Breach of Promise by James Scott Bell Read Free Book Online Page A

during the production. Like a set falling on an actor.
“You must be an actor,” Kay said.
“I’ve been accused of that.”
“You seem too nice to be an actor.” She sat on the concrete next to me, her Reeboks in the sand.
“I don’t know if that’s a compliment or not.”
“It is. I know a lot of actors. My husband’s a director.”
“Oh really?” I tried to keep my voice calm and nonthreatening, even as my actor’s insides began to quiver, like a hungry dog hearing the supper dish being pulled off the shelf. Out-of-work actors are trained to pick up every possible vibe that might mean a connection to a job.
On the other hand, you can’t jump all over every person you meet who has some foot in the business. The two unbreakable rules for actors are Don’t be dull and Don’t be desperate.
Even though I was feeling desperate, I was not going to show it. But I sure wasn’t going to let this one go, either. Breaks come every which way, but never in a predictable fashion. Lana Turner, they tell us, was sitting in a tight sweater in Schwab’s Drug Store in Hollywood when a talent scout went gaga for her. All my sweaters were at home.
But I had Maddie. The point of reference. The chip. She had opened the door for me to talk to this woman, whose husband was—
“Would I know any of his films?” I said.
“He’s done some independent work, and now for cable.”
“Hey, some of the best stuff is on cable.”
“He had a movie on earlier, The Tin.
“The cop movie?” I let the excitement grow in my voice. “That was really good.” I hadn’t seen it, but I’d heard of it. Heard it was very good. And knew that this is a guy I would love to work for sometime.
“Thank you,” Kay Millard said. “We’re proud of it.”
“And you should be.” Okay, enough of the schmooze juice. Just play it loose.
“He working on anything new?” I said.
“He’s in preproduction now.”
Preproduction! Casting decision! Loose, baby, but not too loose. “Very cool,” I said. “Good to have something going on.” Idiot, you sound like you’ve got NOTHING going on. Desperate! “It’s a crazy business,” she said, in a transitional voice, indicating she was ready to change the subject.
No, not yet, not yet.
“Yeah,” I said, homing in on her. “I keep getting calls from Spielberg.”
“Spielberg?” Sounding impressed, if just a tad skeptical.
“Milt Spielberg, down at the deli. He wants me to settle the account.”
She gave me a (polite?) laugh, but I was still in the ballgame. A little joke to keep the industry talk rolling. Maybe she’d think I was funny and charming enough to introduce to her husband, whoever he was.
“Where’s she going?” Kay Millard said. I remember that clearly. She said it, looking past my shoulder. But it was like the voice came from across the street somewhere—white noise, inconsequential—because I had already formed my follow-up question and asked it the moment she stopped talking.
“Actually, I’m sort of connected to Antonio Troncatti. You’ll think this is funny, but—”
Kay’s eyes widened and she shouted, “Look out!”
I turned just in time to see it.
Maddie was running through the sand, head down, full of purpose. She was two steps from the front of the swings.
She was oblivious to the boy on the first swing, who was already beginning his descent from a huge arc.
Two steps . . . and I could barely open my mouth before it happened. The outstretched legs with the red tennis shoes—something else I will never forget—rammed into the side of Maddie’s head.
The impact was like a tennis racket smacking a ball. The physics of it were unequal, unforgiving.
Maddie lifted from the ground, her body turning like a flipped baseball bat.
I was on my feet, not knowing how I got there, as Maddie hit the sand.
She did not move—my eyes were locked on her as I raced forward. In my peripheral vision I was aware of other adults closing in, while children stood by in silent