Meeting at Weston's.
Mr. Weston’s office was full of things that separated him from the destitute: his desk made of deep ebony; his typewriter, Underwood and underused; his phone, brass and shiny; his pens made of stone and as useless as the Underwood. He scanned Vikki’s resume as if he actually found it interesting. “Impressive,” he said. “You’ve done a lot of work in Havana.” He glanced up at her, removing his glasses. Vikki wiggled her leg.
“There isn’t a very active theater scene in Havana, not compared to the one in New York, and the city is lacking talent. If the producers could find someone with talent, someone who they could look to as their only hope in creating a notable theater scene, they held on to them. I was one of them, if I may say so myself. Now, Mr. Weston-” She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. The shirt was, perhaps, too low-cut for the weather in New York, but she had just moved in from Cuba. How could anyone possibly expect her to have a wardrobe full of warm clothes yet? “Do you think I would be a good match for Mr. Driscoll’s play?”
Weston’s eyes lingered on her, his hand pressed against his mouth and pushing it upwards into a man-made smirk. He wasn’t interested in her resume, and it didn’t matter. The resume was a fake. The resume was a ploy to get closer to Jack Driscoll. She smiled at him, and the other edge of his mouth curved up. “How about this-Mr. Driscoll and a few friends are having a small meeting at a club tonight. I’m invited. If you aren’t doing anything tonight, I can pick you up and introduce you to the writer himself.”
Vikki’s eyes lit up in false excitement. “Could you, really? I would like that very much. I’ve heard so much about Mr. Driscoll-”
Weston held up his hands. “Don’t work yourself up. Just tell me where to send the car tonight.”
And she did.
“There isn’t a very active theater scene in Havana, not compared to the one in New York, and the city is lacking talent. If the producers could find someone with talent, someone who they could look to as their only hope in creating a notable theater scene, they held on to them. I was one of them, if I may say so myself. Now, Mr. Weston-” She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. The shirt was, perhaps, too low-cut for the weather in New York, but she had just moved in from Cuba. How could anyone possibly expect her to have a wardrobe full of warm clothes yet? “Do you think I would be a good match for Mr. Driscoll’s play?”
Weston’s eyes lingered on her, his hand pressed against his mouth and pushing it upwards into a man-made smirk. He wasn’t interested in her resume, and it didn’t matter. The resume was a fake. The resume was a ploy to get closer to Jack Driscoll. She smiled at him, and the other edge of his mouth curved up. “How about this-Mr. Driscoll and a few friends are having a small meeting at a club tonight. I’m invited. If you aren’t doing anything tonight, I can pick you up and introduce you to the writer himself.”
Vikki’s eyes lit up in false excitement. “Could you, really? I would like that very much. I’ve heard so much about Mr. Driscoll-”
Weston held up his hands. “Don’t work yourself up. Just tell me where to send the car tonight.”
And she did.