The Backlot - 390 - Hollywood: Winner Takes America

"Bellwether Cay?" Nolan Callahan kept his surprise out of his voice. He had heard the island's name before, always attached to Graham Drevall and always in conversations that ended when another person came close. The public accounts were fragmentary. Nolan needed more than a reputation and a list of visitors; he needed to see how Drevall used the place and who helped him.

"You've heard of Drevall's parties?" Wayne Huizenga asked. He seemed to assume Nolan knew Drevall socially. Nolan let the assumption pass. There was no reason to pull Wayne into the investigation or to mistake a public acquaintance for knowledge of anything hidden.

Martin Sloane's independent syndicate had asked Nolan to trace Drevall's ties to a powerful political network. He needed access before he could establish facts. "He does know how to make people feel welcome," Nolan said.

"He knows everyone these days," Wayne said. "Investors, old families, people with titles. More of them trust him with introductions and money than I can keep track of." He counted off a European aristocrat, an industrial heir and two family offices with international holdings. To Wayne, it sounded like the usual web of wealthy clients.

"And he has friends close to the administration," Nolan said. Wayne nodded and named a few foreign financiers and a discreet political donor. "I don't know how he keeps all those relationships going," he added. Nolan heard a list of possible leads, not proof that anyone Wayne named had done anything wrong.

"Charm isn't the whole answer," Nolan said. He had heard troubling accounts about the people Drevall used to entertain guests. In this room, however, he had no evidence to put before Wayne, and a careless accusation might warn Drevall before Nolan got near him. Wayne merely shrugged and turned back to the papers between them. Whatever kept Palm Beach's social calendar running, he had come to discuss a football stadium.

They returned to the stadium. Huizenga was willing to join the Angels' existing investor group in financing a venue of more than sixty thousand seats, with room for later expansion. They discussed where his capital would sit alongside the syndicate's commitments.

In return, Wayne wanted a defined share of venue revenue and a role in managing the building with the Angels. Nolan valued his experience booking it outside football season. Lawyers and current partners would have to settle the terms; Wayne's proposed investment was not the entire financing plan.

They also touched on Nolan's promised help with the Dolphins' cheer program. That discussion was brief beside the stadium terms, which kept them at the table into evening. By the time they stood, they had agreed on Wayne's share of revenue and management within the Angels' existing investor arrangement. Construction was set to begin early the following month. Wayne had not financed the entire venue, but his participation and the start date were settled.

Wayne invited Nolan to Sylvia Wren's birthday reception at Breakwater House, a Palm Beach estate owned by Adrian Morrow. As they prepared to leave, Wayne's companion offered to stay with Kelsey. Nolan declined politely. Kelsey had already spent a long day away from the hotel, and he did not want her stranded at someone else's gathering while he pursued Drevall. He asked Peter to drive her back. "I'll wait for you there," she said, understanding that Nolan had another reason to accept the invitation.

Nolan rode with Huizenga to the estate. On the way, Wayne explained that he had met Morrow as a Palm Beach neighbor and had later encountered Drevall at Morrow's public gatherings. He knew the men as property and finance contacts, not as intimates, and could not say how their friendship had begun. Nolan kept his questions casual.

Security stood at the drive and among the landscaped paths, some guards conspicuous and others dressed like staff. Wayne said Wren's birthday had drawn executives, social figures, athletes and public officials from both sides of the Atlantic. He knew her as a well-connected hostess. Nolan let the explanation stand and watched who moved freely through the house.

A red carpet led into an open-air hall bright with lamps and crowded tables of food. Servers replaced dishes as guests sampled them. Evening clothes appeared beside linen jackets and resort wear, while a DJ kept a low electronic beat under the conversation. The party was lavish without being formal, giving Nolan room to move.

Wayne took a glass from a passing waiter and went to speak with people involved in the stadium business. Nolan watched him go, then surveyed the crowd.

Adrian Morrow's broad frame and silver hair made him easy to find. Nolan waited until Morrow finished speaking to another guest, then crossed the floor. "It's been a while," he said. Morrow turned, and his first look was guarded enough to make Nolan stop short. "I didn't expect you here." A beat later the host's smile returned. He could hardly leave a celebrated athlete standing alone beside his own guests, however much he disliked the surprise.

Morrow introduced Nolan to several guests, including a private-equity adviser who had worked on his property deals. They exchanged the kind of compliments that gave nothing away: the Angels' season, the house, the size of the crowd. Nolan noticed Morrow watching him rather than listening to the adviser. As soon as the conversation offered an opening, Morrow took him by the arm and guided him out of earshot.

"I told you to leave Avery out of your plans," Morrow said, catching Nolan by the lapel. The public greeting had been a performance; this anger was not.

"I haven't even seen your daughter at an audition," Nolan replied, pulling back. Morrow demanded to know who had called Avery and whether Nolan had arranged a place for her. He spoke as though she could not have chosen to audition herself.

"Avery isn't in Los Angeles, and I didn't bring her to the auditions," Nolan said. He asked where she had auditioned, what name she had used and when Morrow had learned about it. The questions made Morrow pause. Nolan could not have arranged every detail if he did not know the basics. Morrow released him, then smoothed the creases he had made in Nolan's jacket. "I had to find out," he said. He looked embarrassed by the scene, though not ready to apologize for suspecting him.

Avery, Morrow explained, had secretly entered the New York auditions and advanced. Nolan had not seen the full regional results. The news startled him, though he knew the nineteen-year-old modeled part-time and worked in sponsorship. She knew how to face a camera. Getting through an open call was not beyond her.

Why she had gone was harder to answer. Avery did not need the Angels' contacts or the wages of a new squad member. Her father had a place prepared for her in his own business, a future she had not asked him to design. Had she entered to test herself, or simply to prove he could not choose for her? Nolan could not know. He could see, though, that Morrow's fear of losing control had made the audition a bargaining point.

"You don't want her on the squad?" Nolan asked. "Of course not. She's my daughter." Morrow spoke dismissively of the other applicants, as though working beside women without his wealth would disgrace Avery.

He had called as soon as he heard she had advanced and given her a furious lecture. Instead of withdrawing, she had stopped answering him. His staff had lost track of her. Nolan heard concern beneath the class contempt, but Morrow's remedy was still to take away her choice.

"I'll keep her off the final roster, put an end to this idea, and help find her," Nolan promised. He could not erase the New York panel's vote or undo Avery's first-round advancement, but the final roster was still ahead. He let Morrow hear certainty in his voice. "In return, help me with the introduction you promised." Morrow studied him, checking for the terms behind the offer. "You want Drevall to invite you to the cay?" "Yes." Nolan did not volunteer why.

Morrow's expression brightened. "Now you're thinking like a businessman." In his view, a visit to Drevall's island meant access to powerful investors. He promised to raise Nolan's name, apparently pleased to have an answer to the immediate problem with Avery. Nolan did not correct his interpretation of Nolan's interest.

Nolan asked how Morrow had come to know Drevall. The private-equity adviser from the first conversation had introduced them nearly ten years earlier. Drevall had arranged gatherings, made banking introductions and helped Morrow find lenders when a property project needed them. Morrow, in turn, had shown Drevall houses and investment opportunities. Drevall knew Imani Morrow and had met Avery at public family events. Morrow spoke like a man describing a reciprocal business relationship; he did not seem interested in Nolan's questions about the history behind it. Nolan had a route inside, but nothing in the account implicated Imani or Avery in Drevall's private affairs.

Morrow began identifying guests, pointing discreetly with his glass. Near the terrace stood a defense attorney in easy conversation with a university administrator and a senior treasury official. A few steps away were aides from different offices in Washington: a communications director, a deputy counsel, an official concerned with transportation and a New York legislator. Morrow supplied each title with relish, as though the list itself reflected well on the house. Nolan tried to remember the faces without staring. Attending a birthday party proved nothing about any guest, yet the number of channels into public life explained why Drevall's introductions were valuable.

Nolan asked about another group to change the subject. Morrow named film actors, a producer, a studio executive and a director. Their conversation kept turning toward a woman in a dark dress.

She was a publicist, Morrow explained, whose campaigns brought films to critics and awards voters. Nolan had not realized how much influence such a person could wield. He considered introducing himself later.

Editors from major magazines and newspapers stood nearby with music and business-media executives. An elderly prizewinning scientist talked with two people neither man knew. Across the hall Wayne was deep in conversation with a younger investment manager. Executives joined and left the clusters faster than Morrow could name them. Nolan had enough faces to remember already.

Socialites moved between the clusters, making introductions and collecting them in return. Nolan recognized Vivian Ross, a New York nightclub owner who had greeted him earlier. Others he had met worked in fashion and publishing. Nolan doubted they had all come for Drevall; Wren, the guest of honor, had her own considerable circle.

When Sylvia Wren entered, several women broke off their conversations and went to meet her. Morrow described her as an event investor with contacts in media and finance, a hostess who could bring people from different industries into one room.

Drevall appeared beside her. They moved through the greetings together, their easy closeness making their partnership plain. Nolan could see why the pair were useful to each other: each offered access the other could turn into influence.

"He has a talent for serving powerful clients," Nolan said lightly. Morrow glanced toward Wren and Drevall, already preparing to join them.

"Excuse me," Morrow said, already looking toward Wren. "Don't forget the introduction," Nolan said. "After the reception," Morrow promised. "Right now there's a line." He crossed the room to greet her. Nolan waited a moment, then took a slow circuit of the hall rather than following him.

Vivian Ross noticed his hesitation. With cropped blond hair tipped blue, she carried two drinks through the crowd and offered him one. "Relax," she said. "Is there anyone you'd like to meet? I can put you together." Nolan thanked her but declined. He wanted a few minutes to observe without another introduction.

"Come along anyway." Vivian took his arm and tugged him toward a less crowded part of the hall. "You move like a truck. I hope you don't run over people off the field." Her grin suggested she remembered an old tabloid story about Nolan and Kate Moss. Nolan let the joke pass; Kate's name brought back how long it had been since he had heard from her.