Thanks to Rochelle for Friday Fictioneers!
Courtesy of Your Typist
The moment I turned over the script I knew I’d done a disservice to myself. Lloyd nodded, muttered, lit a Cuban before asking Angela for a Courvoisier.
“This will do, Kate. Thanks for the typing.”
Typing? My mouth falls wide.
He glances at me, waves his hand in dismissal.
As I sit in the cab reading the last seven pages of the manuscript where all of the pieces of the mystery fall together, I thank god my mother was a cynical paranoid who passed all of those traits onto me.
These last seven, glorious pages are ransom.
Salud, Lloyd, pseudo-playwright.