Monty always was a good poker player. He'd had everyone in our group bluffed. Everyone but me. Being so much older and divorced had given me an advantage back then. Still gave me an advantage a 25-year-old lad.
His large hands made the wine bottle look small but he wasn't clumsy. I'd seen him dance. It was pure invitation. Yes, I definitely appreciated Monty - in the same way I appreciated the leaves on Arthur's driveway. Beauty for its own sake. Well, maybe there was a little lust in there, but Monty didn't need to know that.
'What's your angle on the band?' he asked.
'I'm not sure.' I went to get the wine glasses. 'I know what I don't want to do. I don't want to milk it for sensation. The Tough Romantics weren't some manufactured pop group. I want to do them justice.' We were just kids. I heard the echo of Arthur's voice. We were boring little shits. 'I want to look at the dynamics of the band in their formative years. Only the people who were there can give us the real band.'
'And the real murder? With everything that was written at the time you'd hardly need to interview people about it, 25 years on.' Monty said. 'Shit. That taxi driver was sick. Claimed he was innocent all along, then went and killed himself. What does that tell you?'
I hesitated. You never knew with Monty. He liked to argue black was white for the pure enjoyment of it. At the time of the murder, nearly everyone had been convinced of O'Toole's guilt. His suicide, a week to the day, was the nail in his coffin. As a child I'd thought so too. But, since beginning my research, I'd begun to wonder. O'Toole was too damn convenient.
'A fingerprint expert said O'Toole's prints, which the police claimed to have taken from the knife hilt, couldn't have been from it. Something about the curve of the surface and the texture.'
Monty's black eyes caught mine.
'I'll hunt down the clipping for you. In fact, if you're really interested, I can give you the whole file,' I said, watching him ease the cork out of the bottle. He poured the wine, pushed mine across the bench towards me. I had to come closer to get it. He lifted his glass. I let mine chime against his, the bench between us. If I wanted to work with Monty I had to be ready to ride the tiger.
'To the series!' he said, his voice rich and deep. 'May it be the first of many and make us a mint!'
'That's an about-face,' I teased. I took a mouthful of wine, savoured it, then swallowed. 'I thought you were morally opposed to mercenary motivation?'
'Since graduating I discovered I'm morally opposed to being unappreciated and kicked around,' he said, eyes intense and imperative. 'I want a chance to do some really good work and you're going to give it to me. I'm gonna ride your comet to the stars, Antsy. I can smell the stink of success on you.'
I chose to believe Monty meant it as a veiled compliment.
Now he drained his glass with relish and poured another. I covered mine when he tried to top it up. Monty had an amazing capacity for alcohol, but I didn't. Two glasses and I'd curl up and go to sleep. At least I wasn't a two-pot screamer, as Nan would say.
'So who has agreed to be interviewed?' Monty asked, gaze sharp as razors.
'No one. But I saw Arthur today.' I took another sip of my wine, felt it race to warm my empty stomach. Better slow down. I hadn't eaten since breakfast, hadn't had time. 'He refused to talk in front of his wife, then offered to put me in contact with someone from the band's early days.'
'Sounds promising.'
'And if he does come across, he can put us in contact with Pia. I get the feeling they are still quite close.'
'That makes two out of three. I'm thinking Tucker will drop his daks for you.'
'Tucker would drop his daks for anyone!'
Monty's eyes twinkled.
It was so good to be working again. To be working with Monty.
The smile slipped from his face and he leant forward propping his elbows on the bench. The reflected glow of the steel lit his features from below, filling his dark eyes with an evangelistic, silvery gleam. My heart raced. I loved it when Monty got inspired.
'Been thinking, Antsy. I brought my computer and my new digital camera gear. They're out in the van waiting for you to say yes.' He sent me a cheeky grin. 'Soon as you give me the go-ahead, I'll get started. I reckon with the software I've got I can create to-die-for effects, pull people out of old footage, digitise old stuff and clean it up. Whatever you want, I'm your man.' His eyes held mine for half a beat too long.
I felt my body react with a kick of arousal-induced adrenaline. That was a hit below the belt in more ways than one. The invitation was clear but there was no way I was going to be his sex buddy. I opened my mouth.
Before I could speak, Monty continued as if it hadn't happened, so I must have misread him. 'I'll start filming tomorrow, stuff we can edit for the Extra Features on the DVD.'
I laughed. My dream project was taking on a reality of its own, yet I felt an irrational twist of jealousy. Up to this point it had been my baby and now I resented Monty trying to muscle in. On a purely rational level there was good reason to welcome him - he was brimming with ideas, our areas of expertise complemented each other and I knew we made a good team. In my time at QCA I hadn't met anyone as focused on filmmaking as Monty. No one except me, of course.
'So how are you going to handle it?' Monty prodded. 'What's your doco's subtext?'
I shook my head slowly. 'I'm not sure. To tell the truth I'm not pleased with my rough script. The early band members haven't come alive for me yet.'
Veevie - Arthur's voice echoed in my head. It was like I heard him calling down the stairs to her, plaintive yet affectionate. Again, I felt that odd shift, registering it physically so that I shuddered.
'What is it?' Monty asked. 'You look like someone walked over your grave.' I could just hear his great aunts saying that.
Shrugging, I pressed the pads of my fingers into my closed lids - I would not scratch that scar - and chose to misinterpret his question. 'I just don't know. I thought I had a feel for the band, but the deeper I research, the more the individual members slip away from me. It's like they are based on shifting sands.'
'Let me read the script. That way, I can be thinking about art direction and hunt up locations while you research and write.'
We'd worked like this before, but I didn't want Monty seeing my weak first draft. When we'd made short films at QCA I'd always prided myself on writing scripts where the characterisation was strong enough to work on a stage without fancy special effects or car chases.
'I've only done a rough. Besides, I'm not sure what my hidden subtext will be.'
Monty studied me shrewdly. 'What's the matter? The idea is a winner.'
How could I explain my reservations when I didn't understand them myself? When I was on the right track I would know, and that sounded too New Age to confess to Monty. I looked around for a distraction.
The phone rang.
'If it's your nan tell her I miss her lamb roast already.' Monty's smile was sweetly innocent.
I picked up the kitchen extension. It was Arthur Davidson.
'You got a pen?' Arthur whispered. I had a vision of him hiding down the hallway from his wife.
'A pen? Just a sec.' I pointed to my satchel and Monty tossed it to me. I rummaged madly for a pen and a scrap of paper.
'Watched your DVDs, by the way. Liked your stuff.'
'I can do better.' I flushed. Great way to handle a compliment. Talk about foot-in-mouth disease. Normally I could lay on the charm, but this project meant too much to me. 'Right, got the pen, fire away.'
He gave me an address.
'Ah huh.' I was