“I really don’t know.” I tuck the stack of papers under my arm and stand. “But I have to talk to Baptist.”
“Right, yeah, totally. You’d better tell him the script is terrible. Maybe you can get a better writer to fix it?”
“Cowan would rather murder me in the middle of Rittenhouse Park than let someone touch this.”
“You should let him. Might be better than putting that thing out into the world.”
I laughs because there’s nothing else I can do. I’m exhausted, stressed, and now I feel like I’ve been thrown into a pit. This script is the grave dirt showering down on my face, burrowing into my mouth and throat, burying me alive.
I head over to the coffee shop and sit at the usual table. Zoe brings me a coffee with a warm smile. “How’s it going? You guys haven’t been around much.”
“Everything’s fine,” I say and force myself to grin back. “Just been busy with the movie.”
“Yeah? It’s moving along?”
“Hopefully.”
“Well, let me know if you need anything.” She heads back behind the counter and I’m left alone to sulk.
What am I going to tell Baptist? I shoot him a quick text tell him to meet me at the usual spot before slipping through the script again. The more I look at it, the harder it is to believe Cowan wrote the thing. For starters, there’s no cover page and no name on it anywhere, and the paper looks like it’s starting to yellow from age. The notes in the margins are definitely Cowan’s handwriting—I’ve seen enough examples of that on contracts to recognize the ugly scrawl—but the typewritten bits could be anyone.
Most damning of all, the script is extremely mediocre. It’s not as bad as Max seems to think, but it’s definitely nowhere near the level and quality I’ve come to expect from Cowan. His films are beautifully shot and cinematic, but their heart lies in the expert writing, and this script is so far from expert it’s almost embarrassing.
There’s no way we can make this movie using this pile of garbage.
The bell for the door rings and Baptist stalks over. He’s in all black today and looks good. His hair is still wet from the shower and he slumps down into the chair opposite me, looking tired, but with a smile on his lips.
“I fully expected to have to track you down today, Webb,” he says, cracking his neck. “And yet here you are.” His eyes slip to the script and there’s a hunger in his expression that makes me want to dig a hole and bury myself. I don’t know why I’m so embarrassed about this—I didn’t write the damn thing—but for some reason, I’m taking it personally.
Like by entrusting me with it, Cowan also shifted responsibility of it over to me.
“We gotta talk about this.” I jab a finger down on the script’s blank cover page. “I read it last night.”
“And?”
“Max read it this morning.”
He laughs lightly. “Figures your brother would read our script before I do.”
I hesitate then push it over. “Take a look.”
He accepts it and is about to skim through when Zoe comes over with his coffee. He thanks her and winks at me before opening to the first page, clearing his throat, and diving in.
“I just want to say that I was really surprised when I read it,” I say as his eyes move across the beginning, skimming down, and on to the next page. “I read it three times last night trying to see if I was missing something. It took me forever to understand Cowan’s freaking awful handwriting, but honestly, it’s just—” I try to find the words. How do I say it’s bad without sayingit’s bad?
Baptist’s face slowly darkens. He goes from interested, to confused, to angry, and begins turning pages. “Is this some kind of fucking joke?”
“Uh, I mean, I don’t think so. I know it’s not very good—”
“Blair.” He closes the pages. The sound of my actual name makes me stiffen all over. “I’m not fucking around right now. Is this some kind ofjoke?”
“Don’t be a dick to me,” I say, my own anger rising to match his. “Cowan gave me that stupid script but I didn’t have anything to do with it. I didn’t write it, I didn’t consult on it—”
“He just handed it over and that’s it? He didn’t say anything else about it?”
“No, why the hell would he?”
Baptist leans back in his chair and stares at me for a few seconds before speaking in a quiet, gravelly tone.