This book would not exist—or it would have someone else’s name on it—if it were not for the talented writer, director, art lover and collector, Nick Meyer, whom I tried to convince to write it, and who told me to write it myself. What I think he actually said was, “Leave me alone already.” Thanks, Nick.
I would also like to thank my wife, Sandra, for reading my ramblings and telling me where I wasn’t funny or clever or insightful or particularly literate. And for occasionally pointing out where I was. My sons, Andrew and Trevor, for their unfailing support. And my late boxer, Annie, for sleeping on my feet while I typed and eating the things on my plate I wouldn’t.
I am also grateful to my sister, Marsha Russell, the extremely gifted designer, from whom I appropriated some of the more tasteful design elements in the story, and her husband, Lee Tawes, for his unwavering support. And to my brother-in-law, Scott Ricketts, for making sure I never ran out of pasta sauce or laughs.
Every first novel needs a fan in the right place at the right time. Mine was Doug Grad at HarperCollins. My sincerest gratitude to him. And to the person at HC who had the power of the pen to say yes, Liate Stehlik…thank you, Liate, very, very much. To my editor, Matt Harper, who fielded the unenviable task of dealing with an aggressive, often wrong Hollywood hardhead, a thank-you isn’t nearly enough, but thank you, Matt.
During this adventure, I was fortunate enough to meet Lisa Erbach Vance, my literary agent at Aaron Priest. Every ship needs a calm voice at the helm and a steady hand on the tiller. Thank you, Captain Vance, from your unruly crew of one.
Warm thanks to: Homer Hickam for putting his own heavy workload aside and reading my manuscript; my friends and fellow writers, Joe Stinson, Dennis Hackin and John Mullins for slogging through early drafts; fellow author and friend U.S. District Court Judge James Zagel, who somehow found time between gavel raps to read and give comments; and two of the best people—and producers—in Hollywood, Stephanie Austin and Walter Coblenz, for their kind words and unfailing encouragement.
I would also like to give special thanks to my terrific attorney and friend, Jay Coggan; to my always supportive Hollywood agents, Tony Etz and Matthew Snyder at CAA; to my Mississippi attorney, friend and covert writer, Ned Currie; and to the brilliant composers, Chris Lang and Cesar Benitez, who set music to “Christmas Always Breaks My Heart,” and to Benny Faccone, who made magic with the track.
To Clive Cussler and Gayle Lynds, I am still overwhelmed by your praise. Thank you again.
For twenty-five years, my friend and business partner, Bob Turner, has never failed to be there for me. I have no idea what he thought of the book, because no one can tell what Bob really thinks about anything, but he read every word and let me know where I was right and where I wasn’t. And that’s all one can ask for.
I also owe a great debt to Frank Yablans and the late Norman Weitman for taking a chance on a wet-behind-everything college kid and bringing him into Paramount Pictures. And to Robert Evans for making the movies I get to put on my resumé.
Lastly, I would like to thank the person who inspired me to write in the first place. She died before I could invite her to Hollywood and take her and her tall collars, flashy skirts, hoop earrings and French chanteuse hairstyle onto a studio lot, then to Spago for dinner. Betty Ruth VerBeck didn’t look, talk or act like a steel town, high school English teacher. She twirled like a dancer when she read poetry, swooned over her desk when she loved an essay and laughed so loud when she was happy that you could hear her in the gym three stories down. But she sent this sixteen-year-old kid home every day with his mind racing with possibilities. Sleep in peace, Miss VerBeck.
Neil Russell
2010