By Lincoln Reed
“Got a mission for you, kid.”
Judy Suarez tapped the end of her cigarette into an ash tray. I leaned against the office doorway, pad and pen ready.
The Script Doctor’s eyes sparkled. “You ever read Blake Snyder’s magnum opus?”
“Who?”
“Never mind.” She inhaled a long drag, exhaling a plume of smoke that blended with her gray hair. “Need you to do a favor for Lisa Akande.”
I almost dropped my pen. “Really?”
Judy didn’t need to explain. Client Lisa Akande was the bread and butter for our small “screenplay fixing” business. Thanks to Judy’s script notes, Lisa’s most recent work had made the coveted Black List, recognized as one of the best unproduced screenplays of the year. And she had just landed a job in a writing room for a new Netflix show. Inside Judy’s two-person office above Hollywood Boulevard, Lisa Akande’s name always took top priority.
“I’d do it myself, but I’m tied up with producers all afternoon,” Judy said. “Today Lisa’s in meetings with studios, her assistant has a fever that could cook an egg, and her manager’s out of the country.” Judy smirked between puffs. “You’re all we’ve got.”
She squished the cig into her ash tray. “Lisa’s cat is being released from the vet. Need you to pick it up and deliver it to Lisa’s apartment.”
Easy enough.
Judy rattled off the location of the veterinarian along with the drop-off address. “And Daryl,” she said as I started to turn away, “this cat—it’s Lisa’s muse. Anything happens to her, it’s your head… and mine.”
Bumper to bumper traffic through LA side streets ended outside the office of veterinarian Dr. Siddiqui. At the reception desk, the doc handed me a plastic crate, the kind used for transporting pets. Inside huddled a white cat with bloodshot eyes.
“Afraid she’s in rough shape,” he said, giving me a pill bottle. “One of these every hour. Make sure she swallows.”
Yikes. That wasn’t in the job description.
I returned to my Honda Fit and placed the crate in the passenger seat. The cat gave a pitiful mew. I reached for the keys.
Rat-a-tat.
I froze.
The Glock tapped the driver’s side window once more.
“Don’t move,” said a gruff voice. He opened the passenger door behind me, slid in, and closed it.
My throat tightened. What’s happening?
“Easy, bud,” said the man dressed in shabby street clothes. “Venice Beach. No speeding tickets. Nothing crazy.”
Crazy? You’re the one with the gun!
“I can’t order a taxi, you feel me? You try any funny business”—he pressed the gun against the headrest—“you better be good with Jesus.”
“He’s all right with me.” Shocked at my own remark under the circumstances, I glimpsed the man’s leer in the rearview mirror.
“Doobie Bros? Hey, that’s savvy. Real cool.” His lips narrowed. “Drive, Doobie.”
As I turned the Honda onto the freeway, I considered my limited options. What about the medicine?
Lisa’s cat meowed.
“Yours?” the man queried.
I shook my head.
He snorted. “It got a name?”
I never asked.
“Well, Doobie?”
With a stammer and broken fragments, I explained my mission for Lisa Akande. “Just please… don’t hurt the cat.”
He leaned forward. “You a screenwriter?”
“I work for a script doctor.”
His firm expression cracked into a grin. Grubby fingers dug into his torn coat, revealing a rolled tube of paper bound by rubber bands that snapped when he tugged. “Been working on a script myself.”
Isn’t everyone?
“It’s raw. And edgy. People love that. Just need some help refining the opening. Name’s Matty, by the way. Pen name is Castile Juniper.”
Matty read the opening scene. “Think your boss can fix it?”
Not wanting to anger a man holding a gun, I faked a smile. “Good. It’s good.”
“Liar. Everybody says it sucks.”
I gulped. “Well, maybe the protagonist is too… uh, how to say it… mean? Coarse? Not sympathetic enough?”
Matty sneered. “It’s my life story.”
“Oh.”
“Bet you want to know why I’ve commandeered your clunker, don’t you?”
The cat hissed. Matty imitated the noise and poked out his tongue at the feline. “Sickly thing, ain’t it?”
“If I don’t get her medicine within the next few minutes, she will be.”
“Sounds like my clients. One of them’s after me, too. Ran out of supply and went nuts. Trashed my apartment. Slashed my tires. Death threats. Was tailing me when I ran into you.”
“Clients?”
Matty sighed. “Druggies. The whole gambit.” He paused. “Got a safehouse in Venice Beach. Just drive and we’ll pretend this never happened.”
When we arrived at his destination, I parked the car underneath a palm tree. Matty squeezed my shoulder. “Thanks, Doob.”
Just then, the back windshield shattered. Gunshots thundered.
With nothing but adrenaline and instinct guiding me, I dove sideways into the passenger seat and covered the cat. Matty cursed and returned fire.
I clutched the crate until my knuckles cramped. Matty traded bullets with the other gunman—presumably his client—until both were left moaning on the sidewalk. Later, police lights flashed and the men were whisked away in an ambulance.
Once I got my bearings, Lisa’s uninjured cat nuzzled my finger. “Let’s get you home.”
After delivering the pet, I returned to the office where Judy remained at her desk.
I plopped Matty’s bloodstained screenplay on the table, collapsed into a chair, and retold my misadventure. Judy skimmed through the script’s first few pages. “Needs work.”
“That’s all you can say? I almost died.”
My boss took out her red pen and started working on Matty’s script. “Today you came through big, grasshopper. You’ve got sand.”
She reached into her desk and tossed me a copy of the magnum opus, orange tabby on the cover, scrambling for safety.
“Take the rest of the week off and read it,” she said. “Then get to work.”
“On what?”
“Fixing Castile Juniper’s screenplay. About time we take your apprenticeship up a notch, don’t you think?”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I love the “film noir” feel. Thank goodness the cat made it through!