Spin

ten.

"You want to fuck her.”

Michael nodded. He and Katrina sat on stools at the counter of a tiny coffee shop she’d rented for the scene with staff all around. I held my clipboard and waited, having been told to stay within Michael’s eyesight.

“Right,” he said.

“You know if you fuck her once, she’s yours.”

This conversation happened as if no one was around. As if there weren’t three gaffers playing with the lights and keys with clothes hangers clipping wires and aligning scrims. As if the assistant camera person wasn’t holding up his little light meter to every color of everything and calling out numbers.

“You have to fuck her,” Katrina said with real urgency. “You’re not getting it.”

“I’m getting it.”

Katrina hauled off and slapped Michael in the face. The sound echoed in the halls and rooms of my brain. I flinched and looked at them. I wasn’t supposed to. That was very personal actor/director business, and everyone else had the good sense to ignore it.

Michael made eye contact with me as it happened.

“That,” she said. “That feeling. Right now.”

“I have it,” he said, putting his hand to his lips as if he wanted to hide his face.

“Good. Get to makeup.” She winked at me as Michael strode off, then she called to the cameraman, “We’re shooting him from the right. Have the stand in mark it.” She walked off, barking more orders, and I marked the change in angle on my clipboard.

We would be filming late, and I girded myself with coffee and the knowledge that helping Katrina, even in the tiny role as part-time script supervisor, would right a great wrong that had been done her.

Michael played the scene, which did not include the woman in question, but her best friend. His character was about to bed her out of spite, like a man on a mission to save his testicles. He was riveting. He seized the scene, the set, the crew, and the mousy character who had no idea what she was getting embroiled in. He put his hands up her skirt as if he owned what was under it, but his character didn’t take an ounce of responsibility for what he was doing.

“Cut!” shouted Katrina.

I noted the shot and take, but only after the scene was fully broken. “There’s your Oscar,” I mumbled to Katrina.

“I just want someone to touch this thing with a ten-footer.” She took my clipboard and flipped through the pages on it. “We never got that last line on page thirty. I think we can ADR it.”

“I think WDE will get behind you. Honestly. As long as you promise not to sue anyone again.”

She made a pfft sound that promised nothing. “Dinner break, everyone!”

A production assistant ran up to me as I tucked my papers away. “There’s a man here asking for you.”

It took me about half a second to figure out who he was. “Dark hair and brown eyes?”

“Yeah. He brought dinner.”

“Of course he brought me dinner.” I had to process that while fixing my hair and straightening my sleeves.

“No,” he said. “He brought everyone dinner. He brought you wine.”

Movie sets that weren’t dependent on sunlight stayed up all day. So though I’d shown up at six p.m. to relieve the other script supervisor, the set had already been up for twelve hours. Because no one left when there was work to be done, meals and snacks were provided to the entire crew. Bigger productions got more services, with above the line crew (actors, director, producers) getting gourmet catering, and below the line crew (camera, grips, gaffe, PA, AD, on and on and on) getting something good but less noteworthy. On Katrina’s set, everyone got the same mediocre food from a truck wedged into the corner of the parking lot. A few long tables with folding chairs took up parking spaces. The day Antonio showed up for dinner, our French fry and burger habit was broken.

He had a bottle of red wine tucked under his arm and wore a grey sports coat with blood red polo. A woman in her sixties stood under his arm as he talked to Katrina. In front of them were four chafing dishes, plates, utensils, and a line of people.

“You do not get to invade my set,” Katrina said, but I saw her eye the food ravenously. It was peasant food—meaty, saucy deliciousness that would satiate everyone for another four or five hours.

“Mea culpa,” he said. “Your script supervisor accepted a dinner invitation, and Zia Giovanna thought it would be rude to bring only for us.”

“It’s my fault,” I said. “I forgot to tell you.”

She spun and gave a smirk just for me. “You lie.”

“If it means you can just eat, I’m guilty as charged.” I pointed at Antonio. “You, sir, are pushy.”

“As charged,” he said. “Let me make it up to you.”

“I think you just did.” A plate of lasagna was pushed into my hands, but Antonio took it from me and passed it to the person behind me.

“Come on. I’m not feeding you outside a trailer.”

He pulled me, but I yanked back. “I have to work.”

Katrina didn’t even look up from her food. “We have to set up the next shot. I’ll text you when I need you. Get out of here.”

I let Antonio put his arm around me and lead me onto the sidewalk. He held the wine bottle by the neck with his free hand. The neighborhood was light-industrial hip, with factories being converted into lofts and warehouses housing upscale restaurants.

“There’s a place around the corner,” he said. “No liquor license yet, so you bring your own.”

“Let me see.” I held my hand out for the bottle and inspected the label. “Napa? You brought a California wine?”

“It’s not good?”

“It’s a great wine, but I figured, you know, Italian?”

He laughed. “I was trying to not be pushy. Meet you halfway.”

“This is how you say ‘not pushy’?”

“You can run. I won’t chase you.”

“You won’t?” I handed him the bottle.

He smiled. “Yeah. I will.”

“Has it occurred to you that the chasing might be what you like about me, and that if I stop running, you might get bored?”

“I don’t get bored. There’s too much to do.”

“It’s funny,” I said. “That’s kind of what I find most boring. Everything to do.”

“You’re doing the wrong things, no? What do you love?”

We crossed onto a block of restaurants. The cobblestone streets were crowded. Tables were set on the sidewalks. Heat lamps kept the chill at bay.

“I don’t love anything, really.”

“Come on. The last thing you enjoyed, that made you feel alive.”

I stopped walking, feeling disproportional frustration with his questions.

He turned to face me and walk backward. “Kissing me doesn’t count.”

“Funny guy.”

A parking valet in a white shirt and black bowtie nearly ran into me, dodged, and opened a car door.

“Think hard,” Antonio said. “The last thing that made you love life.”

“Saying it would be inappropriate.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I could learn to love this thing too, I think.”

My annoyance turned into cruelty. “The last thing I loved doing? Working with Daniel on his campaign. I miss it.”

Still walking backward, arms out to express complete surrender, he said, “Then, to make you happy, I announce that I will run for mayor.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. He laughed with me, and I noticed how reserved it was for a man who claimed to enjoy life.

He was on me before I could take in another second of his smile. He pushed his mouth on mine, his arms enveloping me, his hands in my hair. My world revolved around the sensations of him, his powerful body and sweet tongue, his crisp smell, the scratch of the scruff on his chin, and the way he paid attention to his kiss.

I matched his attention so carefully that when we got knocked into by a valet, I gasped. Antonio pulled me close, holding me up and protecting me at the same time.

The valet held up his hands. “I’m so sorry.” He backed away toward a waiting car, reaching for the handle.

“You’re sorry?” Antonio asked. “You don’t look sorry.”

I’d be the first to admit he didn’t look sorry. He looked interested in opening the car door.

“It’s okay, Antonio. He didn’t do it on purpose.”

He looked down at me for a second before looking back at the valet. “He could have knocked you over.”

“But he didn’t.”

The valet opened the door with one hand and with the other, in a slight movement that could be denied later, flicked his hand, as if dismissing Antonio. Quick as a predator, Antonio took two steps toward the valet and pushed him against the car. I stepped into the street, heel bending on the cobblestone, and got between them. The valet’s face was awash in fear, and Antonio’s had an intensity that scared me.

“Antonio. Let’s go, before I have to go back to work,” I said.

He held his finger up to the valet’s face. “You’re going to be careful. Right?”

“Yeah, yeah.” The man looked as though he wanted to be anywhere else.

He stepped back, and I put my hand on his arm. He looked at me with an unexpected tenderness, as if grateful I’d pulled him from oncoming traffic.

“Is there a problem here?”

The authoritative voice cut our moment short. Antonio and I looked to its source.

A short man in a zip-up black jacket and black tie, with a moustache and comb-over, appeared to recognize Antonio when we turned toward him. “Spin.”

“Vito.” Antonio looked the man up and down, pausing on his tag for Veetah Valet Service – Proprietor. He touched it. “Really?”

“I can explain.”

“Yes, you can. After I bring the lady to our table. You’ll be here.”

“Yes, boss.”

Antonio put his arm around me and walked toward an Italian restaurant with tables outside.

“What was that about?” I asked.

“He works for me. I’m going to have to talk to him for a minute.”

“It wasn’t a big deal about the valet.”

“It’s not about the valet.”

I dropped my arm from his waist. He’d closed himself off so suddenly that touching him seemed out of place.

A young man with menus approached. “Outside or inside?”

“In,” Antonio answered, giving the waiter his bottle.

He brought us to a table inside. Antonio held my chair for me and sat across the table, looking a million miles away.

“What happened?” I asked. “You look really annoyed.”

He took my hand. “Trust me, it’s not you.”

“I know it’s not me. What did that guy do?”

“He’s not supposed to run other businesses while he works for me. That’s the rule.”

“That’s a weird rule.”

He smiled but looked distracted. “Let me go talk to him. Then you’ll have my full attention.”

I tapped my watch. “Quickly. I could turn into a pumpkin at any moment.”

After Antonio walked away, the waiter returned with two glasses and our bottle of Napa wine. He poured a touch in my glass, made small talk, filled both glasses, and left.

I waited dutifully, tapping on my phone and watching people. I was walking distance from home and a few blocks from the set, but I wanted to be at that table. I was hungry, and I liked the Antonio I’d walked there with.

The wall facing the street was all windows. Past the rows of outdoor tables, I saw the lights change and cars roll by. Valets ran back and forth with keys and tickets. Antonio came into view, pinching a cigarette to his mouth and letting the smoke drift from out casually. What a stunning man he was. Maybe not in the same affable mood as he had been on the walk to the restaurant, but the intensity that condensed around him made me unable to look away.

He took a last drag and flicked his cigarette into the street. Then he walked in, smoke still drifting from his mouth. “Sorry about that,” he said when he sat.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just a little talk.”

The waiter came, we heard the specials, and ordered.

Antonio picked up his wine. “Salute.”

I held up my glass and looked at his when they clinked. His hand was firm and powerful, all muscle and vein, and his knuckles were scraped raw. I brushed the backs of my fingers against them.

“Antonio? Were you just talking? Or do they drag when you walk?”

He smiled. He’d gone out tense and returned relaxed. “One of the valets pushed me into a wall. I tried to break my fall, and this is what happened. These guys, they’re paid per car, so they all jump to open doors a little too quick. How is the wine?” His smile was deadly.

“Good. What part of Italy are you from?”

“Napoli. The armpit of Italy, my mother used to say.”

“And you came here for the weather and the easy access to litigator privileges?”

He smirked. “Do I have to answer everything right away?”

“Chasing me around won’t go well if you don’t.”

He leaned over and touched my upper lip. Having him that close, I wanted to let those fingers explore my body. “You tell me where you got this scar. Then I’ll tell you why I came here.”

“I got the scar from a boy.”

“Ah. And I came here because of a girl.”

Appetizers came, filling little dumplings drenched in red sauce. He slipped a couple on my plate then a couple on his.

“You followed a woman here?” I watched him eat with clean efficiency.

“I followed men.” He moved on to the next subject as if his life wasn’t worth lingering on, brushing it off with a practiced, charming facility. “And this boy? His cutting wit, perhaps?”

“His high school ring. This girl. Was she chasing you?” I looked at him over my wine glass.

“No. She’s back home.”

“The girl is home, and you chased a man here because of her?”

“Close enough. What happened to the boy?” he asked.

“He’s dead.”

“Note to self. Don’t scar Theresa Drazen.”

I raised my wine glass to my lips to hide my expression. He’d gotten closer to a truth than he realized.

“So you own a hell of a lot of cars, a restaurant, and you’re a lawyer,” I said. “You contribute enough to the charity of your choice to get invited to the fundraisers. Oh, and you don’t like Porsches. You can beat a guy nearly unconscious with your bare hands. You’re a very interesting guy, Mister Spinelli.”

He touched my hand with the tips of his fingers, finding a curve and tracing it. “Running an accounting department for the biggest agency in Hollywood. Working on the mayoral candidate’s campaign. Helping your friend with her movie in your spare time. And the most poised, graceful woman I ever met. I’m not half as interesting as you.”

I formulated an answer, maybe something clever or maybe I’d continue to ask uncomfortable questions, but my phone dinged. It was Katrina’s new AD.

—We’re starting in ten—

“This has been fun,” I said. “I have to go.”

He stood, reaching into his pocket. “I’ll walk you.”

He tossed a few twenties down and went to the door with me, putting his hand on my back as we exited. I pressed my lips together, avoiding a silly smile. I liked his hand there.

I didn’t see Vito around. The valets were still working the block quickly, if less exuberantly.

“Tell me something,” I said. “Why weren’t you afraid that someone would call the cops that night with the Porsche? I mean, if you didn’t break that guy’s nose, I’ll eat my shoe.”

“Tell me what you think. Why would that be the case?” He put his hands in his pockets as he walked.

“That’s a common debate team switch. Putting the speculation on me.”

“Speculate.” He smiled like a movie star, and I couldn’t help but smile back.

“I’d rather you told me.”

“Maybe I’ve met enough cops in my profession to know how to talk to them, should it come to that.”

“Which profession is that?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

I hadn’t thought much of our harmless back and forth, but when he reminded me he was a lawyer, I caught a tightness in his voice. He glanced away. Most people were puzzles one had to simply collect enough pieces to figure out. My questioning had merely been fact-harvesting until he subtly evaded something so simple.

“If I look up criminal cases you’ve filed, what would I find? I mean, cases where you’ve dealt with the LAPD.”

He looked down at the curb as we crossed the street, holding me back when a car came even though I’d stopped.

“I’m a lawyer for my business. I’ve only had a couple of clients, and mostly they need my help talking to the police. Anything else you feel like you need to know?” He said it with good humor, but there was a wariness to his tone.

“Yes.” We got to the outer edge of the set, where the street was closed off to keep it silent.

“What?”

I knew I shouldn’t ask, but I was tired and still hungry, and the wine had sanded away my barriers. “Is Vito still outside the restaurant running his business?”

The look on his face melted me, as if a fissure had opened and he was trying desperately to keep the lava from pouring out. Then he smiled as if just having decided to let it all go. “Contessa, you are trouble.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Both.”

My phone dinged again. I didn’t look at it. I knew what it was about. “I have to go.”

“Come vuoi tu.” He cupped my cheek in his hand and kissed me quickly before walking away, the picture of masculine grace. He didn’t look back.