Good as Dead(28)

I had a studio deal, which meant I got an office and a staff, and a budget to buy and develop scripts. The funny thing about having a studio deal is, if you don’t spend the money the studio gives you, they take it away. It is counter-productive to be frugal. You have to go after the fanciest writers, the most expensive books, the biggest stars, because if at the end of the year you’re under budget, your budget for next year will be that much less.

Unlike some producers, my deal was richer than it was when I was lured into it six years ago. I’d had box office success as an actor, director, and producer, and the studio rewarded me handsomely. But it was September, and I’d hardly bought anything this year. To keep the money flowing, I needed to spend.

Being away all summer on someone else’s movie didn’t help matters. My development team had been reading books and scripts and hearing pitches, but nothing really happens when I’m away. And I was a little busy before I left trying to cover up a murder.

I had to make up for lost time. I needed projects, and all the writers I knew were working, so I had to branch out. I was excited about the guy coming in this morning. He had been an investigative reporter, and his portfolio of articles was as eclectic as it was deep. I’d read one of his scripts, as well as a handful of articles he’d written for the New York Times, and knew his writing to be colorful and sharp. I was hopeful he’d have a movie idea for me—a true story I could option, or a new script that hadn’t yet made the rounds. The studio’s money was burning a hole in my pocket, and I needed a project to keep my mind from going to dark places, which—since the horrific events of the spring—it was prone to do.

The walls of my office were glass, and I could see my assistant escorting my meeting through the bullpen. I had blinds for privacy, but I rarely used them. I liked looking out at my staff. They were hard workers, and their studiousness made me feel lucky to be in a position to reward them. But I also wanted them to feel they could always come talk to me, that I wasn’t some king holed away in a castle, that I served them, as they served me.

I met my assistant’s eyes through the glass door, and she understood that meant to come on in. As she reached for the door handle, the man opened it for her, and I liked him immediately.

“Andrew, this is Jack,” she said as he followed her in. I rose from my desk to shake his hand. His grip was confident. He was taller than I was—no surprise there, most people were—and in good shape. He had a runner’s body, lean with narrow shoulders. His blue eyes were rimmed with intelligence, and his wavy hair had just enough gray to make me trust him.

“Good to meet you, Andrew,” I said. “Thanks for coming in.”

“Please, call me Andy,” he replied. “Only my parole officer calls me Andrew.”

I laughed at the joke, and offered him a seat. “Please, sit down.”

He sat across from me, and as he crossed his feet, I noticed his shiny Chuck Taylors. “I like your sneakers,” I said. “Can you believe I used to play tennis in those?”

“Wish I’d worn them last time,” he said. And I was confused. Because this was our first meeting. Wasn’t it?

“Have you been in before?” I asked, and he suddenly looked a little panicked.

“No! Sorry. I . . . there was a mix-up. We had the wrong day, I had the wrong day.”

And now I remembered. We were scheduled to meet on that day. I had no idea what my staff had told him. Had they mentioned an accident? My pulse quickened. He was an investigative journalist—detail-oriented, groomed to be curious. I tried to sound jocular when I spoke.

“I canceled on you last-minute, didn’t I?”

“No, I’m sure you didn’t,” he said quickly. “I’m just lousy at checking messages.” He was trying to cover for me. But I had treated him badly. He had not forgotten.

“Well, better late than never,” I said, eyeing the fat folder in his hand. “Let’s see what you’ve got there.”

I made a point to sound enthusiastic. It’s a good thing that I’m an actor, because I was anything but. The last thing I wanted was to be reminded of that day, by a guy resourceful enough to put the pieces together. Was I being paranoid? Probably. But I couldn’t afford to take any chances.

I settled in to hear about the new spec he was going to leave behind, and his handful of pitches, but there was no way I was going into business with him, no matter how good his stuff was.

I’d politely hear him out, as I’d promised his agent I would.

And then never, ever, see him again.





SAVANNAH


Three months ago

The nurse offered to escort me to my mom’s bedside, but I said no thanks. I didn’t want anyone around me when I lost my shit. She told me she was “going to be OK,” that she was “resting comfortably,” but once she buzzed me in I still damn near sprinted to see for myself.

But when I got to her stall, I froze. Because there was a strange man hovering over her bed.

I knew he wasn’t a doctor. A doctor wouldn’t wear a shiny, expensive suit to work, where patients could bleed and throw up on it. He might have one, but he’d be smart enough to leave it at home.

He didn’t have the signature clipboard of an administrator, or wear a badge, so it was unlikely he worked there. I thought for a second he might be a chaplain. But a chaplain would be praying, not hovering over my mom like a hungry vulture.