May 14th, 1982.
The air inside the San Fernando Valley Kyokushin Karate Center was electric. Today, Alex Hayes aimed for his Sandan – 3rd Dan black belt – a rank demanding profound skill and understanding in the art of Kyokushin karate. The grading, held before a panel of impassive senior instructors, was notoriously tough.
Alex moved through the examination with intense focus. His kihon (basics) were sharp, precise, each block, strike, and stance executed with power. During the katas, his movements were fluid yet potent, embodying the style's principles. His kiai – the focused shouts accompanying decisive techniques – were sharp and full of spirit, echoing briefly in the respectful silence of the dojo. The final kumite (sparring) sessions were grueling, testing his endurance, strategy, and control against skilled opponents. He flowed, evaded, countered, demonstrating the years of rigorous training.
Finally, it was over. Alex stood, breathing hard but composed, bowing deeply to the panel as they conferred. On the sidelines, Phoebe Cates and Janet Jones watched, whispering anxiously. The head sensei stood, reviewed Alex's performance, and then delivered the verdict: Candidate Hayes had passed. He had achieved the rank of Sandan.
Relief washed over Alex's face. As he accepted his certificate with another deep bow, Phoebe rushed forward, throwing her arms around him and planting an enthusiastic kiss on his lips. "You did it, Alex! Sandan!" Janet followed with a tight hug, "That was amazing! You were incredible!"
As Alex thanked them, laughing, a polite but firm clapping sound came from near the entrance. Michael Ovitz stood there, looking impeccably composed as always.
Alex excused himself from his friends, walking over, still slightly flushed from the exertion but masking his surprise. "Michael? What are you doing here?"
Ovitz's lips curved slightly. "I needed to discuss something with you urgently," he said smoothly. "Nancy wasn't sure where you'd gone after your wrap yesterday, then remembered today was... significant. She told me where you'd be. Since I was nearby, I decided to catch the end. Curiosity." His eyes held a keen, assessing look.
"My karate grading?" Alex raised an eyebrow.
"Indeed," Ovitz confirmed.
"Are you interested in martial arts?" Alex asked.
Ovitz simply nodded. "Very much so." He glanced towards the exit. "Perhaps we could continue this over lunch? My treat. Phoebe, Janet, you're welcome to join, of course."
They readily agreed, and soon the four were settled into a discreet, private booth at a good nearby restaurant, the kind that valued its patrons' anonymity. Once drinks were ordered, Ovitz leaned forward slightly.
"Impressive display back there, Alex," he began. "How did you get started in karate?"
Alex relaxed slightly, the topic clearly a familiar one. "My father, John Hayes," he explained. "He's a total martial arts nut. Trained me since I was a kid." He ticked off the styles. "He holds a 5th Dan black belt in Kyokushin, same in Goju-Ryu karate, a 3rd Dan in Taekwondo, and he's an expert practitioner of Krav Maga."
The name John Hayes immediately clicked. He recalled Nancy Jones specifically mentioning Alex's father's background during a previous conversation – detailing his history as a Navy SEAL who had risen to the esteemed rank of Master Chief Petty Officer. Nancy had likely highlighted it to explain Alex's own discipline and resilience. Knowing this wasn't just rumor but confirmed information from his agent added weight to Ovitz's assessment of the young man before him. Keeping these thoughts behind a calm expression, Ovitz simply leaned forward slightly, his focus entirely on Alex.
"And your ranks?" Ovitz asked, his voice betraying none of his internal calculations.
"Kyokushin 3rd Dan now, obviously," Alex replied. "Goju-Ryu 2nd Dan, Taekwondo 1st Dan. And yeah, I practice Krav Maga too." He added with a wry smile, "My father still insists on training me when I go home for Christmas. I mostly get my ass beaten, but sometimes," he grinned, "sometimes I win."
Ovitz leaned back again, genuinely impressed now by Alex himself. The connection to the formidable father, confirmed by Nancy, was significant, but the son's own achievements across multiple disciplines, balanced with a burgeoning, high-pressure acting career, spoke volumes. "Extraordinary," Ovitz stated simply. "To excel at this level in both fields... it requires a rare combination of talent and immense discipline."
Alex knew what Ovitz was likely thinking – the blend of warrior and artist. His father had indeed taught him martial arts, the rigor, the control. But it was his mother who had nurtured his acting talent, instilled a love for performance, and insisted on ballroom dancing lessons for grace and presence. Both parents had seen his potential in their respective worlds. Alex respected and enjoyed the discipline his father instilled, but film... film remained his ultimate passion, the place where all parts of him could converge.
He met Ovitz's assessing gaze, wondering what urgent matter had brought the head of CAA to his karate grading.
Ovitz, understanding the look perfectly, leaned forward again, getting straight to business. "Warner Bros. contacted CAA this morning," he stated, his tone shifting from casual interest to focused negotiation.
Alex nodded slightly, inviting him to continue.
"They want you," Ovitz said simply. "To star in a new picture. It's being written and directed by Paul Brickman – sharp guy, interesting script." He paused, gauging Alex's reaction before outlining the premise. "It follows the sexual exploits of a privileged high school senior, Joel Goodsen, who gets into trouble while staying home alone during his parents' vacation trip. He meets a call girl named Lana... things spiral from there."
Alex felt a jolt of recognition, so strong it almost made him dizzy. The premise, the name Paul Brickman... it resonated instantly with visions he sometimes had – strange, vivid dreams, almost like memories, often from the viewpoint of another young actor named Tom Cruise. He knew this film. He knew it was destined to be a cultural touchstone, the movie that had launched Cruise into the stratosphere. Risky Business.
Ovitz, noticing the thoughtful, perhaps distant look that crossed Alex's face, slightly misinterpreted it. "Is it too soon?" he asked, his agent's mind likely calculating schedules and potential overexposure after the film Alex had just wrapped ['10 Things I Hate About You'].
Alex snapped back to the present, shaking his head. "No, not too soon," he clarified, his voice regaining its professional composure, though his mind was still racing with the implications of this offer. "But I'd need to read the script first, obviously."
A predatory flicker of satisfaction appeared in Ovitz's eyes. He nodded, then reached down beside the booth, lifting his sleek leather briefcase onto his lap. He clicked it open and pulled out a bound screenplay, shoving it across the table towards Alex.
Alex raised his eyebrows, genuinely surprised that Ovitz had come prepared not just for a conversation, but with the actual script in hand.
Ovitz smiled thinly. "Warner Bros. wants you very bad, Alex," he said, the statement underlining both the studio's eagerness and Ovitz's power in making this happen. "They're ready to move fast if you like the material."
Alex picked up the script, a smile touching his own lips now. He felt the weight of it, the potential it held. So this is how it happens, he thought wryly, the power players come directly to you, script in hand. He really had risen quickly in Hollywood. He looked down at the cover page, already knowing what he would see, but seeing it confirmed the surreal nature of the moment:
RISKY BUSINESS
by Paul Brickman