17

Things moved fast.  I headed back to New York and that same afternoon the contracts and check were in Monty’s office.  He took credit for the extra money, claiming he’d “worked his magic.”  I didn’t call him on it, there was no point.  He rented out the Blue Light Club and threw a lavish party that included the back room antics of Philo’s hooker.  My writer friends congratulated me with equal amounts of genuine good will and jealousy.  They all hid their bitterness much better than I was ever able to in similar circumstances.  Gray was a no-show.

They asked me what I was going to spend all my money on now.  I told them the truth, that I didn’t know.  I didn’t plan on moving.  I didn’t intend to buy a car.  I wasn’t about to become a clothes horse at this stage of my life.  The only thing I cared about were books.  I could buy more rarities.  I was boring as fuckall and that wasn’t about to change.

Except that I did head into a private room at the back of the Blue Light Club with Philo’s hooker and her black bag of tricks. I wondered if another stroke was oncoming and decided I didn’t care.  In just under two hours we finished off a pint of brandy, a bottle of baby oil, from the rug burns and the chafing from the handcuffs.  My buddies walked me home and dropped me off on my doorstep.

Two months went by in quick order.  The movie had been greenlit and fast tracked.  More checks rolled in.  I finished the script and Vince scoped out locations.  He emailed me photos of various places around LA that he thought would work.  It had been so long since I’d written Killjoy that I couldn’t remember a lot of the settings.  What he sent me though looked properly creepy and breathtaking.  I gave him my blessing.

I started a new novel about a group of folks with multiple personality disorder who escape a mental asylum after a murder.  Between the four escapees and their various alternate personas there are 187 suspects, including a mermaid princess, Icarus the boy with wax wings, a grizzled private eye, and Jack the Ripper.  My editor was going to hate it.

Vince Schreiber flew into New York twice to keep me personally updated on what was going on with Killjoy.  He showed me the screen tests of several notable actors and asked for my input.  I’d never been in a position of power like that.  I watched Academy Award winners speaking dialogue that I’d written, and the words sounded hollow and nonsensical in their throats.  Maybe it was their fault, maybe it was mine.

I didn’t have to actually offer an opinion at all. Vince gave plenty of subliminal suggestions in his own comments.  After a tape was finished he’d say, “What did you think?  Pretty awful, huh?”  And I’d agree.  “Hey, she was terrific, wasn’t she?”  And I’d agree.  It made him laugh uproariously that we were on such a similar wavelength, as we drank bottle after bottle of champagne together.

In a muted fashion I asked him about Christina.  He said she was fine, fine.

The Underneath was released as Sad Dogs.  I was interviewed a couple of times by radio stations and crime magazines and I kept calling it The Underneath.  My editor wasn’t pleased.  I wasn’t all that worried.  I no longer needed to prowl the secondhand shops to make my grocery bill.  I had twenty times more cash in my bank account than I’d ever had at any other time in my life.  The wild desperation that had been crawling through me for most of my life wasn’t there anymore.  I didn’t know if I was relieved or if I missed it.