The Queen Con (The Golden Arrow Mysteries Book 2)

by Meghan Scott Molin

  And yet. Because the pages have appeared, Matteo is going to need to know. Not to mention my theory about who I suspect delivered them. So as Daniel and I head for the back door, I try to lob L the softball in a way Daniel won’t recognize.

  “So, are you going to call Matteo about that thing we were talking about earlier? Or am I?” Hey, I never said I was good at acting, but Daniel just keeps walking, so it must be enough.

  L sighs. “I will.”

  I offer him a small smile as the door shuts between us.

  CHAPTER 13

  Once we’ve stopped at my house, the majority of our ride to the studio is quiet. I can’t figure out a way to drop into a conversation about the Golden Arrow without giving away my suspicion. Hey, do you like to play vigilante? seems a little too on the nose. Daniel has an eclectic mix of music streaming from his iPhone to fill the silence instead of trying to draw me into conversation—something I appreciate. Usually I can’t stand other people’s music. But though not my usual taste, it’s easy to listen to. It goes with his down-to-earth vibe, despite his apparent achievements of being a studio executive, dancer, business owner, and business coach.

  “So, you are a busy guy,” I voice my thoughts out loud. This is good, get him talking, see where I can press further. We’ve hit a little traffic, probably due to the weather, and I determine that I can’t stew in silence the entire way to the meeting.

  “I hear you’re the same,” Daniel answers with a smile. Cagey answer. On purpose?

  “Two peas in a pod,” I agree. “Thanks for helping L. The parade idea is . . . well, it’s going to be amazing.”

  “Lawrence is passionate about his performance and his businesses. It’s something I admire in other people and help foster where I can.”

  “Admirable,” I observe.

  “I spent a lot of time in life chasing stuff that didn’t matter,” Daniel answers with a glance my way. “I’m over that. I only look for genuine people and experiences now.”

  Something in the way he says it flips my stomach. It’s not . . . butterflies, exactly. It’s more an intensity. Most people aren’t this unguarded or candid with people they hardly know. Despite my suspicions, I’m drawn into genuine conversation with Daniel. “That’s a really amazing way to live. One I aspire to as well. Only I like to draw guns and fights and stuff too.”

  Daniel laughs. I love that he thinks I’m funny. Usually only Matteo finds my geekish humor entertaining.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I do stage combat. A good old-fashioned fistfight is sometimes a genuine experience.”

  I chew on my thoughts for a moment, trying to find a tactful way to sleuth for answers. “Thanks for the ride; I really appreciate it. I, er, thought I saw you driving earlier, before I got to Lawrence’s, but I wasn’t sure what you drove so I wasn’t going to wave wildly at a stranger. People in LA have been killed for less.” I try to laugh in a totally natural way.

  Daniel smiles. “True. Well, it probably was me; I think I got to Lawrence’s about fifteen? Twenty minutes before you did. If you were biking, we were probably sharing the road.”

  “Yeah, it was just a few streets down, near some shops.”

  He throws a sidelong look at me I can’t decipher, and my heart starts to hammer. “I stopped to, ah, browse this little secondhand store on my way to Lawrence’s. For costume stuff,” I say. The key to lying is to lie consistently, right?

  Understanding dawns. “Ah. Yeah, that was probably me. I made a stop on Curtis Street.”

  To pry or not to pry. Who am I kidding? “Too bad; we could have coordinated blazer-shopping efforts,” I joke. Joking was the right way to go about this, right?

  “Nah, though good to know the next time I need one. My brother lives on that street. I swung by to drop something off on my way to L’s.”

  Oh. Well, that’s decidedly boring. And plausible. I contemplate the reality in which Daniel’s brother is the Golden Arrow, but decide to table my suspicions until I have more data.

  Daniel’s car inches forward, and he flips on the turn signal, though we’re nearly a mile from the exit we need. He glances at me one more time. “Your turn. MG Martin. Genius comic book writer, costume designer, and now consultant for a movie.”

  “Yep,” I agree.

  “And some sort of semifamous bad-guy catcher. It’s been fascinating to hear Lawrence’s story.”

  I’m not sure how much to divulge, so I just smile and nod.

  “So, what do you do exactly?” He navigates the exit ramp, and we’re heading through a wash of rain toward Valhalla. I can only barely make out the rows of residential houses that pad the slightly industrial area where several studios sit near Hollywood Boulevard.

  “What do I do . . . ,” I muse, trying to figure out if this is polite interest or him fishing for info. “Well, I got the job because I know comic books, and the Golden Arrow seemed to be recreating comic book panels. So, I guess I am a professional consultant of the comic book variety.” I see his eyebrows quirk up, and I laugh. “Niche field. Sorta like Star Wars lightsaber choreography, I assume.”

  “Touché,” Daniel’s voice rumbles with laughter. He steers into a lot and stops at the attended gate, offering his badge. Once we’re through, he parks and turns to face me in the car. “So, what you’re telling me is that you’re the real-life Gwenpool?”

  I stare at him for a few seconds. “You know what, I’ve never put that together.” I hit myself on the head. “Seriously. I actually am. I can’t believe you actually know who Spider-Gwen is.” Though I lacked Spider-Gwen’s actual superpowers, Gwenpool is a little-known reference to an alternate character, and it is an apt comparison. Gwen had claimed to come from the “real world,” hired a designer to make her a costume, and had become a superhero. I just helped catch them instead of wearing the spandex myself.

  “I read a lot of comic books as a kid. I loved the idea of becoming a superhero, who didn’t? I guess so does the Golden Arrow, whoever they are.”

  “It’s a little surreal,” I agree. But he’d hit it right on the nose. Daniel just got it. We grinned at each other for an extended minute until his watch chimed.

  “Okay, meeting time. You ready for this?”

  I sigh and gather my messenger bag up, ready to dash from the car to the building through the downpour. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  I don’t know what I expected from a script-writing meeting, but what greets me is far more informal than my vision. I thought maybe writing for movies was more . . . glamorous than writing for comic books, but it looks to be about the same. Daniel leads me through an open office and into a large conference room full of people. A huge, heavy table dominates the space and is littered with everything from index cards and markers to cups of coffee, Danishes, and several tiny action figures.

  The general din of the room doesn’t even diminish as we walk in. It seems several conversations are happening simultaneously, and along one wall, a man in a coffee-stained button-down motions at index cards posted to the wall.

  Daniel clears his throat. “Everyone, I’d like to introduce you to Genius’s liaison, Michael-Grace Martin.”

  The din quiets somewhat, and I get a few curious glances and halfhearted waves. I’m not prepared for the more-than-several irritated looks thrown my direction. I get the impression that I’m crashing a party I’m not one hundred percent welcome at.

  “MG, please,” I correct and paste a small smile on my face. “I’m not here to interrupt the magic. I’m here as a resource, and I’m looking forward to working with you.”

  A few of the men—and I spy no women around the table at this particular moment—relax a little at this, and I sense a small victory. Maybe they worry I come with the expectation of steering the story. In truth, I have no real idea what to do here.

  Daniel addresses the room at large again, since it’s devolved back to the same conversations. “I was thinking maybe we could start by giving MG an overview of where the screenplay stands rig
ht now in development, key plot points or scenes we’re excited about, and let her ask questions and point to areas that she thinks we may need to look at.”

  Though there’s some grumbling, the large, padded rolling chairs gravitate back to the huge oak table, and I snag a spare chair from near the door and sit. Someone produces a storyboard—something I definitely recognize—and my nervousness fades a little. I’m in situations like this all the time at Genius. I just need to do my thing.

  The explanation offered by the first guy on my left—thick-framed black glasses and trimmed beard and mustache touched with gray, so maybe a senior writer—is sporadic at first. Several people jump in from around the table to explain problem areas or the awesomeness of a certain fight sequence. Overall, I gather the main plot is the Falcon and Swoosh defending their city against the takeover by an antagonist that uses cell phone towers to transmit mind-and-sleep-altering brain waves. It causes mass hysteria and mass hallucinations, and he basically holds the city’s infrastructure hostage since no one can think straight enough to defeat this guy or call for help.

  I’m not wild about the “typical superhero plot” vibe of the whole thing, but I wait until they’ve run through the basic framework of the movie to make any comments.

  “Well,” I start, “from a Genius standpoint, there are only a few critical issues I can pinpoint. From a purist and fan standpoint, though, I’m going to add a few of my own thoughts in.” I completely ignore several of the eye rolls I see. “Since I write The Hooded Falcon, I feel these viewpoints are grounded,” I remind them. Writers hate feeling critiqued by armchair experts. I get it, but that’s why I am here. I’m an expert, even if I constantly have to remind people.

  “So first off. The villain—”

  “He’s not canon,” a man from the back cuts me off. “We know that.”

  “No.” I suck in a breath to calm the flood of anger that fills me. “He’s not. I’d appreciate if you’d let me finish my thoughts, though.” I don’t point out that I let them finish theirs, but I am damn proud of myself for doing it. “So, the villain. I think that he appeals to the current readership of the Hooded Falcon universe. I also think you could come up with a simple way to make him appeal to the fans of the older works. Remember, the original THF is going through a revival of sorts right now.”

  Silence greets my words, which I take as a good sign. “What if you don’t change your villain, but give him a little more of a social agenda. Rather than generic ‘big bad,’ make him either related to the Falcon’s origin story or an original archnemesis? A spin-off?”

  Again, no one interrupts my thought flow, so I go with it. “The Hooded Falcon started largely as a socially conscious vigilante. He addressed real people within his community that were bent on harm. Everything from drugs, mental health, weapons, trafficking, preying on innocents. Really, it wouldn’t be hard to tie it in to something like that. Just change your villain’s backstory a little. Make him someone related to the story of the city. Perhaps the protégé of a previously defeated antagonist, and give him a little more of a social agenda—maybe he’s even targeting the Falcon or trying to draw him out for some reason. For destroying his mentor, or maybe because he resents that the Falcon has become so popular when he lost his living. I think if you ground this character a bit more in true canon, it will work for both audiences.”

  There’s no call to burn me at the stake, and in fact I note more than a few thoughtful faces in the crowd. Good. “Okay, next point. This cast is all male.” I hold up a finger to forestall the arguments I see brewing. “The protagonist cast is all male. Yes, Swoosh’s sort-of love interest is in there. She’s being fridged.” Blank stares meet my gaze, and I sigh inwardly. Time to womansplain some current culture to them as nicely as I can. It’s such a common theme in superhero movies, people sometimes fail to even recognize it exists or the stereotypes it perpetuates.

  “You all know what that means, right? When a woman only serves to heighten the stakes for the men. It’s all she does. What I’m seeing here in general is—forgive me for putting it this bluntly—a very generic superhero movie setup. The Hooded Falcon has had several woman antagonists over the years, and historically the Red Canary has served as more than a love interest. She’s fought alongside Falcon. She has her own story arcs. We need a more balanced team”—I avoid pointedly looking around the writing room at the male-only cast of writers—“and all players need to play a critical part in solving the conflict.”

  This silence is stonier. Or at least on one side of the table. The side I assumed were the more senior, die-hard-superhero-movie, “we’ve written so many of these” fellows. On the other side of the table though, a few younger men jump in with ideas.

  “We could make Swoosh a girl,” one throws out. “Gender-swapping is super popular right now. Look at the Thirteenth Doctor.”

  “But what about the love-interest line?” Another asks the first. I follow the volley like a tennis match.

  The first shrugs. “It’ll be more progressive if we leave it?”

  “Yes, but why would Swoosh be a girl?” I ask.

  The first guy looks at me like I have tentacles. “Because you said it would be a good idea to have a—”

  “Don’t just put stuff in because it is popular, or just to put a girl in. It has to be vital to the story,” I say, not even caring I’m cutting him off. “If you just toss a girl in there to fill some sort of checklist, she’s not going to do anything. Make her as complex and as vital as any other secondary character. Maybe add a subplot about another vigilante who is trying to take down the same villain? Make her plan at odds with Falcon’s, but no less smart or viable. Make them have to work together or compromise in some way. I’m just pointing out a lack of balance, and today’s viewers are so much more aware of it than they used to be.”

  Grudgingly, I see nods, and beside me I think Daniel wears a pleased smile.

  The rest of the meeting passes in a more companionable manner: the balance of the issues on my list are minor and easily flagged for the team to work on. They promise to think about the villain and gender balance, and all too soon I’m hailing an Uber home while Daniel chivalrously waits with me.

  “Well, how was the first day on the job?” he asks.

  “Y’know, I think I kicked a little ass.” Inside my pocket, my phone dings. “Oops, sorry, gotta check this, it’s probably Andy asking for my pages.”

  His lopsided grin confirms it for me. I return it, digging out my phone.

  I expect an email notification, but not this one. It’s a flag I put on Cleopatra’s website, which has just been updated. I hastily click through to read, even though the mobile capability of the site is awful.

  Saturday night. From 11pm-2am. Anyone with a golden seal is invited, plus one guest.

  My eyes scan the online invite for more information. It looks like they’ll be raffling off four more seals at the door, which means that it’s going to be a complete zoo outside the venue. A quick Google search reveals the venue is a black box theater downtown. My heart skips inside my chest. Am I really going to attend? All by myself? Something about this seems risky, but . . . Cleopatra isn’t going to all this trouble for a ruse, surely? What if I can actually meet the Golden Arrow? Ask him his intentions. See if I recognize him—more specifically, see if he’s a dead ringer for my current work companion. Ask if he’s been the one tying up the drug dealers again, and if he knows anything about the Queen of Hearts.

  “Everything okay?”

  My eyes snap up, registering Daniel’s concerned face and the waiting car.

  “Yeah, totally,” I lie. “Work stuff . . . other work stuff,” I amend, seeing his confusion. He can tell something’s up. But I offer a cheery wave as I slide into the car, even if I’m anything but cheery on the inside. This could impact the case I’m working on. And that makes me realize that it’s time to come clean to Matteo about what I’ve been up to.

  CHAPTER 14

  Usually I�
��m just glad to see Matteo, but tonight I’m nervous. It’s my turn to go to his house, and I sit in my car, staring at the neat little modern desert house far longer than I need to. I have no idea under what set of circumstances my car decided to work again today—the ambient temperature? My lucky T-shirt? Mercury’s astrological alignment?—but I’m grateful. I tried it on a whim; maybe it just needed a vacation. The drive out here has helped clear my head, and I’ve determined that I have to tell Matteo about my intention to go to this party. And reveal that I’ve been chasing the Golden Arrow on my own. Which . . . he’s not going to like. Not only because his girlfriend has been at wild parties where people end up OD’ing, without telling him, but more so because I’m an active consultant on this case and withheld information. Again. Old habits die hard, I guess.

  I push through the unlatched gate and cross the courtyard, noting that Matteo has been gardening. There are a few black plastic pots piled to the side of one of the beds and a smear of dark dirt still on the usually pristine pathway. It’s getting dark fast, so I can’t make out what he’s planted, but I’m struck by the difference of what Matteo does in his free time versus what I do. The man gardens. At a house he owns, in a location he picked specifically because it calls to him and his design aesthetic. He drives a paid-off Prius twenty years newer than my Aspire. Though we haven’t talked at length about it, I assume he saves for retirement. I’m at once both intensely jealous and insanely intimidated by his level of adultness. I can never seem to have it this together. Matteo and I are roughly the same age, and here I am, still attending midnight parties with my roommate, staying up at all hours trying to launch a new career, running on coffee, failing in supporting my friend Lawrence, and . . . well . . . what exactly is Matteo doing, dating a mess of a person like me?