“Arrgh!” Mick knew the layout of his study, hadn’t bothered switching on the light. Had made the journey to his desk many times in the dark. But apparently that meddling woman had subtly rearranged the furniture in front of his desk, and he had rammed the little toe on his right foot into the wooden box with brass fittings that was supposed to be under the window. “Goddammit!” It would have been satisfying to hop around on one foot clutching the injured toe, but he couldn’t even do that, because God knew what else had been shifted around. No. He had to shuffle his feet slowly, the script tucked under one arm, the other outstretched until his fingertips landed first on the back of one of the leather armchairs in front of his desk and then onto the desk itself. Once there, he was able to find the desk lamp and switch it on. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the light. The room looked the same, but different. The two armchairs had been angled slightly, and the wooden box was now acting as a side table. There was a small crystal and silver bowl with almonds in it. She had dragged a rug from somewhere, woven with warm earth tones, a few small tweaks that made a room into something more. He dumped the screenplay on the desk, hobbled to the bowl and snagged a few almonds, rattled them around in the palm of his hand, trying to decide if he was pissed off or delighted. He popped the almonds into his mouth. They tasted good—smoky and salty. That’s when he noticed a bottle of his favorite whiskey on the bookshelf, sitting on a silver tray with two crystal tumblers like a minor miracle. He smiled, rounded the armchair forgetting to limp, poured a finger of whiskey into a crystal tumbler, and then returned to his desk and settled in to work.

Mick had idly browsed through the Columbia screenplay while eating dinner. He had picked the script as company, a dinner companion so he didn’t have to face another meal alone. He wasn’t looking for a new project, but Ron Berg, the Columbia studio head, had bulldozed his secretary, Lois, into booking a conference call for ten a.m. Mick decided to skim a few pages so he could be semi-articulate when he turned Ron Berg down. There was no way Mick was going to dive into another project. He planned to take a couple of months off after the press for Retribution wrapped up. Go somewhere tropical. Laze in the sun. Swim. Fish. Down a couple of frozen cocktails with pointless paper umbrellas that he liked to grump about but privately adored.