It's a jazz club, sadly lacking in alcohol. Jack Driscoll sits in a large booth with a collection of colleagues, all debating whether an artist should suffer for his art
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Weston had a lot of things to say. Victoria listened to none of it. Oh, she heard how long he’d been working for Driscoll and how profitable it was representing a critic’s darling in the Federal Theater, but caring about it was beyond her. He was an over glorified assistant. He would be forgotten soon enough. He also might be unemployed, depending on which of her suspicions were true
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“-the fact is, the more you wallow in self pity, the less you’re creating art. You’re sitting around feeling sorry for yourself and-guys?”
Jack was in the heat of explaining his position when his audience went silent. They all looked at a spot behind him with terror. He furrows his brows. “Guys?”
And does what they’re doing: looks at what’s behind him.
Worst of all is the expression on Jack Driscoll’s face. The cliché “if looks could kill” applies here. Weston laughs nervously and places his hand on Victoria’s back. “Guys, this is Victoria-”
“I know who she is,” Jack hisses. His eyes dart to Victoria, and Weston almost expects the woman to drop dead from the glare.
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Jack was in the heat of explaining his position when his audience went silent. They all looked at a spot behind him with terror. He furrows his brows. “Guys?”
And does what they’re doing: looks at what’s behind him.
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“Jack!”
Weston, for his part, is trying to figure out why everyone is staring at him as if he’s just said something dreadfully offensive.
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“I know who she is,” Jack hisses. His eyes dart to Victoria, and Weston almost expects the woman to drop dead from the glare.
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