Rebirth 1991: Keep the Fame, I'll Take the Royalties

The VIP Buffet Arbitrage

The afternoon sun hit the pavement of Hollywood Boulevard with a searing intensity, making the exhaust fumes from passing Cadillacs shimmer in the heat.

Elias van Kempen stood on the sidewalk, holding the crisp hundred-dollar bill he had just extorted from the Mervyn’s California production manager. Beside him, Paul Rudd looked like a man who had just survived a high-speed car chase, his hair disheveled and his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and awe.

”I can’t believe you did that,” Paul breathed, still staring at the money in Elias’s hand. ”You walked into an audition, didn’t act a single line, yelled at the producer about labor laws, and walked out with five hundred dollars. That’s... that’s not how this town works, Elias! You’re going to get us arrested!”

Elias smoothly folded the bill and slipped it into the breast pocket of his faded jacket. ”I didn’t yell, Paul. Yelling is for people who lack leverage. I merely educated them on the current market price of my silence. Now, wipe that terrified expression off your face. I told you I’m buying lunch.”

”Lunch?” Paul echoed, looking around at the cheap hot dog stands and dingy diners that lined the less glamorous side of the Boulevard. ”Right. Okay. Yeah, a hot dog sounds great. Let’s just eat and go back to the motel before someone realizes you robbed them.”

”A hot dog is a culinary tragedy,” Elias replied dismissively. He turned on his heel and began walking with the long, elegant stride of a man who owned the entire block. ”We are going to Musso & Frank.”

Paul froze, practically digging his heels into the concrete. ”Musso & Frank Grill? Elias, are you out of your mind? That place has been open since 1919! It’s where Sinatra used to eat! The waiters wear red tuxedos! You can’t just walk in there wearing a thrift-store t-shirt that looks like it survived a house fire. They won’t even let us through the door!”

”They will,” Elias said softly, his dark eyes fixed on the iconic, dark-wood façade of the restaurant up ahead. ”Because exclusivity is an illusion, Paul. It’s just a velvet rope. And velvet ropes are extremely flammable when exposed to raw capital.”

A few minutes later, they stepped out of the blinding California sun and into the cool, dimly lit, mahogany-paneled sanctuary of Musso & Frank Grill. The air smelled of expensive gin martinis, aged leather, and prime rib. The dining room was filled with men in tailored suits—studio executives, senior talent agents, and producers murmuring over dry martinis, deciding the fate of multimillion-dollar films before their steaks even arrived.

It was the absolute belly of the Hollywood beast.

As soon as Elias and Paul crossed the threshold, the Maître D’—an older man with slicked-back gray hair, a perfectly tailored maroon blazer, and an expression of profound, professional snobbery—stepped out from behind his podium.

His eyes scanned Elias’s frayed clothes and Paul’s wrinkled flannel shirt. The Maître D’ let out a slow, deeply condescending sigh.

”Gentlemen,” the Maître D’ said, his voice dripping with icy politeness. ”I believe you have taken a wrong turn. The tourist diners are three blocks down. We are fully booked for lunch service today. And even if we weren’t, our dress code is strictly enforced.”

Paul instinctively shrank back, ready to apologize and leave.

Elias didn’t retreat a single inch. He stepped right up to the podium, invading the Maître D’’s personal space. He didn’t argue. He didn’t beg.

With a movement so smooth it was almost hypnotic, Elias reached into his pocket, pulled out the crisp, one-hundred-dollar bill, and let it flutter down onto the polished wood of the reservation podium.

The Maître D’ stared at the bill. A hundred dollars, simply for walking through the door, was a massive bribe in 1991.

”I am currently experiencing a profound aesthetic rebellion,” Elias stated, his voice a low, commanding baritone that sounded like it belonged to a European count. ”And I find your dress code to be creatively stifling. I want the corner booth in the back room. The one with the clear sightline of the entire floor. And I want a pitcher of ice water waiting for us.”

The Maître D’ looked from the hundred-dollar bill to Elias’s impossibly striking, arrogant face. The blatant, unapologetic display of wealth utterly shattered the man’s snobbery. He quickly palmed the hundred-dollar bill, making it vanish with practiced efficiency.

A massive, cartoonish sweatdrop materialized on the side of the Maître D’’s head. ”Right this way, sir. Your booth is waiting.”

As they were led through the dining room past staring executives, Paul walked stiffly, his face pale. He leaned close to Elias, whispering frantically. ”Are you insane?! You just gave him a hundred dollars! That’s twenty percent of what you just stole! I thought you were a capitalist! That’s the exact opposite of being cheap!”

”It’s not an expense, Paul,” Elias whispered back, sliding into the luxurious red leather booth. ”It’s a cover charge. I just bought us access to the hunting grounds.”

A waiter in a crisp red jacket approached immediately, handing them two heavy, leather-bound menus. ”Welcome to Musso & Frank. May I start you off with a martini? Or perhaps the filet mignon for lunch?”

Paul looked at the menu and physically winced. ”Uh, the steak is forty dollars. Elias, I can’t afford a forty-dollar steak. I literally have twelve dollars.”

Elias closed his menu and placed it face down on the table. He looked up at the waiter with a warm, yet terrifyingly calculating smile.

”We won’t be ordering entrées today,” Elias said smoothly. ”We are here for the Aperitivo Buffet. The complimentary hors d’oeuvres typically served at the bar. I understand it is available to patrons who order drinks.”

The waiter frowned, clearly confused by the request coming from a booth table. ”Sir, the bar snacks are usually reserved for the bar area. And they are meant to accompany cocktail purchases.”

”I am purchasing two glasses of your finest, imported sparkling water,” Elias countered flawlessly. ”And as for the buffet, we would like it brought to the table. Specifically, I require the smoked salmon points, the beluga caviar crostini, and the chilled jumbo shrimp. I want a substantial platter.”

The waiter’s frown deepened. ”Sir, those are our highest-cost appetizer items. We generally provide a mixed assortment—”

”I am not interested in a mixed assortment of cheap carbohydrates,” Elias interrupted, his tone shifting from polite to absolute, unyielding corporate dominance. ”I am placing a targeted order for premium protein. If you analyze your restaurant’s loss-leader strategy, the Aperitivo Buffet is designed to stimulate alcohol sales. Since we are abstaining from alcohol, the restaurant is already saving on liquor cost. I am simply reallocating that margin into the seafood selection. Bring the salmon.”

The waiter stared at him, utterly bewildered by the sudden onslaught of economic jargon. He had no idea how to respond to a teenager analyzing the restaurant’s profit margins. He gave a stiff nod, sweatdropping, and hurried away toward the kitchen.

Paul slammed his head onto the mahogany table. ”Oh my god,” he groaned. ”You are the cheapest, most terrifying human being I have ever met. We are going to get thrown out. They’re going to call the cops.”

”Relax, Paul. We are engaging in an arbitrage,” Elias said, leaning back and scanning the room with the eyes of a hawk. ”We are extracting maximum nutritional value for the minimum capital expenditure. It’s a beautiful thing.”

As Paul continued to hyperventilate into the tablecloth, Elias’s dark eyes locked onto a table across the dining room.

Sitting there was a man in his late thirties, wearing a sharp, impeccably tailored Armani suit. He had slicked-back hair and a Bluetooth earpiece—a rare, expensive luxury in 1991. The man was aggressively slicing into a steak, talking loudly, and gesturing wildly at a young, visibly terrified actress sitting across from him.

Elias didn’t need a name tag. His Photographic Memory immediately pulled the file.

Richard. Senior Talent Agent at CAA (Creative Artists Agency).

In 1991, CAA was the most powerful, ruthless agency in Hollywood, practically running the town through sheer intimidation and package deals. Richard was one of their top sharks. He was famous for locking young, naive actors into draconian, ten-year management contracts with hidden fees that siphoned off half their earnings.

But Elias also remembered something else. He remembered a front-page article from The Hollywood Reporter in 1996. Five years from now, Richard would be arrested by the IRS for running a massive tax evasion scheme, hiding millions of dollars of client money in offshore shell companies in the Cayman Islands.

”Well, well, well,” Elias murmured, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face.

The waiter arrived, nervously placing a massive, silver platter of smoked salmon, caviar, and shrimp in the center of the table, along with two glasses of sparkling water.

”Eat, Paul,” Elias commanded, picking up a piece of salmon with his fingers. ”The protein will help you calm down.”

Paul didn’t need to be told twice. Starving, he practically inhaled a shrimp. ”Okay, this is actually amazing. But we still have to pay for the water, right? That’s like, ten bucks.”

”We aren’t paying for anything,” Elias said, standing up and picking up his plate of salmon and caviar.

Paul choked on his shrimp. ”Elias! What are you doing?!”

Elias didn’t answer. He walked across the dining room with absolute, unhurried grace. He approached the table where the CAA agent was busy berating the young actress.

”I told you, sweetheart,” Richard was saying, pointing his steak knife at her. ”You sign the management deal with me today, or you don’t even get to read for the Spielberg project. It’s a package deal. CAA controls the director, we control the script, and we control you.”

Elias smoothly pulled out the empty third chair at their table and sat down, crossing his legs. He casually took a bite of his smoked salmon.

Richard stopped talking. He stared at Elias, his face twisting into a mask of pure, aristocratic outrage. ”Who the hell are you? Get away from my table. We’re in the middle of a private meeting.”

Elias swallowed his salmon and wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. He leaned forward, ignoring the actress completely, and locked eyes with the powerful CAA agent.

”Richard,” Elias said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, but carrying the heavy, lethal weight of a loaded gun. ”I apologize for the interruption. But I just had the most fascinating conversation with my accountant in Zurich.”

Richard frowned, his arrogance faltering slightly. ”What?”

Elias leaned closer, his dark eyes turning into cold, bottomless pits. He didn’t use a magical skill. He simply deployed the absolute, terrifying truth from the future.

”He was telling me about the tax benefits of offshore routing,” Elias whispered smoothly. ”Specifically, he mentioned a rather clever little shell corporation called Apex Holdings, registered in the Cayman Islands. I believe the routing number ends in 447-B. Fascinating structure. It’s amazing how easy it is to hide ten percent of a client’s backend gross if you disguise it as a ’foreign marketing consultation fee’.”

The blood drained from Richard’s face so fast it looked like he had been injected with ice water.

The fork slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against his porcelain plate. His eyes dilated in sheer, unadulterated terror. Apex Holdings was his secret. It was the illegal offshore account where he had been skimming money from his clients for the past two years. Nobody knew about it. Not his boss, not his wife, and certainly not the IRS.

How did this homeless-looking sixteen-year-old boy know the exact routing number?

”Who... who are you?” Richard stammered, his voice cracking. A massive sweatdrop formed on his forehead. He looked at Elias’s calm, sociopathic smile and instantly assumed the worst. The kid was a plant. He was an informant for the FBI, or a spy hired by a rival agency. His entire career, his freedom, was flashing before his eyes. ”Are you wearing a wire?”

Elias laughed. It was a rich, elegant sound. ”Relax, Richard. I’m not the IRS. I’m just a guy trying to enjoy a nice lunch in Hollywood.”

Richard swallowed hard, his hands shaking visibly. ”What do you want? You want money? You want a role for a client? I can get you anything. Just name your price.”

Elias looked at the terrified millionaire. A normal hustler would have demanded a hundred thousand dollars in hush money. A normal blackmailer would have asked for a three-picture deal.

But Elias van Kempen was fundamentally, pathologically cheap. He hated spending his own liquid cash more than he hated death itself.

”My price?” Elias asked, taking another bite of caviar. He pointed a long finger toward his booth in the corner, where Paul Rudd was currently hiding his face behind a menu in sheer panic. ”My friend and I had a lovely Aperitivo Buffet. The sparkling water was a bit overpriced, though. We’re ready for the check.”

Richard stared at him, utterly bewildered. ”The... the check?”

”Pay for my lunch, Richard,” Elias commanded softly, his smile vanishing, replaced by absolute, chilling authority. ”Pay for my lunch, and Apex Holdings remains our little secret. If you don’t, I’m going to use the payphone in the lobby to call the criminal division of the IRS.”

Richard didn’t hesitate. He didn’t argue. He practically threw his hand in the air, frantically snapping his fingers at the nearest waiter.

”Check!” Richard yelled, his voice shrill. ”Bring me the check for his table! I’m covering it! Put it on my corporate card!”

The waiter, confused but obedient, nodded and rushed off.

Elias stood up, picking up his plate. He looked down at the terrified CAA agent, whose Armani suit suddenly looked two sizes too big.

”A pleasure meeting you, Richard,” Elias said, his voice smooth and polite. ”Enjoy your steak. And be careful with those marketing fees. The IRS is hiring some very smart auditors these days.”

As Elias walked back to his booth, a sharp, incredibly satisfying chime echoed in his head.

[CHA-CHING!]

[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: SUCCESSFUL VIP BUFFET ARBITRAGE EXECUTED.][EVALUATION: YOU BLACKMAILED A MILLIONAIRE EXECUTIVE JUST TO AVOID PAYING FOR SPARKLING WATER. YOUR CHEAPNESS IS TRULY SOCIOPATHIC. THE SYSTEM IS BOTH DISGUSTED AND IMPRESSED.][REWARD: +5 SHAMELESS POINTS (CP)]

Elias slid back into the booth across from Paul. He set his plate down and smiled.

”Alright, Paul,” Elias said cheerfully. ”The bill is handled. Eat up. We have a lot of work to do.”

Paul slowly lowered the menu, staring at Elias with a mixture of absolute horror and profound reverence. ”Elias... what are you? Are you in the mafia? Did you just threaten to kill that guy?”

”No, Paul,” Elias chuckled, taking a sip of his free, premium water. ”I just reminded him that in Hollywood, the only thing more terrifying than death is a tax audit.”