A young reporter—his press pass says he writes for Variety—draws Angela aside. “Ms. Cassano, ‘Scandal in Bohemia’ marks your transition from actor to filmmaker. At what point in your career did it hit you that you wanted to make this big career move?”
“I’d been thinking about directing films for quite a while,” she says, not bothering to correct him, to say that this isn’t the first film she’s directed. It’s a better story if it is. “When this opportunity literally fell into my lap, how could I pass it up?”
Fell into my lap is a bit of an overstatement, but Glenn Lancaster took defeat more gracefully than Ruby or Angela expected. In return for their silence about the lethal prop pistol and Lancaster’s part in the embezzlement scheme, Ruby got to play the lead she’d been promised and Angela took over as director. Angela let Lancaster know that she’d stashed the cassette with footage from that disastrous first take in a safe-deposit box. She’s taking her cue from Irene Adler, who tells Sherlock Holmes that she’s keeping the compromising photograph “to preserve a weapon which will always secure me from any steps which he might take in the future.”
The reporter gives Angela an earnest look. “As a female director—”
“Just ‘director,’” she says, cutting him off. “You don’t say ‘female reporter,’ or ‘female postal worker.’”
The reporter colors. Licks his lips. “I understand you’re finished shooting a sequel and starting something new? Can you tell me more?”
Angela luxuriates in the question. Over the reporter’s shoulder she sees Ruby surrounded by photographers. Anthony Fox is trying to edge into the limelight. Unnoticed, Glenn Lancaster moves quickly through the crowd, making his way into the theater. There are no photo ops for executive producers. Angela feels sorry for the beautiful young woman on his arm. She looks familiar, and after a moment Angela realizes she might have been one of the production assistants that worked on Scandal. In charge of props? Possibly.
The lights in the theater lobby are flashing and ushers are shooing people inside. Angela answers the reporter’s question and a few more before excusing herself. She hurries inside and takes her seat next to Ruby.
The house lights go down. The theater reverberates with music as the movie starts. There, among the opening credits, is Angela’s production company: Adventuress Films LLC. The logo is the red outline of two women, both wearing slinky low-cut gowns. Their arms are linked.
MARTIN X
by Gary Phillips
The dean of black empowerment lay dead on the worn throw rug. A ragged bullet hole violated Professor Lincoln Barrow’s wrinkled forehead. He was dressed in slacks and slippers, a ratty robe splayed open over an athletic T-shirt covering his pot belly. Near his outstretched hand was the spilled cup of tea he’d been holding. The stuff had soaked into the rug, the cup and saucer amazingly unbroken though the summation was he’d dropped to the floor instantly after being shot.
“That was part of a set C.L.R. James had given him,” said the beefier of the two men who stood looking down at the body. He meant the fine china items on the floor. “He mentioned it to me once,” he added, as if that meant the murdered man had shared a confidence.
The one he told this to was also over six feet. He had shoulders like a linebacker, thick Fu Manchu mustache, modest sideburns, and hair flattened on top and close-cropped at the sides, what they called a “fade” in uptown barbershops. John “Dock” Watson turned from the body and began inspecting the spacious room—chamber, he supposed it would be called in the Post. Two walls were composed of tall built-in bookshelves. On those packed shelves were numerous first and rare editions, from W.E.B. DuBois’ The Soul of Black Folk to Capital by Karl Marx and a personally signed copy of I am not Spock by the actor Leonard Nimoy.