Celluloid Memories (16 page)

“What happened to…what was her name again?”

Jeff waved a dismissive hand. “That's over, man. I felt the noose tightening. After three dinners a lot of these woman expect you to propose. Now, you know I don't roll with that. I'm too young,” Jeff chortled.

McCoy listened and merely nodded. He decided against reminding his friend that he'd probably married too young the first time, just after signing with a national team and going pro. But it didn't help that Jeff had then stepped out on his young wife with the first groupie who'd played to his ego.

“Have you decided to accept the offer to do the on-air commentary for that sports program?” McCoy asked, switching subjects.

“I'm close. That's why I'm out here. It was bad luck to bust up my knee like that last season. I think I could have played another three years, but this could work out for the best. Not as much money, but hey, I could have a longer career.”

“I still think it's a good thing that you got your MBA.”

Jeff looked pained. “It was a struggle, Mac.”

“It might come in handy down the road, and it looks good on your résumé. You won't always be able to use the basketball background to impress people.”

“Yeah, I know. I'm glad you kicked my ass and made me stick with the program. That was good looking-out. But I'm hoping this commentary gig will get me some cameo parts on TV or in the movies. I'm meeting with the network people tomorrow.

“What about Evan?”

“He's cool. I'm taking care of my son, man. I'm trying to make sure he makes better decisions than I did. His mama is still trying to get sole custody. It ain't gonna happen.” Jeff's mood suddenly changed and he pressed his fingertips together, staring at McCoy. “What's up with Cherise?”

“Your baby sister is doing great. She's wasted no time since she got here.”

“Sounds like Cherise. Grab the moment, and all you can get. Puts her mind to something and goes after it like a bulldog. Told me about some awards show she's trying to get to. Good place to be seen, and all that. Ain't she something else?” Jeff asked with obvious pride and affection.

“She certainly is,” McCoy murmured dryly. “I know you've always been very protective of your half sister.”

“I never think of her that way. She's my little sister. Period. I'd do anything for her, but since I don't know the lay of the land out here, I'm relying on you to take care of her, Mac.”

“I'd say Cherise is pretty good at taking care of herself. But let me fill you in with some important details. She's got a couple of contracts that could lead to bigger things….”

Half an hour and the bottle of champagne later, former basketball pro Jeff Peterson was satisfied with the news that little sis Cherise was being given due respect, and parts, in accordance with his wishes and her ambition. McCoy had always been amused by Jeff's big-brother act when it came to his younger sister. But, in truth, it was also something to be admired. Jeff was fiercely loyal to his family and friends.

Jeff looked at the time.

“I gotta get out of here. Quick. What's up with you? Anything going on?”

“By ‘going on' I take it you don't mean work. You know how I feel about a lot of the women in L.A. They're beautiful, I'll give you that. But that's not enough for me.”

“Why you gotta be so picky? Ever since you and Paula broke up you've been playing hard to get,” Jeff grinned.

McCoy held back from asking Jeff why he always went for the superficial. “I'm not saying I don't get any action. But I'm selective. Nothing wrong with that.”

Jeff bent forward from his chair and affectionately tapped his fist on McCoy's knee. “You know I'm just messin' with you. Ever since Paula you've been too careful, man. There ain't a whole lot of women out there can live up to your high standards. What's wrong with someone just being damned gorgeous?”

McCoy wasn't about to go into the difference between his and Jeff's outlook toward women. They'd both set their own standards in the past, and they'd both been wrong, even if it was for different reasons. But Jeff's question was a fair one. He knew that if you used Cherise as an example the answer would have to be, nothing. The girl was all that. But for him personally, the answer would have to be,
everything.
He had yet to discover anything that Cherise held an informed opinion on, cared about, wanted to change or improve that didn't center solely around herself.

McCoy wasn't exactly surprised when an image of Savannah materialized—the way she had looked as they'd walked through his old home turf of Long Beach. The way she'd been so intensely interested in talking to one of her father's former students at the college where he taught. Actually, letting
him
talk while she listened. The way she'd so genuinely thanked the repertory group in Inglewood for their warm greeting, while demurring that she didn't deserve it because it was her father who'd had the real impact on their lives.

And that good-night kiss.

It hadn't been particularly passionate, or even a standard for foreplay. But it had felt real good, and it held promise.

“I don't need a whole lot of women,” McCoy said, a vague smile playing around his mouth. “The right one would be enough.”

 

While he waited for his car to be brought around, McCoy used his cell phone to call Savannah. He was glad when he heard her voice, but he also suddenly hesitated, pulling back a little as his natural instinct toward caution came into play. It was like he was waiting for some revelation that would once again prove his comment to Jeff—that he wasn't much impressed by L.A. women—to be right. Of course, he was glad that Jeff had never asked if Cherise fell into that category. So far, Savannah Shelton was in a class all by herself. McCoy had to admit that he still didn't know what that was, but he was definitely intrigued.

“Hi, this is Savannah.”

“I'd love to hear the story behind your name. I know it has to be something interesting,” McCoy said by way of greeting.

“What's wrong with Savannah?”

“I never said there was anything wrong with it. But you have to admit it's a far cry from a lot of current names. How are you? Have I caught you at a bad time?”

“On the road again. I'm headed home from the Film Institute.”

“That's not good. You behind the wheel of a car and talking at the same time…”

“Easy solution. I'll hang up.”

He grinned, enjoying the banter that seemed so natural and easy between them.

“You understand I'm only thinking of your safety.”

“Uh-huh,” Savannah responded with exaggerated skepticism. “I appreciate your concern, but until the night you ran into me I'd never been in an accident.”

“Got me. I surrender.”

“Do I get a prize?”

He laughed. “How about drinks?”

“When?”

“Right now. I'm just leaving a meeting. There's a nice spot on the Promenade in Santa Monica. But if you're anxious to get home…”

“You know, drinks would be nice. I'd love to join you.”

“Good. Where are you right now?”

After hearing the information, McCoy gave Savannah simple directions to Santa Monica, and told her where to meet him. When he was back in his car and headed in that direction himself, he became reflective once more, wondering what it was, exactly, that had triggered the invitation. And what was it about Savannah that kept drawing him back to her?

“S
orry, I have to take this call.”

Savannah nodded and made to get up from her chair to leave the office, but the man behind the desk, black agent Punch Wagoner, indicated with his hand that she should stay. She assumed by the big greeting and laughter that it was a friend he was talking with, and her mind began to drift away from the conversation and into her own thoughts. They took her back to three nights ago when she'd met McCoy at a café for drinks and dinner. His cell-phone invitation had been a surprise, but agreeing to it had come as even more of a surprise, Savannah considered now.

“Well, we'll have to see about that. I'll have a chat with the producer and see what I can hold over him to get you back on board….”

Savannah frowned at the slight tone of threat in Punch's voice, even as he smiled and appeared calm. She wasn't naive about the deals that are cut in Hollywood in order for things to get done. But to actually witness it happening made her feel uneasy. The conversation suddenly steered away from business and Savannah went back to her own reflections, the memory of that evening now making her smile to herself.

When she'd met up with McCoy, Savannah's first thought was of the brief kiss they'd shared the last time they'd been together. But there was absolutely no reference to cause any awkward moment, and they'd relaxed nicely into an evening of conversation and laughter. McCoy managed to get the story out of her about having been named for the city of Savannah where, according to her mother, she'd been conceived during a forced two-day stormy stay over in the middle of a hurricane that had brushed the coast.

Savannah's smile grew as she recalled McCoy's skepticism, convinced that the story was made up. There had followed his own versions that had kept her laughing through most of the evening.

From the outdoor seating of the café they'd people watched, and Savannah had again been entertained by McCoy's on-the-spot reading of passersby—which ones were tourists, which were locals trying to pass for someone of importance and which were newcomers playing at being locals. He wasn't being mean-spirited, but Savannah suspected a pretty accurate accounting of the thousands of people who pass through the city all the time.

She'd been sorry to have to remind him that she, at least, had to report at a certain time for work in the morning. She had her own car, so there was no question of McCoy driving her home. But in the parking lot, as they waited for their respective cars, the moment of truth happened.

“Thanks for dinner,” Savannah said.

“Thanks for accepting my last-minute invitation.”

“I almost didn't. I had to wash my hair and…”

Her attempt at humor was only mildly successful. McCoy was waiting for more.

“Why did you?” he asked, fixing her with a look of intense inquiry.

She'd thought about how much she wanted to reveal, and finally she said, “I learn lots of things from you about L. A. I enjoy the conversations. And I like your company.”

She'd said it. Immediately Savannah wondered if she'd said too much. He was staring at her, almost to the point of making her uncomfortable.

The valet returned with her car first, pulling up next to Savannah and getting out, only to go racing off to find McCoy's. All the time Savannah was thanking the valet and tipping him she was aware of McCoy's scrutiny. Finally, she turned to him again and shrugged.

“I hope that was enough reason.”

“It will do just fine,” he said. “I promise next time to give you advance warning.”

Savannah grinned.
Next time.

“Don't wait too long,” she teased. “My social calendar fills up quickly.”

“I'll remember that.”

The valet drove up with McCoy's car. After he'd left them, Savannah stood poised to get into hers as she was saying a final good-night. McCoy had other ideas. He lightly grabbed her hand and pulled her away from the safe shield of her driver's-side door into the circle of his own arms. Instinctively Savannah's arms returned the embrace.

As with their first kiss, this hug had more a feel of warmth and affection than it did a blatant play on sexual tension. For a moment she couldn't decide if she was pleased by McCoy's restraint or merely surprised that he was restrained. The embrace allowed Savannah to feel the strength in his arms as well as the gentleness of his hands on her back. She wasn't crushed against his chest, but could still feel its firm planes through his dove-gray business shirt. He'd slid one hand up her spine to cup the back of her neck. The gesture created an unexpected languid yearning as he turned his head to plant a kiss, again briefly, on her mouth.

“Be careful driving home,” McCoy had cautioned, releasing her and standing back as she'd gotten into her car.

She'd waved as McCoy had stood watching until she'd driven out of the parking lot….

“Miss Shelton? Miss Shelton?”

Her head jerked up and Savannah gaze at the puzzled expression on Punch Wagoner's face. “I'm sorry. I guess I was daydreaming.”

“My fault for keeping you waiting. Sorry for the long interruption. Now, let's get down to business.” He picked up a stack of papers held with metal fasteners and thumbed through the pages quickly. “I read your script. Have you ever written one before?”

“No, I haven't.”

“How did you know the structure?”

“I wrote mine according to the format of several published scripts I'd read.”

He seemed astonished.

“That's it? You've never taken a film-writing class or anything like that? Did you get some pointers from other writers?”

Savannah shook her head. “I don't know any script-writers. I just wrote it.”

Punch stared at her. “Unbelievable,” he murmured.

She didn't know what that meant. As a matter of fact, Savannah didn't quite know what to make of Punch Wagoner. His name, for one, sounded like something made up, but it really suited the man. He had a lively open personality that was slick but likeable. His brown skin was clean shaven; he was of average height and, although stocky, appeared to be very fit. Based on what Taj had told her about the agent, Savannah guessed that he was in his late forties or even older, but he looked much younger. Taj had also told her that Punch was a force to be reckoned with. He had a successful history in Hollywood.

Punch dropped the script on his desk and used his curled knuckles to knock on the top page for emphasis. “I've read a lot of scripts, but this is the first one by a total novice that was this well done.” He shook his head. “Let me correct myself. You're not a total outsider. You probably have a very good idea of how things work in Hollywood because of your father. I knew Will Shelton casually. Sorry to hear of his passing.”

“You were right the first time. I am an outsider. My father never discussed his career with me and, frankly, I've never been interested myself in a Hollywood career.”

“But you wrote this script. Why not a novel? Essay?”

“I guess it could have been done as either of those. But, the idea came to me in pictures. I could see the action.”

“It's one hell of an idea. Where did it come from?”

Savannah hesitated. She had no clue what might have happened to Rae Marie Hilton, but felt the need to be protective of the former actress's name and history.

“I wrote it as a what-if story. I saw it as a cautionary tale about how far people are willing to go to get what they want and the price to be paid. We make deals and compromises all the time in our lives. When you add in the race card and Hollywood, a place that's all about make-believe and encouraging people to pretend to be someone else, then I think my story has really tragic consequences.”

As she was talking, Savannah was aware of the way Punch was watching her. She wasn't sure he was really listening to what she had to say. He seemed to be assessing her for his own reasons.

“Fantastic,” he said thoughtfully. Then he sat back. “You know, when Tyrone asked me to read the script I blew him off. I can't tell you how many times I'm asked to read someone's script. Of course, that's what I'm supposed to do. That's how I find people who might stand a chance in L.A. Most of what I read, unfortunately, is pretty bad. I like your writing. I like what you have to say in your story,” Punch said, again knocking the top of the script to make his point.

“Thank you,” Savannah said, pleased.

“Of course, you want to know what to do with it, and what I can do to help. I have some minor changes to suggest.”

“Well, actually…” she began and was cut off.

“It's still not easy getting projects by black writers green-lighted in this town, unless you have a popular rapper, rising star or someone the studios are interested in pushing attached.” He leaned across his desk, eyeing her. “Who do you see as the female lead?”

Savannah stared blankly at him. “I don't know. I only wanted to…”

“Well, now's a good time to start thinking about that. It's going to take a particular kind of female. Someone like Alicia Keyes has the look.”

Savannah frowned. Alicia Keyes would be all wrong.

“But she might not want this as her first film vehicle. Too serious. We'd lose the fifteen-to-thirty audience.”

“You talk as if my script is definitely going to be a movie,” Savannah said, with a trace of excitement in her voice.

Punch Wagoner was moving ahead fast, and her head was spinning.

“Isn't that what you want? Yeah, it could happen. It's going to take some work and persuading. This isn't an easy story to tell or sell, and it's bound to get a lot of folks upset.”

Punch was looking for something else on his somewhat unorganized desk when his phone rang. He picked up immediately, announcing his name briskly as a greeting. It was the way he'd answered the phone when she'd finally called two days earlier.

“Sorry, I have to take this call,” Punch told her for the second time since she'd sat down with him.

He found what he was looking for and passed it across the desk for her to read while she waited. Savannah saw that she'd been given a contract that laid out the terms of his willingness to represent her as a manager for the purpose of working to secure an option on, and subsequent sale of her work,
Fade to Black,
to a studio to be produced as a feature film or made-for-TV movie.

Savannah felt her stomach roil as she read the paper. It was formal. The language was intimidating and precise. She was being moved out of her comfort zone of Rae Marie's life just being an idea for a script. It now had the potential to become a viable project. When she'd started writing she hadn't forseen the project getting this far. If not, why had she bothered writing the story at all?

“It's a boilerplate contract,” Punch Wagoner's voice broke into her thoughts. “If you agree to let me represent you I'll go out and pitch the idea to a short list of directors and producers. I'll let a few of them read your script to generate interest. After that I try to get you a good option payment against the outright purchase price. You don't have to understand all of that right now. After you sign the agreement I can get started. I already have one producer in mind. He has a three-picture deal with…”

His voice faded, and the words on the form began to run together and blur until they had no meaning. Savannah glanced up at Punch. He was waiting for her answer.

“Can I have a few days to read through this and think about it?”

“Don't wait too long,” was his response. “I have a lot of things I'm working on with a lot of folks, so you have to act quickly. Can you get back to me this week?”

He made his announcement with a kind of offhanded indifference that made Savannah waver for a moment. She felt pressured and didn't much like the feeling. She stood up to leave.

“Thank you for your time. I know you're very busy.”

“Like I said, I think you have a strong script and a good story. I'm sure I can sell it for you. Let me know what you want me to do,” Punch said, getting up to walk her to the door. “And tell Tyrone that I'm still waiting for that demo disc he's been promising to play for me.”

Savannah was expecting that he'd say more to put her mind at rest instead of talking as if projects and writers like her were a dime a dozen. But she recognized that there was a real opportunity being offered here. What would her father advise her to do?

“I'll call you as soon as I can,” Savannah promised.

At his office door Punch Wagoner already appeared distracted. “You do that,” he said, closing the door on her.

Confused and annoyed, Savannah left the building knowing that although she'd managed to wrangle some extra time she wasn't really sure what her next move should be.

Back in her car, Savannah just sat, going over the entire exchange with Punch Wagoner. For a minute she came
that close
to signing the contract he'd given her and telling him to do whatever he could. She felt an adrenaline rush, spurred by Punch's obvious enthusiasm. She felt almost light-headed at the prospect of actually having her story taken seriously, and Rae Marie's life vindicated.