5.

“REALLY?” HE ASKED EARNESTLY.

“Yes. It was fantastic. A great read. You’re very talented.”

“Thank you. That’s very nice of you. The Writers Guild forwarded me your email. And so you’re a producer? I didn’t… you’re a producer?”

He sounded quite young and milquetoasty, and what he was going to say, but course corrected, was that he hadn’t found anything about “Walter George the film producer” on the internet. But he was obviously curious about my interest in his script; otherwise he wouldn’t have called. Though I could also hear skepticism in his voice, a concern that he was dealing with a crank of some kind, which he was.

I said, “I’m new to the producing game, but I have funding—I used to be in tech—and I’m looking to finance low-budget films.” Over the years, I had drunk with a few writers at bars and had listened to them talk shop, and not a one had success. Maybe it was the bars I was in. But I had picked up enough about the business to fake it on this call, or so I hoped.

He said, “How did you get my script? I haven’t really exposed it that much.”

“It’s a long story. But, listen, I’m very eager to speak with you. Where in Los Angeles are you?”

“I’m… I’m in Atwater.”

“I’m not far from there. I’m over in Hollywood. Why don’t we meet up in person and I can tell you about myself and make my pitch why you should work with me.”

I was afraid if I told him, over the phone, the truth behind my inquiry, he’d hang up—he might not even know that Frances was dead. But in person, I could be more convincing, and I could get from him what I needed: the full name of the man Frances had gone to Mexico with. Either he would know it or he could direct me to a friend of Frances’s who would have the information. This young man on the phone was the key to finding Sebastian.

“I’m free to meet… Friday,” he said, clearly nervous that I wasn’t for real.

“I was thinking today.” I looked at my watch, then looked at the man in the Impala and gave him the finger, which he returned. I said, “How about happy hour at the Bigfoot Lodge? In forty-five minutes. Are you near there?” That was a bar in Atwater that I liked, then before he could answer, I said, “You should know I’m willing to pay nicely for your script. You’re a writer-director, and you’ve made one film, correct?” I remembered that bit of information from Frances. “Now that I know your name, I realize I’m already familiar with your work. I’m sorry but I’m blanking on the title of the film, but it was excellent.”

“You mean The Woods?”

“Yes, that’s it!”

“It’s on Shudder. That’s where you saw it?”

I didn’t know what Shudder was, but it sounded like some sort of channel, and I said, “Yes. I thought it was fantastic, very suspenseful. And scary.”

I made a leap saying “suspenseful” and “scary” but the title made me think those would be good adjectives to use, plus it was playing on a channel called Shudder, and he said, sincerely, “Thank you. It was super low-budget. You know, like a lot of horror. Shot it in fifteen days. I went into debt to make it.”

“Well, I thought it was great. You’re like a young Hitchcock.”

“Oh, man. Thank you.”

He couldn’t help but believe my compliments: he was desperate for them. Even from a stranger who might be a crank. I said, “So let’s meet at five? Maybe we can make a movie together. And like I said, I can pay for the script. Maybe even six figures.” I hoped this dangling of money would seal the deal.

But he didn’t say anything. He was still skeptical. How could he not be? He was milquetoasty but not an idiot, and I was going too fast, but I had to go fast. I said, “You know what? I’m going to be at the Bigfoot Lodge at five. No matter what. If you show up, I’ll be thrilled and I’ll buy you a drink. I’ll even buy you two drinks. I’m just a really big fan and would love to meet you.”

He hesitated, then said, with an undercurrent of excitement, “All right, I’ll meet you there. It’s actually just a few blocks away. I guess I can walk in the rain. This is… this is great.” And I could hear in his voice a shift. The shift into the deluded hope that some kind of crazy, lucky break was maybe coming his way, the kind of break everyone in Hollywood dreams about. But it’s an utter mirage, of course. Those lucky breaks are about as common as buying a winning lottery ticket at Tang’s.

I said, “Wonderful! See you at five, then.”

“How will I know you?”

“I’m wearing a blue sport coat and black watch cap. How will I know you?”

“I have glasses, black frames, and sort of a thick beard.”

“All right. We’re on, then. See you soon, Jason. Jason, right?”

“No, Justin.”

“Shit, sorry. And your last name is again—”

“Kearse. Sounds like ‘curse,’ but, you know, spelled different.”

“Right, see you very soon. Bye now.”

I hung up then before I completely blew it and looked out the window. I didn’t need the men in the Impala now. I was going to meet Frances’s friend Justin Kearse, which sounded like “curse,” and he was going to lead me to Sebastian.