going to find out. Get in!”
Justice stood at the curb, and ignored Amir.
“ Don’t be stubborn, man. Get the fuck in this taxi!”
Reluctantly, Justice got in.
“ The Plaza,” Amir told the driver gleefully.
TWENTY
M onday morning, William dragged himself out of bed. He barely slept the night before. He was haunted by Justice. It was a continual nightmare, too. The kind that no matter how many times he awoke the dream continued like he pressed pause. Sometimes nightmares were beneficial to the writer, and he had a pad by the bed for those moments. How else could Dean Koontz and Stephen King become inspired?
He showered and dressed long after Lundin had left and then drove over to Borders and sat in the café. He read and made revisions on his manuscript. He prepared a story map to get him to the end of the story.
William re-read the dialogue and liked how the two men exchanged true emotions, which was rare, so he would let that stand, although it was passive. He wanted to make a statement. He pulled out index cards. On top of a card, he wrote the word “chapter” and began to jot down thoughts of ideas that he wanted to include in the manuscript. Later he would turn the cards into a page turner.
His cell phone rang, and he checked the caller ID. It was Jewel, and he answered. Hell, she paid the bill.
“ Wheel of Fortune, how the hell are ya?”
“ I’ve been spinning this wheel trying to land on a trip to Europe for a month. Can you help there?”
“ Hey, bring me back a novel, and you got it,” she replied and seemed serious. “I was calling to thank you for the flowers. It was a nice gesture. Made me the envy of the office.”
William was flummoxed. He had not sent her flowers, and he confessed that.
“ Cut the shit, William. They came at the most perfect moment. Thanks.”
William had no idea what she talked about. He played it cool, and asked, “Why was it the perfect moment.”
“ I have another producer begging me for a Law & Order spec script. When I received the flowers, I was reading the E-mail.”
He furrowed his brow and tried to figure out who sent her flowers. “Jewel, I am writing a novel for adaptation. Have you forgot? And what was signed on the note attached to the flowers?”
“ Will, come on. Stop that game.”
“ I’m serious, Jewel.”
“ The card was signed, Will of Fortune. Your name was spelled like the name, not wheel as you and I do it.”
“ I did not send it.”
“ OK, Will you did not send them,” she said, and switched topics. “I was thinking that during your spare time, you could produce a few identity theft spec scripts for Law and Order.”
“ I don’t know, Jewel.”
“ Come on, the longest running franchise. Hell, you may spark a spinoff of identity theft segments.”
“ Charming, but I will lose personal time with Lundin. I don’t want to be the writer like the cop that puts in so many hours the wife cheats or leaves.”
“ Just think about it. I’ll check back in a week,” she said. “Oh, and the few chapters that you re-wrote on Justice, I am loving the Woodbridge, New Jersey dramatic tensions.”
“ Thanks,” he said and hung up. He was done with that conversation, and wasn’t writing for Law and Order.
TWENTY-ONE
L undin waited for Margaret to come down from her apartment, so they could shop at the exquisite emporiums on their tract. Lundin stood on the pavement in front of the bakery below Margaret’s apartment. Living on the expensive street was a beautiful thing for Lundin, but Robertson became magical when Margaret took an apartment on the same street. Lundin had longed for true girlfriends and she had found two. Lundin looked and finally saw the vixen, Margaret Goode.
“ Girl, you can’t ever be downstairs when you know that I am on my way. I pump down here and wait 20-minutes in this sun. Have you forgotten that you live on the sunny side of the street? And above a bakery that
Justice stood at the curb, and ignored Amir.
“ Don’t be stubborn, man. Get the fuck in this taxi!”
Reluctantly, Justice got in.
“ The Plaza,” Amir told the driver gleefully.
TWENTY
M onday morning, William dragged himself out of bed. He barely slept the night before. He was haunted by Justice. It was a continual nightmare, too. The kind that no matter how many times he awoke the dream continued like he pressed pause. Sometimes nightmares were beneficial to the writer, and he had a pad by the bed for those moments. How else could Dean Koontz and Stephen King become inspired?
He showered and dressed long after Lundin had left and then drove over to Borders and sat in the café. He read and made revisions on his manuscript. He prepared a story map to get him to the end of the story.
William re-read the dialogue and liked how the two men exchanged true emotions, which was rare, so he would let that stand, although it was passive. He wanted to make a statement. He pulled out index cards. On top of a card, he wrote the word “chapter” and began to jot down thoughts of ideas that he wanted to include in the manuscript. Later he would turn the cards into a page turner.
His cell phone rang, and he checked the caller ID. It was Jewel, and he answered. Hell, she paid the bill.
“ Wheel of Fortune, how the hell are ya?”
“ I’ve been spinning this wheel trying to land on a trip to Europe for a month. Can you help there?”
“ Hey, bring me back a novel, and you got it,” she replied and seemed serious. “I was calling to thank you for the flowers. It was a nice gesture. Made me the envy of the office.”
William was flummoxed. He had not sent her flowers, and he confessed that.
“ Cut the shit, William. They came at the most perfect moment. Thanks.”
William had no idea what she talked about. He played it cool, and asked, “Why was it the perfect moment.”
“ I have another producer begging me for a Law & Order spec script. When I received the flowers, I was reading the E-mail.”
He furrowed his brow and tried to figure out who sent her flowers. “Jewel, I am writing a novel for adaptation. Have you forgot? And what was signed on the note attached to the flowers?”
“ Will, come on. Stop that game.”
“ I’m serious, Jewel.”
“ The card was signed, Will of Fortune. Your name was spelled like the name, not wheel as you and I do it.”
“ I did not send it.”
“ OK, Will you did not send them,” she said, and switched topics. “I was thinking that during your spare time, you could produce a few identity theft spec scripts for Law and Order.”
“ I don’t know, Jewel.”
“ Come on, the longest running franchise. Hell, you may spark a spinoff of identity theft segments.”
“ Charming, but I will lose personal time with Lundin. I don’t want to be the writer like the cop that puts in so many hours the wife cheats or leaves.”
“ Just think about it. I’ll check back in a week,” she said. “Oh, and the few chapters that you re-wrote on Justice, I am loving the Woodbridge, New Jersey dramatic tensions.”
“ Thanks,” he said and hung up. He was done with that conversation, and wasn’t writing for Law and Order.
TWENTY-ONE
L undin waited for Margaret to come down from her apartment, so they could shop at the exquisite emporiums on their tract. Lundin stood on the pavement in front of the bakery below Margaret’s apartment. Living on the expensive street was a beautiful thing for Lundin, but Robertson became magical when Margaret took an apartment on the same street. Lundin had longed for true girlfriends and she had found two. Lundin looked and finally saw the vixen, Margaret Goode.
“ Girl, you can’t ever be downstairs when you know that I am on my way. I pump down here and wait 20-minutes in this sun. Have you forgotten that you live on the sunny side of the street? And above a bakery that
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