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Todd Thompson was a nice guy, but a chronic dreamer; his naiveté and increasingly odd behavior at home and at work bothered everyone – his parents, his friends and lately, his otherwise tolerant boss. At twenty-four, Todd still lived with his parents, disinclined to survive alone in the outside world. Todd had one supporter: Ellen, his sympathetic, optimistic girl friend. “Todd’s very smart with a good heart,” she’d say. “One day, he’ll do something that will astound all of us.”
Todd Thompson, a tall, handsome man with thick dark hair and large brown eyes, worked part-time at a brokerage in Boston, but the job bored him; his blazing ambition was to be a screenwriter – a prosperous and powerful independent filmmaker – an auteur. One day, he’d show the world, once more, how good movies should be made. But at twenty-four, Todd was already a mossback – he had heroes and role models all right, but most of them were insane, incontinent, in homes or in celebrity cemeteries.
Todd had only contempt for contemporary Hollywood – his films would be sophisticated, more European, and worldly. His audiences would revere and adore him – those neophytes and nymphets strutting Sunset Boulevard would come begging, the cigar-munching moguls around Hollywood and Vine would fling wide their doors and beseech him. The vultures hunched over their desks hosting America’s TV talk-shows would be falling all over themselves to get him. He’d laugh at those pimps in the ad agencies fighting for his endorsement. You could bet your bottom dollar every major publisher would kill for the rights to his Todd Thompson’s tell-all book.
Todd maintained a carefree, goofball sense of humor about all this. Had to, otherwise people would think he was truly mad - like his mom and dad, who never stopped criticizing and belittling him, or his boss at the brokerage who recently suggested a long vacation. Most everyone, except Ellen, thought Todd’s screenplays were pretty silly and that his ideas about the cinema were out of fashion and out of touch with reality, whatever that was.
“There are simply no good flicks anymore,” Todd complained to his family at dinner. “Over-cut, over-lit, stupid stories played by actors who can’t act, and worst of all, nobody can direct. That’s why nobody goes to the movies anymore. Hell, I’d rather stay home and watch “Gone With The Wind.” By God, that’s one they can’t re-make and ruin!” Humming ‘Tara’s Theme,’ Todd got up from the table and strolled upstairs to resume work on his latest screenplay. “Thanks for the grub, Mum. Gotta get back to work.”
“The boy’s losing it,’ grumbled Gerald, his father.
“My lord, he still lives in that fantasy world,” whispered Mabel, his mother.
“Hey, Mum!” Todd called down from his bedroom. “Friday night’s dish night down at the Lyceum. Wanna go catch a flick?” They heard him close the bedroom door and a moment later, the all-too familiar theme from “Laura.”
“He’s lost it,” said Gerald.
“Gone with the wind,” said Mabel.
 Todd believed there was one person vital to his vision, one all-important figure from the golden age of cinema he needed to help him produce and direct his screenplays – stories that would sell, and fill the movie houses once again.
Todd’s hero was the legendary Harry Hennigan - the last and grandest of the old-time cinema giants, now secluded somewhere in the hills of Hollywood, hiding from his fans, lawyers, the press and the world. With the universal smash of his first film forty-two years ago, writer, actor, director, editor and composer Harry Hennigan began at the top - and had been working his way downwards ever since. Todd believed he was destined to rescue Harry, and his career; Todd cared, no one else did. He would dedicate his first screenplay to Harry.
Once cinema’s idol, Harry Hennigan was now hated in Hollywood, chiefly because he owed everyone money, or a favor - usually both. For months, Todd struggled to reach the elusive master with thinning results. Whenever Todd did find some of Harry’s old chums; the response was usually a sigh, or the click of a telephone hang-up. He’d sent a barrage of letters, faxes, e-mails and telegrams – some of which were returned, all of which went unanswered, until one day . . . when everything changed.
The type-written letter bore an unusual return address: “Occupant, 1313 N. Dennis Avenue, Hollywood, CA.” Not suspecting who it could be, Todd opened the letter and sat down to read:
“Dear Todd,
“I must beg you to accept my apologies for this long silence. My temporary secretary has lately developed a mania for filing things away and has managed to mix up much of my correspondence, and mistakenly put your letter of last December under “Fans.” I have, only today, discovered that letter. It deserved an immediate reply and in a way – since I’ve just read it – that’s what it’s getting.
            “Your hunch that I might be getting discouraged is not as absolutely wrong as I would like it to be. The years do keep slipping by, the hopes do keep getting dashed; and although I still refuse any idea of surrender, it is becoming harder to smile away all the rejections and broken promises. That’s why your generously optimistic letter of December is all the more welcome for its long delay in reaching me.
            “The movies of my time, Todd, those glorious masterpieces we both admire and adore, now belong to yesterday’s movie goers. But those old shows will endure - on television and home entertainment, for as long as there is an audience willing to watch them. At the moment, I’m afraid the only venues left for me are cable TV in America and the art-house circuits abroad. If we are prepared to go low-budget– production as well as marketing and distribution – perhaps we can find our financing.”
            “I long for your thoughts on all this, Todd. You seem to be an intelligent and thoughtful fellow and I very much look forward to meeting you. I must meet with my old girlfriend in Manhattan in a couple of weeks (she has all my money, you see). Why not join me in New York, at the Algonquin, for a meal and a long talk?
Again, my belated and sincerest thanks,
                                                            Harry Hennigan (213) 809-3349
P.S. If you wish to write, please always address me as OCCUPANT.”

Gerald and Mabel Thompson were in the living room when they heard their son ranting, charging about upstairs over their heads, as Mabel put it, “like a scalded dog.”
“Mabel, should we call EMS?” asked Gerald, peering over his newspaper.
“I’ll go see what’s going on, dear,” replied Mabel, putting aside Redbook and getting up from her chair. “Sounds like he can still get about, doesn’t it?”
“Mum! Dad!” came the shrieks of their son in delirium. “Harry wrote back. “He wrote back! He wants me, Hennigan needs me!”
“The boy has lost it,” said Gerald and went back to his Times.
 As soon as he had read the letter a few more times, Todd picked up his cell phone and punched in Ellen’s number. He then yelled again and pounded his bedroom door once more, just for good luck.
“Hey, it’s me. Guess what? Harry wrote back! Harry wrote me, Ellen. He wants me-”
“Wait! Read me the damn letter, Todd. I can’t wait to hear what he said.”
When Todd had finished, there was silence at the other end of the line. “Well? What do you think?”
“Oh, my dear boy, how fabulous! You’re on your way now, aren’t you?”
That evening at dinner, Todd could hardly sit still. He hadn’t stopped blabbering all afternoon; Mabel could only smile, repeating ‘how nice for you’every two minutes; Gerald sat speechless with a furrowed brow, looking as though he might be in labor. Gerald had several martinis before dinner and sat stone-faced throughout the meal. Finally, he leaned back in his chair and cleared his throat.
“How much will the man pay you, Todd? asked Gerald, giving Todd a nasty stare.
Todd sat silently, not comprehending what he had just heard. “Sorry, I don’t understand what you’re asking, dad.”
Gerald lowered his paper. “Not a difficult question, really – even you should be able to decipher it, Todd.” Gerald’s eyes widened and his voice grew louder. “I asked, how much is the man paying you?”
Todd sat quietly, staring at his father. “You mean Harry?”
“Who else?”
It was a trap. Todd thought a moment, shifted in his chair and took a sip of water. “We haven’t discussed that yet.”
“Haven’t discussed it? What do you mean?”
Mabel put down her knife and fork. “Gerald, I don’t like the tone in your voice. Why don’t you give Todd a chance to-”
“Chance? Give Todd a chance? Gerald threw his napkin down and glowered at his son across the table. “The boy is twenty-four, for god’s sake, he still lives at home, he has no wife, hasn’t got diddly in his bank account and he still drives your car. Now, he wants to run off to la-la-landand donate his time to the illustrious Mr. Hennigan – or should I say, the penniless Mr. Hennigan.”
Todd cleared his throat. “Dad, you don’t know a darn thing about Harry Hennigan-”
Gerald slammed his fist on the dining room table causing everyone to jump and the water glasses to jiggle. “You seem to forget, Todd, as an attorney specializing in corporate finance I am well informed on those who pay their bills and those who don’t. As it happens, I represent a bank that once loaned quite a sum to the celebrated Mr. Hennigan, and they’re still fighting to get back just a portion of what he owes. So, I guess I know what’s what, don’t I, hey?” Gerald stopped to catch his breath and drain his martini glass.
Todd stared at his father and grinned. “Well, dad, I must congratulate you on one point.”
“What’s that, Todd?” Having worn out his bluster, Gerald sank back in his chair, spent.
“At least, you know what la-la-land is.
***
Before he left for New York, Todd had dinner with Ellen at their favorite restaurant, to celebrate the promised meeting with Hennigan and rejoice in Todd’s decision to move out of his parents’ home, and find a place of his own.
“I feel life’s becoming more meaningful, Ellen,” said Todd, sipping his sloe gin fizz.
“What did your parents say when you told them you were moving out,” said Ellen, putting down her gin-and-tonic. Ellen was a pretty blonde and quite petit – about half Todd’s height – but strong, pragmatic and practical. Todd’s parents couldn’t understand why they hadn’t married.
“Actually, the old man sort of made the suggestion himself, in another of his plentiful lectures to me on the correct way to live my life. Like, isn’t it high time you asked Ellen the question?”
“And your mum?”
“Well, just before I walked out, she gave me a silent ‘thumbs-up’ after I told the ogre to stick it up his bucket.”
Ellen raised her glass. “Well then, here’s to the team of Todd Thompson and Harry Hennigan.”
Todd raised his glass and smiled. “Here’s looking at you, kid!”
***
One week later, Todd took a flight from Boston to La Guardia that evening, when he arrived at the Algonquin, found Harry Hennigan – all three hundred-twenty pounds of him – seated at a lone table in the back of the dining room. With a half-dozen empty dishes at his place, Harry seemed to have already consumed enough appetizers sufficient for a main course.
“Todd, my good fellow!” Harry rose like a walrus, roaring like thunder. “Welcome to the Algonquin, home of the Round Table: Parker, Woollcott, Benchley, Ferber - and now, the two of us! Come, seat yourself.”
Todd took Harry’s hand. Overcome with awe, his voice trembled as he spoke. “Thank you, Master.”
“Todd, old man, we have a big job ahead of us,” said Harry, sitting down and pouring them each a glass of wine. “The money promised for my next project has been delayed, perhaps withdrawn, because of political unrest in Honduras - you know, the usual banana republic stuff.”
“I didn’t know you got your money from-”
“Honduras?” Harry smiled. “Todd, these days we get our money from everywhere – anywhere, except America, at the moment.
“Why not here?”
“Back taxes.” said Harry with a great grin. The moment Uncle Sam finds a dollar in my bank – any bank – he takes it. Licensed larceny, I call it.”
Todd fell silent, trying to reconcile what he’d just heard from Harry against his initial expectation – a team, writing and producing together. Now, it seemed Harry only wanted Todd to help find money – but from where?
“In my opinion, Todd, your expertise in the world of high finance would be invaluable towards securing a bit of much-needed capital – perhaps you could give us some guidance?”
“Well,” Todd was suddenly caught off guard, “in my world we require certain guarantees-”
“Like collateral,” said Harry without waiting for him to finish.
“Exactly.”
“In my world, we require the same thing – do you know about completion bonds?”
“Well . . .” Todd was interrupted by their waiter.
“Mr. Hennigan, would you like to hear the specials for the day?”
“Start with the soup-de-jour, if you wouldn’t mind. My young friend here has quite an appetite, and so do I.”
“Very good sir,” replied the waiter, as Harry helped himself to another serving of crab cakes.
Todd’s appetite diminished as he listened to Harry’s fantasies about financing, and the role he was expected to play. Short of outright falsification, Todd reckoned there was no way he could get a penny for Harry Hennigan who, Todd now realized, was probably unbankable. Harry himself had revealed the terrible truth.
Todd spent a sleepless night in his overheated room at the Mayflower Hotel, confused by Harry’s bizarre notions about business, and angry that they had never once discussed Todd’s scripts or his ideas for a collaborative venture. The following morning, although reluctant to rile the old man, Todd decided he’d better have it out with Harry.
Todd waited for Harry in the lobby until nine-thirty. They had agreed to meet for breakfast at nine but when Harry didn’t show, Todd went to the front desk to ask if someone could ring Mr. Hennigan’s room.
“I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Hennigan checked out early this morning.”
“But when?” “We were supposed to have breakfast at nine.”
 The clerk walked over to a row of room keys and mailboxes, and retrieved a small envelope from one of the boxes. “Are you Todd?” asked the clerk.
“Yes, I am.”
“This is for you.”
The clerk handed Todd the envelope and waited for him to open it. Todd turned his back to the clerk, opened the envelope and retrieved a note from within.
“Dear Todd,
“Forgive my abrupt departure, but I am in difficult circumstances that require my immediate attention at home. I’ll ring you when things have settled down but in the meantime, thanks for your understanding and for coming to New York. Remember, old boy, we have big job ahead of us.
                                                            Love,
                                                            Harry”
When Todd phoned Ellen, he’d forgotten it was now past noon in Boston and all he heard was her answering machine. Embarrassed, he told her that Harry had disappeared.”
***
There were no calls or letters from Harry for several weeks; Todd was depressed and felt betrayed. In the meantime, he and Ellen found an apartment in Cambridge and decided to set up ‘housekeeping together’, as he described it to his mother one day when his father was out of the house.
            “Does this mean you’re getting married, Todd,” asked the hopeful Mabel, whose unremitting faith in her peculiar son had driven her husband into fury.
“No, mum, and don’t start counting your grandchildren before they hatch.”
“Well, Ellen’s a nice girl, Todd. You could have done worse.”
“Thanks, mum, you’re a peach.”
“That’s what your father used to say to me, before we were married.”
***
Nearly three weeks after Harry Hennigan’s hasty departure from the Algonquin, Todd discovered a brief message on his cell-phone that made his body tingle; it was Harry, speaking in his most exalted and mesmerizing voice, tones familiar to radio listeners and theatre-goers for decades.
“Todd, it’s Harry. Sorry not to have called you sooner, but I’ve been immersed in a desperate state of affairs. No, I’m not drunk – and I have a witness sitting here right beside me who will attest to my sobriety. Anyway, please call me tonight. We have much to discuss.”
When Ellen came home that night, Todd played her the message. “Jesus, Todd, it sounds like the voice of doom!”
“Yup, that’s how he became famous.” Todd flipped the cell-phone shut and put it on the table. “I’ll call him tonight – it’s three hours earlier in LA, isn’t it?”
“I suppose he’ll want you to go out and see him.” Ellen opened a bag of groceries and began transferring vegetables into the fridge.
“You think I shouldn’t?”
“I think he’s a bit weird, Todd – not just eccentric - weird. He doesn’t sound very with it, does he?”
Todd took an apple from the bag of groceries and began munching. “Probably been drinking, despite the denial.”
“Maybe drugs.”
“Who knows? Anyway, we’ll see what he wants tonight.” Todd sat silently for a few moments, munching his apple. “Kinda feel sorry for the old bugger, Ellen. Life hasn’t’ been easy for him, has it?”
“Seems to me Harry has become his own worst enemy. Walking out on you in New York was not cool – not nice at all.”
Todd sat and thought for a moment. “I just want to give the old bugger a hand. “He – he hasn’t got too many friends left, and maybe not many years left, either.” A tear left Todd’s eye and ran down his cheek.
Ellen walked over to Todd and put her arms around him. “I knew you wouldn’t desert him, Todd. That’s why I love you.”
“My parents think I’m a goddam fool.”
“Sometimes you are,” said Ellen, stroking his hair, “but now and then we all need to just forge ahead and take a chance. So, tonight, we’ll drink again to the team of Thompson and Hennigan. Todd, the world is waiting for your sunrise.”
Todd looked up at Ellen and grinned. “And here’s looking at you, kid.”
 When he’d finished his call that evening with Harry, Todd told Ellen that Harry found an Iranian banker who swore he’d do anything to help Harry get back on his feet, and wanted Todd to attend their first meeting. Todd knew what he had to do.
“I said I’d to go to LA and do this thing. Harry promised to fund my airfare but at the moment, he can’t pay me a fee.”
“Go for it!” said Ellen. “You only live twice!”
 On Friday of that week, Ellen drove Todd to Logan Airport, dropped him off at Terminal E, kissed him goodbye and wished him bon voyage. When Todd entered the terminal, he didn’t notice the morning newspaper headlines with Harry’s photo on the front page, nor did he pay any attention to the large, wide screen television monitors showing clips of Harry Hennigan’s films and countless celebrities being interviewed discussing Harry’s career.  
Todd went straight to check-in, displayed his ticket, deposited one piece of luggage, picked up a boarding pass and sat down in a seat far away from all the TV monitors. Todd wanted his privacy now - a chance to read over his best script and dream how he and Harry could, one day, make beautiful music together.