Love in Reality: A Contemporary Romance (The Blackjack Quartet) Page 2

  “Wait. You mean Marcy is six inches away from killing someone?”

  “Or from being killed. Either way, she’s overdue to lead the evening news. ‘Tragedy in The Fishbowl—film at eleven!’” Phil sighed. “Quit now.”

  Rand thought about Debbie, Charlie, the crew, the editors. They all needed their paychecks too much to leave in the current economy. No, Marcy needed to be stopped, not left to shift her rage to people who couldn’t afford to quit.

  “I owe it to the others to stay. As long as she’s yelling at me, she’s not yelling—well, yelling less—at everyone else.”

  “Explain this to me, will you?” Phil sounded exasperated. “You hate the job, you hate your boss, you don’t like reality TV, you think The Fishbowl is a puerile, idiotic program, and you want to make movies.”

  “Films,” Rand muttered.

  “Whatever. Regardless of what you call it, you’re not doing it. Quit.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “I’ll take that as a ‘No, I’m too damned stubborn for my own good.’”

  Rand laughed. “You know me so well.”

  “Well enough to know this is all about your dad. You gotta deal with how he affects your decisions.”

  Phil had that all wrong. Rand couldn’t avoid his dad, but at least he’d picked the one job his dad couldn’t influence. “Nothing to do with him,” Rand muttered. “But I’ll take your advice under advisement.”

  “Very funny. I’ll bill you for your two-tenths of an hour.”

  “I’m hanging up now, you money-grubbing freak. Oh, wait, that’s redundant for a lawyer, isn’t it?”

  “Bye.”

  Time to think about something else. Rand angled his seat so he could observe the bartender in his peripheral vision. She was still talking with her uncle, but the body language had shifted. She leaned forward, trying to convince him of something. Then she sat up straight, put her palms face down on the table, and cautiously relaxed her posture. The uncle sat back, and seemed to consider what she’d said. Rand could see the uncle’s face, but not the bartender’s. There was a long moment of deliberation, then the uncle nodded once, crisply, and her shoulders slumped in relief. He said a few words, they stood up and this time she really meant her hug.

  Rand swiveled back to face the bar before she spotted him watching her.

  “So how about it, Uncle Jack? The usual?” She used the chirpy voice again, now heady with relief.

  There was a tiny pause, so Rand glanced over at the uncle, whose lips twitched. Amusement that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That would be lovely, Alice,” he said finally.

  Back behind the bar, she poured some Jameson for her uncle. Wait. Alice? Had he gotten the name wrong? Rand scrolled through his notes. There—Lissa Pembroke. “Lissa” must be her nickname.

  One of the regulars on the far side of the bar yelled over to the uncle. “Hey, Jack, who are you puttin’ away this week? T-Rex’s cousin, Godzilla?” A couple of other guys laughed, and the uncle managed a good-humored smile.

  The old guy—Barney?—joined in the laughter. “That’s our Jacko, making Philly safer from the dinosaurs left in the Reggiano mob.”

  Rand typed “T-Rex,” “Reggiano,” and “Jack” into a search engine. He scanned the results, looking up when Lissa-the-bartender came over.

  “Another Aprihop?” she asked. She had a come-on smile and one eyebrow was raised, as if another beer equaled a winning lottery ticket so he couldn’t say no, could he?

  “Please.” Rand felt warm, so he moved to take off his jacket. He didn’t have one on. Odd.

  He stared at Lissa-the-bartender. She gave off a different vibe from when he’d first ordered. A hot girl’s look-but-don’t-touch vibe. As though a light had switched on behind her eyes. Rand might have thought she was coming onto him except for two things. She didn’t know who he was or why he was there, and she hadn’t been like this when they first spoke. What was up?

  Rand went back to the search results. Okay—the uncle is Jack “Blackjack” McIntyre, Philadelphia’s US Attorney. He successfully prosecuted Dino “T-Rex” Reggiano for a number of crimes, including money laundering and tax evasion. One photo, tiny on Rand’s device, showed the uncle with a dazzling white smile a few pixels wide, charisma evident even in miniature.

  Which didn’t explain the fraught conversation they’d had. What was the guy’s beef with Lissa-the-bartender? And why had she amped up the wattage after the uncle arrived?

  When she brought his new beer, he snagged her attention. “Hey, could I ask you a question?”

  She glanced around the bar to see if anyone needed her. Barney was chatting with the US Attorney uncle and one of the regulars, and the few people at the outlying tables and booths seemed happy enough.

  “Sure,” she said, a sexy little grin playing around her lips. She wasn’t quite meeting Rand’s eyes. Not flirtatious, then?

  “Is that your uncle?” Rand jerked his head in the guy’s direction.

  Lissa flicked a glance over at the uncle and nodded slowly. “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Blackjack McIntyre?”

  She turned back to Rand. This time she met his eyes square on, but her tilted jaw reminded Rand he was an outsider. Her temperature had dropped back to cool. “Why do you ask?”

  Rand faked what he hoped was a disarming chuckle. “No reason. I’m from Los Angeles, but prosecutors like your uncle and—” Hell, what was the name of the US Attorney in Chicago? Oh, right, “—Patrick Fitzgerald get noticed.”

  Lissa cocked her hip as she considered this, eying her uncle carefully. “Yeah, the press loves him. I think it’s the Superman hair, personally. Black, but gleaming with blue highlights like in the comic books. Makes people think he can stop bullets in his press conferences,” she said with pursed lips. She faced him again. “Are you a reporter or a lawyer?”

  Rand shook his head. “My best friend is a lawyer, though. He must have mentioned your uncle.” Rand wanted to cross his fingers as he told this lie. Poor Phil, who’d just made partner at his San Francisco firm. Rand wasn’t entirely sure what kind of law Phil practiced, but he knew it had nothing to do with federal prosecutors.

  “Lawyers,” Lissa said, then stopped. She pointed to the bowl of Goldfish. “Want more?”

  He stood up. “No thanks. I need to get to my hotel.”

  Her eyes stayed on his for a long moment. Challenging, shy, businesslike, flirty—what was up with this woman?

  * * *

  Rand pulled his collar up against the bitter wind and headed for the hotel.

  Quit or not quit, that was the question. On the “pro-quitting” side were texts like this one from Marcy:

  Watched the girl from Omaha—what a scarecrow! I want someone thin enough for TV but she’s still gotta have the T&A. Jesus Christ, what do I have to do before you’ll get me what I want? And why aren’t you here? I need you to put together a promo list for the network. Whatever you’re doing, get it done and get back here.

  When had his life morphed into a Hollywood version of The Devil Wears Prada? Only stupider.

  Rand stopped in the middle of an empty sidewalk. A movie. Nah, wouldn’t work. He imagined pitching it as a logline for a movie—Young film school grad gets a job on a reality TV show only to discover his boss is psychotic and evil—but it felt stale. Anyway, he was hardly a sympathetic protagonist. What was his goal? His external motivation?

  He started walking again, shaking his head in self-disgust.

  He really needed to stop thinking of himself as a movie character. Especially since his life would make a lousy screenplay. It might start out strong: mild-mannered Everyman with a domineering dad struggles to find his own path in life, but it lost all momentum in the first act when our hero struggled to escape the shadow of his powerful father…only to discover he’s in a dead-end job with no means of escape. Not a compelling plot for a movie. Or real life, come to think about it.

  He turned onto Market Street, we
ll-lit and lined with businesses still open and bustling this late on a weeknight. A cab slowed but Rand waved it off. More walking meant more time to think.

  Realistically, he had three choices. One, he could quit and live off his savings while he looked for another job in production, preferably movies this time. Two, he could quit and his dad could give him a job on either of Minor Developments’ current TV shows or ask a buddy to hire Rand. Three, he could stay with Marcy, knowing he was going to have to bend over and take it every time she went on a rampage.

  Choice One was the obvious winner, but Rand resisted its appeal. Oh, sure, he told himself production jobs had dried up in the weak economy, his résumé wasn’t good enough yet, and so on, but it was all bullshit. He didn’t take the obvious choice because he didn’t want to be a lowly staffer in production. He wanted to make his own films, not help other people make theirs. The problem was, that boiled down to “I don’t wanna!”—a whiny toddler even in his own head.

  And if he got a job through his dad, the industry would label Rand a whiny toddler needing Daddy’s help, so Choice Two was out.

  Which left Choice Three: be Marcy’s bitch.

  With the Marriott in sight, Rand suddenly thought of a fourth possibility. Why not make Marcy the antagonist of his fledgling screenplay? Lowly producer gets revenge on evil, psychotic boss. Better, but still needs a concept.

  He handed over his corporate credit card to the aggressively chipper young woman at the hotel’s main desk. Something about her smile made him think of Angela Lansbury in Gaslight. Gaslight? Rand’s head exploded with ideas.

  Gaslight. Directed by George Cukor in 1944, starring Ingrid Bergman, Charles Boyer, and Joseph Cotten. Won two Oscars. Charles Boyer tries to drive his heiress wife, Bergman, crazy before she’s rescued by Cotten.

  Rand would love to screw with Marcy’s head. Just the sort of detail that might save his life’s screenplay—Lowly producer pulls off a surprising practical joke on his hateful boss. That was a movie Rand could sell for real. It even had a cliché logline: “The Devil Wears Prada Meets Gaslight.” He’d quit the show at the end of the season, write the screenplay and see if he couldn’t get a production deal out of it.

  “Sir? Your card?” the desk clerk called to keep Rand from walking off without his credit card. He thanked her, then headed for the elevators.

  He could gaslight Marcy merely by messing with the production, and he’d get away with it, too. She couldn’t fire Rand without risking Alan Jennings’s wrath. Marcy wanted to join Alan in the ranks of major TV producers. She thought Rand could help her become Alan Jennings, or at least meet him.

  She probably wanted her own production company. Fat chance, considering that she had virtually no creative talent.

  Rand let himself into his hotel room and dropped his bag on the bed.

  What was the best way to gaslight Marcy? Something to do with The Fishbowl, with its lack of redeeming value, the vapidity of its contestants, something…

  Marcy insisted The Fishbowl wasn’t schlock or just more T-and-A in prime time. She claimed it had redeeming values, the way The Amazing Race did. In Marcy’s delusion, Fishbowl contestants—the “Fish”—were selected for their diversity and wide-ranging interests. Why not prove her right by slipping in some ringer contestants? Contestants no producer of reality TV would ever cast, like…educated, successful people.

  A thrill went through him. It would violate reality TV’s eleventh commandment: don’t cast smarter than your target audience.

  Okay, so how would it work? Rand could see the appeal in broad terms, but he needed to get specific.

  He took his laptop out and started to make notes.

  Marcy wanted this year’s crop to be “types” so she could market the season as “Opposites Attract.” The Band Geek falls for the Ditz. The Sophisticate goes for the Country Bumpkin. Stupidest thing Rand had ever heard, only that’s reality TV for you—it didn’t need to make sense, it just had to provide enough excuses for people to fight with each other while wearing skimpy clothes. Only a step up from The Lingerie Bowl.

  Rand had only found two of his six candidates. What if he got quirky, unexpectedly impressive contestants for the other four? Like a Country Bumpkin who was really a concert pianist, or—wait a minute. He paged through the files. He already had one—a candidate for the Girl Next Door, a baby-faced Texas blonde receptionist in a dentist’s office. Seemingly perfect on paper. Then Rand talked with her and rejected her as too educated. What if he coached her for the part of the Girl Next Door? Massaged her application so no one but Rand would know she’d even been to college.

  Rand started scrolling down his list. By the time he was done, he’d picked out three people he’d originally passed over as too bright and motivated. He had the Girl Next Door, the Sophisticate, and the Codger. Unfortunately, Marcy had already rubber-stamped the rest of Rand’s list, the Jock and the Country Bumpkin, neither of whom was a rocket scientist. That left the Ditz.

  Rand really liked the idea of casting Lissa Pembroke. Smart, professional at her job, and her uncle was the US freakin’ Attorney. Not a typical South Philly bartender. Rand saw her as the kind of woman who preferred to be underemployed for a few years before deciding to run her own Fortune 500 company. At the same time, she clearly could come across as frothy and girlish. Ditzy shouldn’t be too much of a stretch. He could coach her.

  Plus, he liked her. She had a way of cocking her head when she thought about something, making her hair slide off her shoulder like syrup.

  Yup, he wanted her. Now, how to get her and the others.

  All he had to do was doctor—“creatively edit”—the tapes for the people he wanted in The Fishbowl this summer, and watch the fur fly. Four out of the twelve contestants would be a lot smarter and more interesting than they were supposed to be. That should make this season play out in unexpected ways. Everyone would be playing for the money, but four of them would be playing with more than sex appeal as a weapon. If Rand was lucky, one of his ringers would actually win. That would add a great subplot to his screenplay.

  Of course he’d get caught. He wanted to get caught. At the end of the summer, he’d have gotten himself fired, achieved fame as the guy who messed with reality TV, and earned one hell of a story to tell. None of the major studios would think less of him for messing with Marcy’s head. As long as he could turn around the script in a hurry, Rand could ride his fifteen minutes of anti-reality-TV fame into studio offices. After all, high concept plus logline equals screenplay gold.

  He stared out the window as scenes unspooled in his mind. Setup: cubicle, production meeting, reviewing submission videos when, boom, the lowly producer sees a candidate who’s way smarter than the others. The girl—woman—has a good reason for wanting the money. The producer suddenly decides she’s perfect—attractive, smart—wait, he’s not allowed to cast “smart.” He’s on a crusade to get that woman on the reality TV show called… Rand thought for a moment. The Terrarium? Too boring. The Crucible? No—he had it: The Ant Farm. Perfect.

  The producer goes out to Topeka to meet this paragon. He half-falls for her. Just when he is about to show the tape to the executive producer, something [Rand would think this up later] happens to crush his stupid, naive dreams. That’s when he decides to get his ringer on the show no matter what.

  Of course, he’d have to make his character actually learn a lesson, discover his humanity or something. Child’s play. He might even make Marcy’s character vulnerable toward the end. Look how well that worked for Meryl Streep.

  And what about the bartender? She was cute enough—in fact, very appealing—but she seemed almost too competent. Still, competence worked in his favor. It meant she’d be great playing vacant and flighty. After all, she’d applied to be on The Fishbowl, so there had to be some acting instinct there. Plus, who even knew what “ditzy” meant? Rand could bury Marcy in TV and film references for “ditzy” and she’d have no rebuttal.

  Rand checked his wa
tch. Not too late in L.A. He called Debbie. He needed her to be okay with this.

  “Yeah, what do you want? I’m still at work.” she asked.

  “That sucks. I gather the Monster’s on the warpath.”

  “Un-hunh. My advice is you cash in your return ticket, sublet your apartment and never come back here.”

  “I’ve had a better idea. What do you say we hijack The Fishbowl this year?”

  “Say what?” Her voice had sharpened. He could picture her sitting at her desk, maybe even hunched over a little, protecting her phone from casual eavesdroppers.

  Rand laughed. “I think I should gaslight Marcy, and I’ve thought of a great way to do it.”

  “Gaslight? Like the movie? Husband tries to make his wife think she’s going crazy—that Gaslight? Isn’t that taking your fancy film degree too far?”

  Rand ignored her sarcasm. “My film degree is the only thing that makes it possible to work there. I keep recasting the Monster in classic movie murders.”

  He pictured Debbie shaking her head in mock disgust. “Randall Jennings, you are impossible. You’re harder to argue with than my teenager,” she complained. “You have more talent in your little finger than Marcy has in her bony ass and yet you’re working for her. What’s wrong with this picture?”

  Not the first time they’d had this argument. “Look, I’ll leave soon, I promise. Not yet. If I quit now, I’m chum, just waiting to be swallowed up by my father’s influence. I don’t want to be ‘Alan Jennings’ kid’ for the rest of my life. At least while I’m working on a reality TV show, no one can accuse me of kowtowing to my dad, not with all his quotes on how reality shows are killing scripted TV.”

  “Okay, okay. We’re not going to have this fight again. What’s this about hijacking The Fishbowl, though?” Debbie’s voice dropped in volume.

  “People around?”

  “You know it only takes one overeager intern to report back to the Monster,” she pointed out in a low voice.