shirt, and key-lime necktie, he looked as if he might reach into the guardhouse at any moment and produce a Popsicle.

Instead, he scanned the car’s license plate, checked the chauffeur’s identification, consulted his clipboard, and then with a remote control device hidden somewhere on his person, caused the gates to swing open.

Irving Breckner nervously drummed his fingers against the leather folder in his lap. He checked his watch and smoothed his hair, glancing in one of the folding mirror visors that retracted from the ceiling.

The car wheeled into the compound, and the gate swung closed behind it. With the exception of a small brass plaque on the stucco wall next to the gate, there was no indication that Irving’s car had just entered one of the power centers of the entertainment industry.

They drove through a shadowed canyon of airplane-hanger-sized buildings, turned left, and then approached the main office building, an unassuming two-story structure surrounded by palm trees. Another guard in an ice-cream outfit bounded from the portico, open the door for Irving, and escorted him into the building.

The reception area was cool, marbled, and understated. The security guard led Irving past the curved reception desk to the elevator bank at the back of the lobby.

The elevator whooshed up to the second floor with smooth efficiency, and the wood-paneled doors opened to reveal another reception area, this one less marbled and more sunlit. Windows on two sides bathed the room in a soft variation of the Southern California light, muted by Venetian blinds and warmed by the bounce-back from the orange and pink exteriors of the neighboring buildings.

The receptionist, a stunning, efficient woman who redefined middle-age, smiled at Irving and pressed a button on her console.

“Mr. Morningstar is ready to see you.”

The doors to the interior office swung open. Not by magic or by motor; Sonny Morningstar himself swung them open. Boyish in appearance, his skin bronzed with a healthy glow—not overdone, not salon-tanned, not abused by excessive exposure, just healthy—his blonde hair flaring outward from his skull like a joyous lion’s mane, his ice-blue eyes darting with intelligence and almost childlike curiosity, his teeth gleaming white, not artificially so—genuinely so, naturally so. His smile bright, his mouth wide, his eyes engaged. A real smile—not the Hollywood version of a smile.

“Irving! What a pleasure to see you! Come in! Come in!”

Irving followed Morningstar into the bright, sleek, elegant office. Chrome and glass everywhere, but not cold. The space was impressive, but it was by no means ostentatious, especially by industry standards. Comfortable. Illuminated. Cool.

Sonny Morningstar took his place behind the desk, and Irving Breckner took his place in front of the desk. Sonny was dressed in a seersucker suit that seemed so comfortable on his slim frame, so right, that it was as if a refreshing sea-breeze was blowing effortlessly through the solidly sealed floor-to-ceiling windows of the office.

“What have you got?” asked Morningstar.

Irving looked at Morningstar with renewed awe. Considering what he knew, or what he thought he knew, Morningstar’s performance was all the more impressive to him.

“I’m afraid I have nothing,” said Irving.

Sonny leaned forward, his brows creased. But it was not in anger or disappointment. Sonny was genuinely curious.

“I’m sorry. I don’t follow you,” he said.

“I’m afraid we won’t be doing business,” said Irving.

Sonny’s eyebrows rose. He cocked his head.

“We’ve decided not to go through with the deal.”

“Oh,” said Sonny. “Well.”

He drummed his fingers on the glass top of his desk for a few moments. Then:

“May I ask where I went wrong?”

Irving shrugged, “It didn’t seem right to me.”

A hint of a smile played over Sonny’s lips for a moment as he considered Irving’s words. Looking upward, he placed his fingers together and folded them into a church-and-steeple.

“Well, it wasn’t the money,” Sonny said.

“No. It wasn’t the money,” agreed Irving.

“And the properties are good,” continued Sonny. “The film unit is going gangbusters, and the record unit’s doing even better.”

“Yes,” agreed Irving. “The properties are good.”

“So this isn’t really a business decision, is it?”

“No. It’s a personal decision.”

“Interesting.”

Sonny Morningstar propped his feet on his desk and laced his hands behind his head. Staring at the ceiling, he said:

“But you didn’t drive all the way over here to tell me that you weren’t interested in buying Omnivorex Studios. You’ve come to tell me something else.”

“Yes.”

Sonny Morningstar smiled. “Go ahead then. I promise I won’t bite.”

“I know who you are.”

Sonny’s eyes met Irving’s, locking for a brief second.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “You really do know. Pardon my unfortunate choice of words.”

“I expected you to be taller,” said Irving.

“And uglier?” asked Sonny Morningstar.

“I didn’t know about that part.”

Morningstar laughed, “They always make me ugly in the movies.”

They sat silent, considering each other.

“Fascinating,” said Sonny. “Really fascinating.”

Irving said nothing.

“But how did you know?” asked Sonny.

“I watched the movies and listened to the music. I read the books.”

A look of concern crossed Sonny Morningstar’s face. “Was it that obvious?”

“No. Not at first. It only surfaced in bits and pieces.”

“Ah. A cumulative effect.”

“Yes. A recurring theme. Subtle in the children’s books. More explicit in the rap lyrics. Downright frightening in the porn videos.”

“But always there,” said Morningstar.

“Yes. Always there.”

“But still. That was quite a leap. I’m very impressed.”

Irving looked at his hands. “And then I thought—isn’t that really the way you’ve always done it?”

Sonny Morningstar nodded and smiled.

Irving continued. “I mean, all of it—the Inquisition, the Holocaust, Darfur, everything—all of it came from a sick germ of an idea somewhere.”

“A very sick germ,” agreed Morningstar, taking no offense.

“And if the sick germ can take root, if it can find the right soil, if it gets the right nourishment—”

“Yes,” said Morningstar. “The nourishment is extremely important.”

“Then the germ of the idea is all you really need,” said Irving. “All the rest—the supernatural hokum, the supposed minions of fallen souls in your service—all of that is completely unnecessary.”

“More than unnecessary,” said Morningstar. “It doesn’t even exist.”

Irving looked at Morningstar in surprise.

“I’m serious,” said Morningstar. “It doesn’t exist.”

Irving’s jaw dropped.

Morningstar smiled again. “When I—ah—parted company with my previous employer, He didn’t exactly provide me with a generous severance package. I must make do with what I have.”

“And words are what you have.”

“Words are what I have.”

“Even from the very beginning,” said Irving, noticing the bronze paperweight for the first time. It was shaped like an apple.

“Even from the very beginning.”

“But why the candor with me?” asked Irving.

“Because it doesn’t matter,” said Sonny Morningstar.

Irving blanched.

Sonny threw back his head and laughed. Not an evil laugh. Not a menacing laugh. A laugh of pure amusement.

“That’s not what I mean,” said Sonny, wiping a tear from his eye and struggling to regain his composure. “You are in absolutely no danger, I assure you.

“What I mean is simply this,” said Sonny. “You’re no threat to me, and I have no reason to see you harmed. What would you do? Go to the press and declare that your biggest competitor is Old Scratch? ”

“No. I suppose not.”

“So that’s that, then,” said Sonny, bringing his feet back to the floor and extending his hand. “We part amicably. No hard feelings.”

Irving shook his hand. Another question occurred to him.

“But why did you want to sell Omnivorex?”

“Oh, that,” said Sonny Morningstar. “Well, two reasons, really.

“The first reason is that this is a big world and I’m a busy—ah—man. I’ve got six continents to concern myself with. Antarctica doesn’t count. So I prefer to get the ball rolling, move on, and let it keep rolling on its own.

“And the second reason is more of a contractual matter. Despite the stories about Daniel Webster and the songs by Charlie Daniels, I can’t literally get people to sign away their souls. It doesn’t work like that. The best I can really do is to get people to accept situations in which they will betray their values, get them to ‘sell out,’ so to speak.”

“And that’s what you were trying to do with me.”

Sonny Morningstar shrugged and smiled. “It’s not personal.”

“I’m sorry I disappointed you,” said Irving.

“On the contrary. This has been a kick. I don’t get called out as often as you might think. It’s good for me. Keeps me on my toes.”

“So what about your sale?” asked Irving as he rose to leave.

“Eh,” said Sonny, waving his hand dismissively. “That’s no worry. I’ll get someone else to buy the damn thing.”