catatonic from an overdose. Things havenât been quite the same between the two rags since, though thereâs been no buzz yet about a formal breakup.
âJust with a little less ⦠motion , Johnette says in her icy snarl, biting off the last word.
âYes, Renny, weâre looking for the same urban backwash effect youâve been doing, but not so much that it detracts from Johnny and Miyuki. A bit less movement in the background, a bit more contrast to bring focus to the actors and the clothes. You understand, Chalk says regally, pouring on the Professional Indoor Sincerity-Speak.
You prick, I want to snarl at him. Can you even spell photography , or do you have people who do that for you?
But I say:
âOf course. You want something a little more toned-down, low-light, maybe fewer lightscapes?
âWe donât want any lightscapes , Johnette says in her warmthless, gender-neutral voice.
Itâs nice to see Johnette hasnât gone all warm and fuzzy on me. You need to be able to count on some things in life.
Johnette continues mercilessly:
âHow do you do those anyway, do you just shoot out the window of a moving taxicaâ
The food arrives, allowing me to regroup. I can hardly look at my seafood bruschetta, but take a few obligatory nips to look busy. Mousy Diane, who looks like she hasnât eaten or slept for a week, is about to tear into her calamari when Chalk abruptly sends her out on some meaningless errand. Fabryce canât stop toying with his BlackBerry, probably lining up a date at Splash. Johnette just glares from beneath her steel bangs, the serrated edge of her steak knife, dripping blood, turned toward me. Iâd rather be anywhere but here.
This is how it happens.
There are moments of such unforeseeable synchronicity that they actually make you Believe. This is a good one. My phone gives a double-thump heartbeat in my jacket pocket, which tells me Prince Williamâs ready to meet, which means heâs got next weekâs speak number. This is a legitimate excuse to cut the Roundup meeting short if it gets too unbearable. Business is business.
Then Marcus Chalk says:
âOkay, Renny, September coverâs yours. Twenty thousand. Sign here.
And then my phone gives out the soft sample of a tritone from a Balinese gamelan . That would be L. Her timingâs always been uncanny (I think she really is a witch).
Now I just need to get out of here. I make a show of reading the contract, but only the payment catches my eye. I scrawl my signature across the bottom of each page with my titanium Thoth and hand them back to Marcus Chalk, who wordlessly co-signs and hands me back one copy. (Youâd think by now digital signatures would be legally binding; fucking lawyers.)
Any further conversation is perfunctory; the main business has been transacted, and my presence is no longer required, nor perhaps even desired. The feeling is mutual. The end of dinner is a blur. Without quite knowing it Iâm outside on the sidewalk, trying to hail a cab, check my messages, and suck down as much of a Davidoff as possible. Luck is with me; I hail a Ford Friesian. Best kind of cab, really, since Iâm alone. While hybrids are righteous and good and blah blah blah, those separate seats make serious backseat cavorting well-nigh impossible. If you stick with the third-row bench seat, you risk the ire of a pissed-off cabdriver, who knows what youâre up to and a) is worried youâll get him a ticket from cops with nothing better to do than hassle him, b) worried youâre going to make a mess back there heâll have to clean up later, or c) wants to watch. Since more and more cabs now have cameras in them, itâs not a good idea to risk an altercation over anything other than the fare (unless youâre already in business with him).
First things first. A short exchange with Prince William, and weâre set to meet at the Broome Street Bar and
âJust with a little less ⦠motion , Johnette says in her icy snarl, biting off the last word.
âYes, Renny, weâre looking for the same urban backwash effect youâve been doing, but not so much that it detracts from Johnny and Miyuki. A bit less movement in the background, a bit more contrast to bring focus to the actors and the clothes. You understand, Chalk says regally, pouring on the Professional Indoor Sincerity-Speak.
You prick, I want to snarl at him. Can you even spell photography , or do you have people who do that for you?
But I say:
âOf course. You want something a little more toned-down, low-light, maybe fewer lightscapes?
âWe donât want any lightscapes , Johnette says in her warmthless, gender-neutral voice.
Itâs nice to see Johnette hasnât gone all warm and fuzzy on me. You need to be able to count on some things in life.
Johnette continues mercilessly:
âHow do you do those anyway, do you just shoot out the window of a moving taxicaâ
The food arrives, allowing me to regroup. I can hardly look at my seafood bruschetta, but take a few obligatory nips to look busy. Mousy Diane, who looks like she hasnât eaten or slept for a week, is about to tear into her calamari when Chalk abruptly sends her out on some meaningless errand. Fabryce canât stop toying with his BlackBerry, probably lining up a date at Splash. Johnette just glares from beneath her steel bangs, the serrated edge of her steak knife, dripping blood, turned toward me. Iâd rather be anywhere but here.
This is how it happens.
There are moments of such unforeseeable synchronicity that they actually make you Believe. This is a good one. My phone gives a double-thump heartbeat in my jacket pocket, which tells me Prince Williamâs ready to meet, which means heâs got next weekâs speak number. This is a legitimate excuse to cut the Roundup meeting short if it gets too unbearable. Business is business.
Then Marcus Chalk says:
âOkay, Renny, September coverâs yours. Twenty thousand. Sign here.
And then my phone gives out the soft sample of a tritone from a Balinese gamelan . That would be L. Her timingâs always been uncanny (I think she really is a witch).
Now I just need to get out of here. I make a show of reading the contract, but only the payment catches my eye. I scrawl my signature across the bottom of each page with my titanium Thoth and hand them back to Marcus Chalk, who wordlessly co-signs and hands me back one copy. (Youâd think by now digital signatures would be legally binding; fucking lawyers.)
Any further conversation is perfunctory; the main business has been transacted, and my presence is no longer required, nor perhaps even desired. The feeling is mutual. The end of dinner is a blur. Without quite knowing it Iâm outside on the sidewalk, trying to hail a cab, check my messages, and suck down as much of a Davidoff as possible. Luck is with me; I hail a Ford Friesian. Best kind of cab, really, since Iâm alone. While hybrids are righteous and good and blah blah blah, those separate seats make serious backseat cavorting well-nigh impossible. If you stick with the third-row bench seat, you risk the ire of a pissed-off cabdriver, who knows what youâre up to and a) is worried youâll get him a ticket from cops with nothing better to do than hassle him, b) worried youâre going to make a mess back there heâll have to clean up later, or c) wants to watch. Since more and more cabs now have cameras in them, itâs not a good idea to risk an altercation over anything other than the fare (unless youâre already in business with him).
First things first. A short exchange with Prince William, and weâre set to meet at the Broome Street Bar and
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