and who I could afford.”
“And?”
“And nothing. I called everyone I could think of. No one’s free, at least no one who could do what we need.” She squared her shoulders. “I’ll do some more calling tomorrow. I can’t lose time when I’ve already told Schuyler it’s coming.”
Gus stroked his chin. “Did you try Marcus Amblin?”
Sabrina nodded. “No dice.”
“Petra Krausz?”
“Ditto. And Lloyd Asherton and the Lamonte-Crosby group. Everyone’s got balls in the air,” she finished morosely, rubbing patterns in the condensation on her glass. “Doesn’t mean it’s not going to happen eventually, it’s just that the delay makes me look bad to Schuyler.”
Gus tapped his fingers on the table. “There’s one possibility I can think of,” he said slowly. “Someone who owes me a favor and might be willing to help us out. You’d probably only have him for the pilot, but that’ll buy you some time to find another director for the main series. First things first, after all.”
Sabrina shook her head. “I don’t want you to call in favors on my account. I need to do this myself.”
“Oh, trust me, you’ll do it yourself. I’m just going to see if I can help clear the path a little.”
“Advice only, remember? And a swift kick in the pants if I ever need one. I don’t want you coming in and smoothing things over for me, Gus.”
Humor crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Trust me, petunia, if this works out, smooth is the last thing it’ll be.”
She gave him a suspicious look before raising her glass to take a sip. “What have you got up your sleeve? Who are you talking about?”
“He’s a filmmaker’s filmmaker,” he told her. “He’s not always easy, but he’s talented.”
“Who, Gus?” she persisted.
“He’ll be the one to take your concept from interesting to sublime.”
“Gus.” Her voice was full of warning.
The edge of his mouth twitched with what she could have sworn was humor. “Stef Costas.”
The glass of tea slipped from her fingers and shattered on the pavement.
STEFOS COSTAS SLOUCHED in front of the editing machine, scanning the black-and-white film of striking workers that flickered on the screen in front of him. The picket line stood blocking an old-fashioned factory gate, the men looking shabby and grimly determined. Then a jet of water shot in, knocking the men down. Stef frowned and stopped the film, rolling it back to review a few seconds’ worth of footage. At his elbow, the phone jangled for attention, but he ignored it, moving the film slowly, looking for the moment…there, that was it—the frame in which the first man was hit by the water, grimacing as the jet sent him tumbling over.
Stef’s straight dark hair fell over his forehead. He shoved it impatiently out of his way, pressing the editing controls to make the new cut and splice it into an interview with a historian. The room’s faint light turned his cheekbones into sharp slashes below eyes that were nearly black. He studied the new edit, the intensity that drew his face taut now softening slightly in satisfaction.
In film circles, Stef was known as a gifted documentary director. Focused, even driven, some said, he was the genius behind a critically lauded film about espionage in the American War of Independence and one on the Industrial Revolution. Unfortunately, being a hot property in documentary circles didn’t necessarily bring in cash or translate into getting green-lighted on any project he wished, not when he was crafting cinematic releases. Unless you were Ken Burns with a big-money sponsor and a main line to PBS, getting docs funded was always a battle. Fortunately, his next project—his dream project—was all set, just as soon as he finished his current piece on the early union movement.
It was time for him to make a film that really engaged him again. Of late, he’d been going through the motions. Sure, he was satisfied with his craftsmanship, but somehow it wasn’t quite enough to get rid of the restlessness that niggled at him.
When the phone jangled again, he reached over absently and picked it up.
“Costas,” he said economically, eyes on the screen as he fast-forwarded the film to reach his next target segment.
“Stef? Mitch.” It was the voice of his producer. “How’s it going?”
“Good. I’m finishing the edits on the union piece. I made a contact in Athens who’s going to fast-track some of the permit and approvals process. With luck, seven weeks from now, yours truly will be on the coast of the Aegean, filming.” And witnessing the excavation of a World War II execution site that held clues to the fates of members of the Greek underground. Members who might, perhaps, have included his grandfather.
If he closed his eyes, Stef could hear his grandmother’s heavily accented English as she told his younger self the stories of what had happened, what little she knew. And she’d wept. Even then, as a child, he’d vowed to ferret out the true story, to someday be able to tell her what had happened to the man she’d loved. The rift that had subsequently opened between her and his career-obsessed parents when she’d criticized their child-rearing hadn’t weakened his ties to her or the strength of his determination.
For years, Stef had researched the topic, waiting for the right moment to dive in. With two award-winning films already under his belt and the hotly anticipated union doc scheduled to premiere in a month, the timing felt right. “Everything’s looking good on this end as far as prep goes. I talked with the university team today, and they’re ready to have me film the entire excavation process.”
“Uh, can you get an extension on that?”
Stef’s expression sharpened. “Why?” He stopped the editing machine. “What’s going on, Mitch?”
There was a pause. “Atkinson and Trimax are backing out. Maybe it’s a cash-flow thing, but they’re not prepared to go forward until the next fiscal year at the earliest.”
Stef cursed. “You know my window’s limited. They’re going to dig up this site whether I’m there or not, and once it’s done, it’s done.” He stood and paced across the room. “We’ve been talking with these guys for three years. They know the parameters of the project. What are they doing dropping out now?”
“Everyone’s skittish in this economy.”
“Have you tried the indie studios?”
Mitch let out a sigh. “I’ve been burning up the phones all day. No one wants to bite. Not now. People want feel-good movies, date movies. Cinematic docs are never easy, you know that.”
“Did you try the foundations?” Stef demanded, raking a hand through his hair while he calculated how much money he might be able to scare up in grants.
“No dice. Look, Stef, they’re not backing out, it’s just a delay. You were planning to work on the piece about that Rhode Island nightclub fire after you got through in Greece, right? So swap the order, do Rhode Island first and Greece after. It’ll work out. You’ve just got to be patient.”
“I
