Murder For Revenge by Otto Penzler
Author:Otto Penzler [Penzler, Otto]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Steve had said to phone him when the meeting was over. But I felt so upset I decided to hell with phoning him and drove up the Pacific Coast Highway toward his place in Malibu. Traffic was terrible-rush hour, Friday evening. For once, though, it had an advantage. After an hour, my anger began to abate enough for me to realise that I wouldnât accomplish much by showing up unexpectedly in a fit at Steveâs. Heâd been loyal. He didnât need my aggravation. As heâd told me, âIâve done what I can. Now itâs up to you.â But there wasnât much I could do if my age and not my talent was how I was judged. Certainly that wasnât Steveâs fault.
So I stopped at something called the Pacific Coast Diner and took the advice of a bumper sticker on a car Iâd been stuck behind-CHILL OUT. Maybe a few drinks and a meditative dinner would calm me down. The restaurant had umbrella-topped tables on a balcony that looked toward the ocean. I had to wait a half hour, but a Scotch and soda made the time go quickly, and the crimson reflection of the setting sun on the ocean was spectacular.
Or would have been if Iâd been paying attention. The truth was, I couldnât stop being upset. I had another Scotch and soda, ordered poached salmon, tried to enjoy my meal, and suddenly couldnât swallow, suddenly felt about as lonely as Iâd felt since Doris had died. Maybe the network executives are right, I thought.
Maybe I am too old. Maybe I donât know how to relate to a young audience. Maybe itâs time I packed it in.
âMort Davidson,â a voice said.
âExcuse me?â I blinked, distracted from my thoughts.
My waiter was holding the credit card Iâd given him. âMort Davidson.â He looked at the name on the card, then at me. âThe screenwriter?â
I spared him a bitter âUsed to beâ and nodded with what I hoped was a pleasant manner.
âWow.â He was tall and thin with sandy hair and a glowing tan. His blue eyes glinted. He had the sort of chiselled, handsome face that made me think he was yet another would-be actor. He looked to be about twenty-three. âWhen I saw your name, I thought, âNo, it couldnât be. Who knows how many Mort Davidsons there are? The odds against this beingâ¦â But it is you. The screenwriter.â
âGuilty,â I managed to joke.
âI bet Iâve seen everything you ever wrote. I must have watched âThe Dead of Noonâ twenty-five times. I really learned a lot.â
âOh?â I was puzzled. What would my screenplay have taught him about acting?
âAbout structure. About pace. About not being afraid to let the characters talk. Thatâs whatâs wrong with movies today. The characters donât have anything important to say.â
At once it hit me. He wasnât a would-be actor.
âIâm a writer,â he said. âOr trying to be. I mean, Iâve still got a lot to learn. That Iâm working here proves what I mean.â The glint went out of his eyes.
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