Mason Kimble and Gerard Cardigan clinked brandy snifters.
“There’s nothing like a good action movie,” Mason said.
“I’ll say,” Gerard said.
They were watching Tessa Bacchetti’s sex tape. They never got tired of watching it. Mason had frozen it on the money shot in order to fill the brandy snifters. He took a sip and leaned back in his chair.
“You can sort of tell she doesn’t know,” Gerard said.
“Oh? How?”
“It’s subtle, but it’s there.”
“In other words, you don’t know.”
“I don’t know, and neither does she. That’s the whole thing.”
“What’s the whole thing?”
“You can tell he knows,” Gerard said. “That’s how you can tell she doesn’t. He’s self-conscious and looks toward the camera, and she’s uninhibited and never gives it a glance. The contrast, you see?”
Mason laughed. “Are you really finding subtext in a home sex tape?”
“No, but if we had to release this—”
“We’re not.”
“No, we’re not,” Gerard agreed. “But if we have to show it to her husband . . .” He smiled and shrugged.
“We’re not doing that either.”
“Worst-case scenario. We don’t want him to think she didn’t know she was being filmed. We can edit it to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“How so?”
“Take out the part that makes it look like Nigel knew he was filming.”
Mason saluted him with his snifter. “Good point.”
Mason and Gerard were very much alike. With short haircuts, button-down collars, and bespoke suits, they looked like a couple of Ivy League frat boys, which they actually were at Princeton, before their mutual love for hazing fraternity pledges got a little out of hand. One freshman had three broken fingers. Another nearly suffocated in a junked refrigerator. They barely escaped expulsion. Mason sublimated his urges into film, Gerard into bisecting lab animals.
The boys still tended to dress alike. The only real difference was while Mason’s white shirts had button cuffs, Gerard’s had silver-studded cuff links.
“How’s it coming with the stockholders?” Mason asked.
“The old lady’s going to sell. At least I think she will. She’s afraid I’m going to kill her cat.”
“How did she get that impression?”
Gerard’s smile was angelic. “I have no idea.”
“So they’re all falling into place.”
“We have a problem with Miss Morgan.”
“Oh?”
“She’s a retired actress and sees the stock as her last connection to the movie business.”
“What will it take to change her mind?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid. Her son’s another story. He’s a cokehead and needs the money. He’d sell it in a heartbeat.”
“Too bad he doesn’t own the stock.”
Gerard leaned back in his chair, cocked his head, and smiled. “Isn’t it?”