Suddenly the loud revving of a motorcycle can be heard from outside the Hollywood director’s office window. Sam Peckinpah smiles slyly at me and says, “Jeff, I think you ought to move your chair.“

I sit tight as Steve McQueen bursts into the office. “These guys are journalists,” announces Peckinpah.

In a flash, McQueen pulls out a knife and hurls it into the wall near my head. Without flinching, I respond, “Now I know why you wanted me to move my chair.”

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