As soon as she leaves the room, I turn on Evan. “You do know she’s Lawson’s wife, right?”
“Uh, yeah.” He looks at me like I’m crazy and he’s clueless. “And?”
“And you’re all up in her grill. Stop it.”
“A man can look. She’s gorgeous.”
“You’re asking for trouble. Stop that shit.” I suck my teeth and reach for another dumpling.
“Gentlemen,” Lawson enters the living room. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
He’s a typical Hollywood exec. Since he’s home, he’s shed the shiny suit for the studied casualness of a button-up and slacks. Linh has melanin working for her, so it’s hard to discern her age, but I’d put Lawson Stone in his late-forties, early fifties. The work he’s probably had done may have firmed his jawline, but he wears the years in his eyes and his too-uniformly black hair.
“I see Linh got you started,” he says, holding up the bottle. “How’s that pinot noir? It’s Linh’s favorite.”
“She’s great.” Evan takes a sip of his wine and mock toasts. “I mean it’s great. Delicious.”
“Good.” He scans the room. “Did she go check on dinner?”
“Your daughter needed help with homework,” I tell him.
“Ah. Algebra.” He reaches for one of the appetizers. “We both suck at it, but Linh sucks a little less. Thanks for coming tonight.”
“Thanks for having us,” Evan replies. “We’re looking forward to discussing next steps in pre-production on the project.”
“Yeah, now that we’ve found our Dessi,” I say casually, studying my drink, “we can fill out the rest of the cast. Verity’s retooling the script and—”
“We need to talk about this girl before we get ahead of ourselves.” Law stuffs a dumpling in his mouth, chewing around the words. “We’re not sure she’s the right fit.”
I set my glass of wine on the low table by the couch and straighten. “What are your reservations?” I ask, keeping my voice low, even, reasonable.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Law barks out a laugh. “No one knows who the hell she is, for one.”
“Did you watch her audition tape?” I ask. “And her reel?”
“It has nothing to do with her talent. Obviously she’s talented. So are half the contestants on American Idol, but I’m not offering them the lead role in a film of this scope either. We’ve drafted a list of suitable actresses with the kind of drawing power this budget merits.” He extracts a folded piece of paper from his pocket, offering it to me.
I don’t accept or even glance at it, but keep my stare fixed on him. I sense Evan tense on the couch beside me. “I won’t be needing that.”
“Excuse me?” Law’s brows jerk into a frown and the hand holding his little slip of paper drops back to his side. “These actresses—”
“Will not be in my movie,” I say with a calm that disguises the anger roiling beneath the surface.
“Your movie?” he asks, brows lifting. “Our money—”
“Your money is funding my movie, but you don’t control it, and you don’t control me. If you have any illusions about that, I can go elsewhere.”
“Now let’s not be hasty,” Evan says. “I’m sure there’s a middle ground.”
“There’s not.” I stand and face Law. “Neevah Saint is a non-negotiable. I’ve given you six months to find the lead, and you haven’t.”
“There are several acceptable options on this list,” he says extending the paper toward me.
I ignore it again.
“Neevah Saint,” I say. “Or we walk.”
Evan growls a protest, which I also ignore.
“Think long and hard before you say more, Holt.” Law’s polite veneer is thinning and his irritation, his condescension, starts to show.
“You think I need you badly enough to let you ruin my movie?” I scoff and shake my head. “Do you know what Spike Lee did when the studio tried to pull the money for Malcolm X because they wanted it shorter?”
“No, what?” Law answers cautiously.
“He went to Black leaders, entrepreneurs, creatives, athletes and asked for help. He secured the financing himself from the community who most wanted that story told. I assure you I will have no problem raising money to tell this story.”
I nod to the piece of paper hanging limply from his fingers. “You try to give me that list one more time, and I don’t stay for dinner. I walk out that door and take my movie with me.” I bend down to grab another dumpling. “So what’s it gonna be?”
12
Neevah
When Canon called a few weeks ago, I saved his cell in my phone under CH . . . just in case he ever called again. I’d know it was him and be less likely to run off a road, dismember myself somehow, or generally lose my shit once I answered and heard his rumbling voice on the other end.
So when CH appears on my screen on a Thursday afternoon while I’m preparing to leave for the theater, I know who it is.