Chapter Six #3
“Yeah, I saw how ‘happy’ you are at that meeting,” Money said. “If you were any happier, you would have set the place on fire like Angela Bassett in Waiting to Exhale. Why can’t shit ever just be boring with you? Can we have one boring-ass day? Just one.”
“Sorry,” Johnny said. “But they were never gonna make it, Money. Or, if they do, it won’t be my movie anymore. They’ll just be the last ones to figure that out.”
“Shit, I’ll call them. You might as well take the money for the polish.”
Johnny shook his head. “I’m done. I need to…
” His voice trailed off. He was developing a couple of TV pitches, but La Petite Mort had been his world for too long.
He’d broken the cardinal rule and put too much faith in one project.
He wasn’t even working on another spec script.
Imagination was his living, but he couldn’t see his own future.
“I’ll start making calls in my car,” Money said. “On to plan D, I guess. Or plan E. Whoever it is better have deep pockets. Now we gotta buy it back.”
Johnny ran the numbers in his head: LDR had invested at least a million dollars in it so far; not exactly attractive to a new buyer. And LDR wouldn’t let it go before their option was up, which Rashad had gently reminded him. His stomach squirmed.
“I thought the wife is the one who gets morning sickness,” Money said.
Johnny heard himself laugh, which felt good. His stomach unknotted slightly.
Money patted him more firmly. “It’s all right, man. I’m mad as hell, but I got you.”
Johnny heard someone call his name—not Johnny, but Mr. Washington. Rashad was jogging toward them from the LDR cottage thirty yards away. He waved as if they wouldn’t have noticed a six-three brother in locs who looked like he could start for the Rams.
“Open your mouth and I will murder you where you stand,” Money muttered.
“Then you better remember where I stand.”
“Duly noted, nigga.”
“I’m glad I caught you!” Rashad said, although it took him a couple of breaths to think of his pitch. “Listen… what you said back there… they’re not ready to hear it. But I heard you.”
A couple more people, Johnny thought, and they had a quorum for an NAACP meeting. Recognizing reality was one thing, but what to do about it was a much longer conversation than three men had time for in the cooling air at the end of a long day.
“I hope you’ll reconsider the polish,” Rashad said.
“That’s not just a company line—I really want to make this movie.
I want you to have this win. I know people tell you this all the time, but I loved Misery Swamp when I was a kid.
I’d never seen a Black horror movie before and that made me a fan for life. ”
No, people did not say that to Johnny all the time—Frat House Haunting had wiped away his previous life.
Misery Swamp had been Johnny’s first low-budget feature right out of film school, shot at a local park instead of a swamp.
He was embarrassed at the clichéd theme of the spirits of enslaved people punishing the descendants of their tormentors, but his mother had told him that she had visited a true-life swamp in Florida with that name and he loved the title.
He’d thought the title was the best part of the movie. But maybe not.
“Good to hear,” Johnny said. Money’s eyes were hot on him, so he didn’t quiz Rashad on his favorite scenes. For all he knew, Rashad might have just done a quick search online.
“What was wrong with the draft, Rashad?” Money said. “What’s really jamming us up?”
Rashad’s deliberate silence was the only answer they needed: Johnny had been right.
He gave Money a knowing look and Money cursed under his breath.
Johnny wondered if executives in other industries normalized speaking in silences, behaving as if questions hadn’t been asked before moving on to the next topic.
He doubted it, somehow. It was no way to do business.
“Hey, I’ve been meaning to tell you…” Rashad said to Johnny after his meaningful pause. “I just found out you have a family connection to LDR.”
“What kind of connection?” Johnny said.
“The L in LDR stands for Lorenzo,” Rashad said, waiting for Johnny’s recognition. “Lorenzo Studios? Merged with Dynasty Studios back in the fifties. Then they linked up with Rialto Pictures. L-D-R. Lorenzo Studios discovered your grandmother. You know—Mazy.”
Mazy. The stone Johnny had felt in his throat spread like hardening concrete across his skin.
Where had Rashad made that leap? Had he and Ben been talking about Mazelle Washington with their bosses at LDR?
He was just lucky that none of her posters were on display on the conference room wall—not that they would dare.
“Small world,” Johnny said.
“History,” Rashad said, and smiled before he turned away.
Even on a day this ugly, the worst in Johnny’s recent memory—Except when Tasha said she was pregnant, don’t forget that one, Johnny boy—the last thing Johnny had expected to hear after his meeting today was his grandmother’s name.