San Diego Noir

She took him to a café that sat on a corner at the feet of the old El Cortez Hotel, up in the hills above downtown where the one-way streets could make you crazy if you didn’t know the territory. The café was mundane and the place wasn’t even a hotel anymore—all the building played host to these days were business seminars and wedding receptions—so Fenderson couldn’t figure what they were doing there until they were seated at a table and Alcott explained the irony in her choice of setting. Apparently, during its infancy, Comic-Con used to be held at the El Cortez, down in a basement that was far too large for the meager turnout it was able to generate at the time. Alcott knew this because she’d been coming to the Con forever, even back then when she was just a pimply faced kid, having dreamed of drawing comic books years before the thought of being a screenwriter ever entered her mind.

Fenderson nodded and pretended to give a shit. He still couldn’t recall anything about Alcott as she’d appeared in his Learning Bridge extension class, but her mention of screenwriting gave him an idea as to how he might discretely refresh his memory. “So how’s the script going?” he asked.

“The script?”

“The one you were writing in class.”

“Oh. That,” Alcott said, clearly embarrassed the subject had come up. “I gave up on it. Everybody I showed it to said it was awful.” She flashed that eerie smile again. “Just like you did.”

“Me? Did I say that?”

“In so many words. You told the whole class. But I didn’t take it personally, because you liked to say similar things about everyone’s writing.”

Fenderson briefly considered denying it, then decided to save his breath. Of course he’d said some terrible things to the morons in that class; they’d paid their tuition to have a working professional assess their writing in an honest and straightforward manner, and he wouldn’t have been doing them any favors by killing them with kindness. The sooner they realized they’d just be muddying the waters real writers like Fenderson had to swim in, glutting the market with unsolicited screenplays that were all but unreadable, the better. Cruel? Fenderson liked to think he was simply giving them their money’s worth.

“Remind me what it was about. I’m drawing a blank,” Fenderson said.

“It’s not important. I’ve moved on. And it’s not my writing we came here to discuss anyway. It’s my abilities as a comics illustrator.”

“Yeah, I know, but—”

“Why don’t you tell me a little about your novel. So I’ll know whether or not it’d even be worth your while to see more of my work.”

Rather than argue, Fenderson gave her the bare bones of it, as careful as ever not to say more than was absolutely necessary. People were always on the lookout for what Fenderson had to offer, a fresh, new idea with endless commercial possibilities, and even a nobody like Alcott could get him ripped off if he took her too far into his confidence.

She listened to his pitch without comment, sipping her tea and picking at her salad, her face as devoid of expression as a porcelain doll’s. If he hadn’t known better, Fenderson would have thought she was bored by it all, until he wrapped things up and she nodded her head and said, “Wow. That’s really something.”

“It is, right? It’ll make a hell of a movie, but I thought selling it as a graphic novel first would be the best way to get a film deal done.”

“Sure.”

“Which brings us back to you and your work. I’d love to have you onboard as the illustrator, but I haven’t seen enough of what you can do to know whether or not you’d be right for the project. Have I?”

Without further encouragement, Alcott opened the portfolio propped against the chair beside her and eased a page out of it, handling it with the care of an obstetrician delivering a newborn. It was the pencil-and-ink page she’d allowed Fenderson to have a look at earlier; the text seemed to suggest some kind of weird superhero/sci-fi hybrid. The words meant nothing to Fenderson but the artwork was striking, proving that his initial impression, based on just the first panel, had been accurate. Alcott was damn good. Certainly good enough to illustrate his proposal. And beyond that, who gave a rat’s ass? Once he had his novel sold, the publisher could sign Alcott up or replace her with whomever they liked.

“Yeah. I think you’re my illustrator,” Fenderson said.

Alcott took her artwork back and returned it to her portfolio. “Wonderful.”

He thought she’d be excited, but she almost looked more sad than happy.

“Now, about what I can pay you …” he started to say.

But Alcott cut him off: “I know. It won’t be much. I’m just a beginner and you’re a real pro. I’m sure whatever you offer me will be more than fair.”