“Silly them, thinking they should have some say about how their money is spent.”
“I’ve been doing this a long time. I know how it works, but there are some things I know only with my gut. And casting this movie is one of those things, so I need the studio execs to stay the hell out of my way while I find the right actress.”
“It’s still kind of a miracle how you got Dessi Blue. Like, once-in-a-lifetime.”
I’d been traveling from one interview for Cracked to another. Driving through a rural Alabama town, I almost missed the small roadside marker.
Birthplace of Dessi Blue (1915–2005)
Driving, I didn’t have time to read all the fine print beneath the heading that told more about her life, but the gas station in the tiny town where I stopped was on Dessi Blue Drive. Inside, I asked the cashier about Dessi Blue, and the rest is history. That sent me on the winding road that has brought me to the most ambitious movie I’ve ever attempted—a biopic about the life story of a hugely talented jazz singer most have never heard of and never knew.
“Darren’s writing the script?” Monk’s question jars me from that pivotal memory.
“Uh, actually, no. I really think this story should be written by a woman.” I pause, leaving plenty of room for the bomb I’m about to drop. “I want Verity Hill.”
Monk’s knife stops mid-slice into his medium-rare steak. He looks up, blinking at me a few times. His knife and fork clatter when he drops them on his plate. A muscle works in his jaw.
“Look, I know you two have a past,” I say.
He answers with scornful laughter and sits back in his chair, making no move to return to his steak.
“You don’t know shit about our past,” he says, his voice even, but his usual good humor absent.
“I know you dated in college and—”
“Don’t speculate, Canon.”
“I mean, she didn’t say it would be a problem for her, so I assumed you’d be—”
“You already asked her? Before you asked me?”
“Sorry, bruh, but the studio was more interested in who would write the script than who’d do the music. She’s in high demand since she won the Golden Globe.”
“Yeah, I get it.”
“I needed to nail her down, get her attached as early as possible.”
“I said I get it.” Monk’s words are diced up into tiny pieces, but it sounds like he’s choking on them. “She’s fine. I’m fine.”
“Yeah, she didn’t seem to have a problem with you.”
“She shouldn’t,” he mutters under his breath, but loud enough for me to hear it.
“So it was a bad breakup?”
“It was college.” Monk picks up his fork and knife, slices into the tender pink meat. “We grown, and we’re professionals.”
“Make sure, because I don’t like personal shit messing up my movies.”
“Oh, you mean like Camille and Primal,” he says with a sudden evil grin.
“Man, if you don’t—”
“Okay, okay.” He puts up both hands in surrender. “You drop Verity and I won’t mention Camille.”
“Bet.” I flick my chin up and lift my empty glass so our server can see I need a refill. “We got our studio. Our writer. Our music. Now if I can just find Dessi. I don’t want to cast the guy until I know who Dessi’ll be. I need to see who she’ll have chemistry with.”
“Makes sense,” Monk says distractedly, looking down at the phone by his plate. “Oh, damn. Good for her.”