Today's Reading

She rubs the puppy manically. "This is a Chow Chow. I just Googled them! They're worth over eleven thousand dollars! And they're just giving them away." Her eyes run over the bins of puppies labeled with a variety of exotic names. Löwchen. Pharaoh Hound. Tibetan Mastiff. One particularly rowdy bin in the back is peculiarly labeled Program Dropouts.

"Terrific," I reply. "But it's also a dog. And you have four kids."

"So?"

"Two other dogs."

She gives an annoyed what-does-that-have-to-do-with-this? sniff.

"One stray cat. Two snakes," I continue.

Her bottom lip begins to pucker out.

"In a house that's twelve hundred square feet with a dining table that doubles as your office."

Silence.

"Just last week you tried to give away your cat. To me."

The curls nestled at the nape of her neck quiver as she shakes her head. "Mike texted you, didn't he?" she spits out, squinting at me.
"You're teaming up on me."

"The last thing you need to add to your life is a puppy. Despite the fact they're worth more than your minivan."

"But—"

Our eyes lock for several seconds. Continuous dings are coming from both our phones, no doubt all from Mike.

Finally, with a massive shrug that sets off all the sequins down to her toes, she groans through her teeth. "Fine." Multiple hands around us move in to take the dog, which she blindly releases. She plops the dog I'm holding off to a second set of hands. "You know, if you ever fall into a bad case of thallium sulfate poisoning, don't come looking for me to bail you out with any of that fancy Radiogardase antidote." She flings her arms out. "Because heaven knows you can't support me despite all I do for you."

A short bark of a laugh chimes behind us, and simultaneously, Paula and I turn.

A man thirty years my senior stands before us, quietly out-dressing everyone—down to the woman dressed as a sheet of computer paper and egg—in the room. A single red rose rests in the breast pocket of his tuxedo jacket. Thick salt-and-pepper brows hover like rain clouds over baby-blue eyes. A frank, permanent crease sits between his brow, as though he's spent much of his life disapproving of people and is unafraid to show it.

But his eyes are bright, earnest even, as he looks at me and stretches out one hand. As we shake, Paula's eyes become round as saucers.

And all at once it clicks.

This is Victor Goodwin in the flesh.

Creator and executive producer for Goodwin Productions. The brains behind fifteen films. The man who has brought in over two billion dollars at the box office worldwide, and innumerable TV series. The creator of the beloved ever-running sitcom for Wagner Television and billions of people around the world.

Victor Goodwin. The legend himself.

Another man moves around us.

No, that's not correct.

He makes a massively wide berth around us, pushing into others rather than enter our conversation. I cast a quick glance around and realize everyone has withdrawn a good five feet.

"You crime writers certainly have a way with insults," he says.

"Mr. Goodwin," I say, surprise clear in my voice. I give a quick nod. "This is an honor."

"Finn Masters, is that right?" Goodwin replies.

I didn't think Paula's eyes could get wider, but there they are. Her contacts are going to fall out.

"Yes. That's right."

"I must say, I'm a huge fan of your work."

The words hit me like a blow.

A tiny whistle escapes Paula's lips.

For the first time, I'm finding it very hard, very hard indeed, to give my patent reply.

"It's...a joint effort," I say after a moment. "Everyone in the writers room is essential." After a long pause I add, "Especially Paula here. She's been on the team since the beginning."

Paula, who's turned quite wooden, teeters under my pat on her shoulder.

"Pleasure," he says, but his eyes don't leave mine. "I've been following you for some time, Masters. You've left an imprint. A mark upon the show."

"For the better I hope."

"Obviously," he answers with a slight flick of his brow, as though it was stupid of me to ask for reassurance.

"Well," I say unsteadily. "Thank you. That's quite the compliment."

"Not a compliment. The truth."


This excerpt ends on page 12 of the paperback edition.

Monday, April 1st, we begin the book Downfall by Mark Rubinstein.
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