Dead Man's Curve

Chapter 1-2

Wasan was unexpectedly crowded when Spencer showed up on the doorstep, with a wait for tables. After putting his name down for a party of three, he retreated back to the sidewalk for some people watching to kill the time. Friday nights were perfect for that kind of thing. Next to hanging out in Central Park, it was his favorite method for finding new personalities to mine. There was nothing more inspiring than witnessing an unexpected scene, or spying a person who broke every mold out there, or overhearing a single line from a nearby conversation. Every time something caught his eye and ear, he pulled out his phone and made a note of it.

He was tapping away on it, recording the details of a young woman who’d just crossed the street in search of an ex who’d apparently stolen one of her fish, when Marcel appeared in front of him.

Or rather, bent sideways to poke his face between Spencer and his phone.

Spencer snapped back, startled into fumbling. “How many times have I asked you not to do that?”

Marcel looked anything but apologetic. “Every time I find you stuck in your notes.”

“I’m a writer. That’s part of my job.”

“You could get one of those voice recorders.”

“I’ve got enough voices in my head not to add my own to the mix.”

Marcel only smiled and stepped aside, gesturing for someone behind him to approach. “As long as I’ve got your attention now. Mick Darby, Spencer Szabo. Spencer, Mick.”

They were shaking hands before Marcel finished the introduction, and though Spencer knew he murmured…something, later, he couldn’t remember exactly what. All he remembered was being dumbstruck by the man standing in front of him, and the charge that passed between their fingers when their hands met.

Spencer was a solid six feet, but Mick was taller, broader, big enough all around to make him feel like a high school freshman around the school’s star quarterback. Wavy red hair swept casually off his square face, grown long enough to grace the top of his jacket’s collar. Laugh lines framed his wide mouth, with similar etchings at the corners of his twinkling hazel eyes, but more than registering how attractive Mick was, Spencer was lost in how familiar he seemed. Like they’d met before. It was entirely possible. Parties amongst New York’s theater folk were plentiful, and schmoozing was expected.

It just didn’t feel like it was the face he was remembering.

Mick was slow in releasing his hand, his smile still welcoming. “A little more crowded than you expected?”

It took a moment to realize what he referred to. “Oh, yeah, right, but I got our name on the list. They should be ready for us any minute now.”

As if he’d timed it that way, the petite hostess stepped outside and scanned the area, calling out, “Szabo? Party of three? Your table’s ready.”

“Neat trick, that,” Mick said as they filed toward the front door. “Remind me to take you to all the busy restaurants I want to get into.”

Spencer would have thought the good luck was the other way around, but there wasn’t space to say it as they followed the hostess to the back of the restaurant. Lighting was dim—or in marketing terminology, intimate—and jazz played in the background. Even as crowded as it was, the music and dark woods lent an air of tranquility, regardless of how flustered a man was when he walked in. By the time they reached their small table, he was calmer than he’d been all night.

Spencer slid onto a chair against the wall, while Marcel took the seat next to him. Mick sat directly opposite, leaning forward onto his forearms like he couldn’t wait to continue their conversation.

“I think you’re brilliant,” he said without preamble. “And I’m probably shooting myself in the foot by jumping in the deep end like this, but I really want to direct Dead Man’s Curve.” A sudden grimace overtook his features. “Just don’t hold that mixed metaphor against me. I’m normally far more intelligent than that.”

“He is,” Marcel piped up, but the last thing Spencer needed was Marcel’s vote of approval.

“How did you even get it?” He’d been wondering ever since the phone call. “Only three people have copies of the final draft, and the two of them sitting at this table didn’t give it to you.” He leveled a flat stare at Marcel. “Unless one of them lied to me, just to get me interested.”

Marcel threw his hands up in the air in surrender. He was a tiny Italian guy, with a fetish for tailored suits. Every time he did that, Spencer flashed on every mobster movie he’d ever seen. “I thought that project was dead in the water, I swear to God.”

“You told me you liked it.”

“And I do. No lie. I don’t think it’s very marketable. There’s a distinct difference.”

“And I think he’s wrong,” Mick interjected. “I can even find producers for it, if you let me direct. You won’t have to worry about the production at all.”

“That was my mistake this time, and I ended up with Spicoli trying to wax rhapsodic to the masses,” Spencer countered. “And you still haven’t told me how you were able to read it. Did Octavia give it to you?”

Octavia Comer was an actress who’d lived next door to Spencer ever since he’d moved in eight years earlier. She’d been popular in the sixties and seventies in the various musicals of the day, but she’d been smarter than most young girls. She’d known then she wouldn’t be able to trade on her great legs and pretty smile for the rest of her life, and invested every penny she earned. Now, she could afford to continue a small career in the business she loved without having to worry about how to pay the rent or where the next role might come from.

She’d been one of Spencer’s best friends almost from the beginning. When the ex-boyfriend who’d promised him forever had trashed their new apartment and left Spence staring at a bill from the landlord for the busted door and new moo shu pork stains in the carpet, she’d hustled him into her apartment, poured an endless supply of red wine, and made him laugh for the first time in months by helping him weave scenarios to publicly humiliate his ex that would never see the light of day.

Friends like that came along once in a lifetime. That was the biggest reason he’d trusted her with the script he’d poured his heart into.

A slow flush crept up Mick’s neck. “Octavia’s an old friend of mine,” he said, clearly uncomfortable with the admission. “I cast her in one of my first shows. About a month ago, she called me in LA and said she had a script that was going to knock my socks off. Well, Octavia never sends me scripts. Hell, she’s usually the first one mocking the ones that are already out there, so I knew she had to be serious. I told her to send it, but she wouldn’t tell me what it was about, just kept insisting that I read it. So I did.”

“Then why were you bugging Marcel for an introduction and not Octavia?”

His color deepened. “I asked her first, but when she told me you hadn’t exactly given her permission to pass it around, I decided I didn’t want to make it look even worse for her than it already did. Don’t hold it against her. She only told me about it because she knew how I’d react.”

Under other circumstances, he might have been annoyed. This was a superficial business at the best of times. Nobody wanted their most trusted friends going behind their back. But this was the first nibble of interest he’d had on the play. More than that, Mick didn’t seem like a poseur trying to get in his good graces. He genuinely appreciated the script and felt bad for the deception. Unless the man could blush on command, which, if he could, meant he was definitely in the wrong profession.

“What makes you so sure it’s marketable when Marcel doesn’t?” he asked. “According to the people he’s shown it to, nobody’s interested in C-list actors with death wishes.”

“Hollywood would be interested if it was a screenplay, but they’re narcissistic that way.”

“This isn’t Hollywood.”

“Which makes it fresh. It’s not about an actor then. It’s about a kid who liked to have fun and didn’t know what to do with success when he finally got it.”

The waitress came around to take their orders, but Spencer barely glanced at the menu as he rattled off his choices. The food was good, but he was more interested in Mick’s take on the whole story.

He continued to play devil’s advocate. “New Yorkers don’t want to drop fifty bucks a seat to watch surfer boys.” He grimaced. “Ill-cast Jesus figures, notwithstanding.”

“Maybe not,” Mick conceded. “But they sure as hell love stories that paint California less than perfect. And Kip Palmer was a victim of his own innocence. New Yorkers eat that s**t up.”

Spencer couldn’t help but grin at his enthusiasm. “You really like the idea, don’t you?”

“No, I love it. I’ve been looking for a reason to get back to the stage, and I think this is perfect. I wouldn’t have turned down a deal with Paramount if I didn’t believe in it.”

When Spencer looked at Marcel for confirmation, the other man nodded. Spencer whistled under his breath. It was one thing for Mick to love the script. It was something else entirely for him to drop his entire West Coast lifestyle for the opportunity to direct it. The compliment was intoxicating. Hell, Mick was intoxicating. Spencer felt like he’d already consumed a barrel of sake.

“I am not walking away from this,” he warned. “If I agree, this is a partnership. A real partnership. I don’t want to be one of those writers who gets shuttled to the back row without any say in what’s going on.” Not again.

Mick shook his head. “I wouldn’t expect you to. Nobody fights as hard as you are without caring about the project. I’m not interested in stealing your vision. I’m asking that you let me share it.”

No deal had ever sounded so sweet, though experience told Spencer that was exactly why he should be wary. Production arrangements were often built on clouds, crashing to earth with the slightest change in the wind. There was every possibility this would be exactly the same. In fact, odds were excellent this might be the very last time he ever saw Mr. Mick Darby, director extraordinaire.

He didn’t care. For a few hours, whether it dissolved by the light of day or not, he would believe in the vibrant ambition Mick exuded and the deal he offered.

The waitress reappeared with their drinks. He waited until she was gone before lifting his glass.

“To sharing,” he said with a smile.