Roz set her glass in the sink, left the apartment, and texted Duke again as she headed for the elevator.
“Don’t tell me you’ve heard about the deal already,” Porter Cobb said when he answered the phone, not even giving Alden a chance to say hello.
What deal? Alden, driving and using an earpiece that made Porter’s deep voice more gravelly than usual, had a split second to decide whether to play out the string. He settled on greetings first. “Hey, Porter. I guess it’s going well then?”
“Getting to direct my dream project in Paris? Hell, yes, it’s going well.”
“That screenplay you’ve been fiddling with for years? Fantastic.”
“Wait a second.” Porter paused. “That’s not why you’re calling, is it?”
“No, it isn’t, but I’m happy for you. I take it this hasn’t been announced yet?”
“It hasn’t. But I suppose I can’t stop you.”
Alden chuckled. “Listen, when you’re ready, I’ll be glad to write something. Especially if it somehow connects with Comet Cove, where I now hang my dashing fedora with the cute little press badge.”
Porter snorted. “As if you’d be caught dead in a fedora. You’re in Comet Cove? Who’re you stalking?”
“You do know I’m out of the tabloids and into local journalism now, right? And I’m stalking whichever celebrity happens to cross my path.”
“Alden Knox, reputable journalist. I don’t believe it,” Porter teased him. “I haven’t made it to Comet Cove yet, though I keep hearing people talking about it. I’ll look you up when I do.”
“You’d better. And I confess, this isn’t a purely social call.”
“Ah, here it comes. Get out of the road, picklehead!” Porter called out, obviously driving too. “Sorry, tourist was selfie-ing at the Chinese Theatre in the middle of the street. You were saying?”
“I was about to ask you whether you remember a guy named Wayne Vandershell. He worked on the crew for Fastest Spin Wins.”
“Ooooh, that was a crazy shoot. Let me think.” A pause. A honk of a horn. “Refresh my memory.”
“I don’t know what he looked like then, but he had brown longish hair when I saw him. A pretty good-looking guy, I guess. Supposedly he worked as a video assist operator. I’m not sure what that is.”
“A VAO? They show the camera images on video monitors so we, I mean the director mostly but also the crew, can see what’s being shot. It can get pretty technical if they integrate simulated visual effects so we can evaluate those kinds of shots on the go, though Fastest Spin Wins was mostly live action. Wild car chases.”
“And you don’t remember Wayne Vandershell?” Alden pushed.
“Maybe I do,” Porter mused. “This off the record?”
“It can be.”
“Make it so. I don’t want to be in the news for anything right now except my movie.”
“OK. I don’t have to attribute it to you,” Alden conceded. “We just want to know more about the guy.”
“Fine,” Porter said. “He was OK at the job, but I seem to remember him sucking up to anyone who would listen, trying to get them to back his movie.”
“What was the pitch?”
“I dunno, some tripe about a struggling writer. Autobiographical. You know the type.”
Like me, Alden thought wryly. “And he had no luck?”
“Not then and not ever, I don’t think, because I never heard of it getting made. In fact, one day over breakfast bagels, the director told him straight up, ‘I could blow smoke up your skirt and tell you I’d do it. Ask you to put up the money to do it. Give you the total runaround. You know why? You smell desperate, and desperate people will do anything. Even your script is about somebody who’s desperate for approval and attention and success. And if you’re not careful, someone else is going to take advantage of you. I’m just going to do you a favor and say no.’”
“Brutal. Seems like you remember him pretty well, then.”
“That’s about it.”
