The three executives looked at Leo, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. They had come here to strong-arm a rookie, and he had just flipped the table on them.
"I don't want the salary," Leo repeated, his voice cutting through the silence. "I want a bet. A gamble, on myself and on this film."
Dean from New Line leaned forward, a glint in his eye. "Interesting. Let's hear the terms."
Leo held up two fingers. "The first twenty million dollars in global box office, I don't see a penny. But for every dollar it makes after that, I get one percent of the box office gross." He put up a third finger. "And for every additional ten million it makes, my share increases by another percent."
Dean laughed, a dry, appreciative sound. The kid had guts. Leo's proposal was a high-stakes poker bet, and he was pushing all his chips into the center of the table . In Dean's mind, the odds of a $1.3 million horror movie by a first-time director clearing $20 million were practically zero. Agreeing to this cost him nothing and showed goodwill.
Still, a good businessman always hedges his bets.
"Alright, I'll take that bet," Dean said with a decisive nod. "But we cap your share at five percent. An ounce of prevention, you know." Dean's 5% cap was a safety rail on a roller coaster he was sure would never leave the station .
Leo didn't hesitate. "Done."
He knew pushing for more would be greedy. 5% of a massive hit was a fortune, and asking for more might tempt the studio to get "creative" with the accounting later. This was a win. He reached across the table and shook Dean's hand. The deal was struck. The representatives from Artisan and LIVE Pictures offered polite congratulations; they had served their purpose as leverage and now faded into the background.
With the core terms agreed upon, Rick, who had been watching with a mixture of terror and awe, sprang into action. He and Dean hammered out the specifics of the contract. It was a small investment, and the authority rested with Dean, so the process was swift.
Minutes later, the executives were gone. The door clicked shut, leaving Leo and Rick alone in the sudden, triumphant silence.
Rick let out a long, shaky breath before breaking into a massive grin. "Leo, you beautiful bastard! You played them like a fiddle! Now, the crew. The actors. What do you need?"
"My core team is set," Leo said, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders. "For the other roles, find me new talent. Hungry actors. Put out a casting call through the Guild. Anyone we cast, you sign them to CAA on the spot."
"Music to my ears," Rick said, his eyes alight with the possibilities. This was how power worked. One successful client could build an agent's entire stable. "I'll get the project listed today."
Three days later, the Los Angeles sun beat down on a line that snaked around the block of a non-descript office building. It was a river of desperate hope, a flow of hundreds of actors clutching headshots in sweaty hands, all drawn to the single opportunity offered by the Chainsaw casting call .
Inside, the process was a well-oiled machine. The new, CAA-appointed assistant director was handling auditions for the smaller, one-line roles in a separate room. Leo, alongside Marc, was interviewing for the main cast.
He flipped through another headshot and resume. He'd seen dozens of actresses today, a blur of hopeful faces and thin credits. But this one made him pause. The name seemed familiar, tickling a memory from his other life.
"Salma Hayek?"
"Next!" the assistant called out.
The door opened, and Salma Hayek walked in.
It was like the room had been shooting in black-and-white and had suddenly switched to glorious Technicolor (Simile). It wasn't just her beauty, which was undeniable. It was an energy, a ferocious, magnetic presence that instantly commanded the space. She carried herself with a confidence that belied her status as a virtual unknown in Hollywood.
Leo glanced at her resume again. Best Actress, 1989 Novela Awards, Mexico. The awards meant nothing to an arrogant Hollywood system, which was good for his budget. But they meant something to him: she had talent. She had been recognized for it. She wasn't just another pretty face.
"Ms. Hayek," Leo said, gesturing to the chair in the center of the room. "The role you're reading for, Amanda, is physically and emotionally demanding. She goes through hell."
"I understand," Salma said, her voice rich and steady, with only a trace of an accent. "I'm not afraid of hell."
She delivered the reading. The lines on the page were simple, but she imbued them with a fiery desperation and a core of unbreakable will. She wasn't just acting; she was projecting pure, unadulterated star power. Leo looked over at Marc, who gave a slow, impressed nod.
There was, however, a professional consideration. A small, but important detail in the script.
"There is a brief scene," Leo began carefully, all business, "that requires partial nudity. It's not gratuitous, it's meant to show the character at her most vulnerable. Is that something you are comfortable with?"
Salma met his gaze without flinching. "If it serves the story, and if the set is professional and closed, I am an actress. I will do what the role requires."
That was the answer. Confident. Professional. Fearless.
It was in that moment, hearing that answer, that the final piece of the puzzle clicked into place for Leo. He remembered her future. He remembered the powerhouse actress and producer she would become. And he knew, with absolute certainty, he had just found the star of his movie.