I arrived to find not just Jack but the entire coffee shop crew: Lupe was intently Googling something that she'd probably use to cause severe shock to some unsuspecting bystander. Island Irv was wearing dark sunglasses indoors, which was strangely disturbing. Claudia was examining the coffee menu with the intensity of someone decoding the Rosetta Stone. Knowing her, she was probably near comatose with boredom.
"There he is!" Jack announced with the enthusiasm of a game show host. "Wilmington's premier entertainment blogger—the man, the myth, the legend!”
I raised an eyebrow. Wouldn't you? I gave him my patented scoffer's look, leaving no room for misunderstanding.
"Someone's in a mood," Claudia observed, stirring her coffee with surgical precision.
"I'm not in a mood," I countered, sliding into a chair. "I'm simply wary of Jack's overwrought enthusiasm. It typically leads to a request for a favor..." I paused for theatrical effect, raised an accusing eyebrow, "or sharing dubious information from Barbary Coast Bar.”
"No Jamaican rum involved this time," Jack assured me, raising his hands defensively. "This is legitimate intel about 'The Runarounds.’"
That caught my attention. "Jonas Pate's new Amazon series? The one about the Wilmington high school band who decided to make a run for musical stardom rather than attend college?”
"Not just any high school band," Lupe chimed in, looking up from her laptop, "A band that Jonas auditioned for 'Outer Banks' and then decided to build a whole television series around.”
"Lupe," I said a bit too defensively. "I may have missed filming at Flaming Amy's, and I botched the 'Driver's Ed' schedule pretty badly, but I do read the trades.”
"And by 'the trades,' he means the Wilmawood Gazette entertainment section," Jack stage-whispered to Irv, who chuckled in response.
I ignored them both. "They've been filming all over town, from the South Front District to Reggie's 42nd Street Tavern, to Greenfield Lake Amphitheater. I've been meaning to check it out but was trying to squeeze in Driver's Ed.”
"Meaning to check it out?" Lupe repeated, her eyebrows disappearing beneath her bangs. "It's the biggest thing to hit Wilmington's music scene since... well, ever! This show could put our local bands on the national radar.”
"That's exactly what I was going to write about in my next blog post," I lied, reaching for my phone to make notes. "The transformative potential of 'The Runarounds' on Wilmington's music ecosystem.”
Jack snorted. "You were going to write about how you couldn't find the set again. You don't have the schedule--yet. But that's all in the past, Bucko, I have the filming schedule for next week right here.” He placed his hand over his jacket pocket.
That perked me up considerably. "The real schedule? Not the fake one they post online to throw off rabid fans?”
"The genuine article," Jack confirmed as he took a folded paper from his pocket and slid it across the table. "We agreed to work together to track down the secrets behind their production plans, and I followed through. Not sure what you were doing but here it is. They're filming at The Rusty Nail on Wednesday. The scene features the band getting their first gig.”
"I've been suffering from pollen allergies," I said to explain why I hadn't been in touch. While that was true, the real reason I hadn't texted him was that I expected him to dredge more of the rum-fueled nonsense from Barbary Coast.
I wasn’t entirely convinced that what Jack presented was the real goods. I wavered as I reviewed the schedule, but I needed a win like this to restore my reputation as an entertainment journalist. I remembered my father saying: Take the risk only when the potential reward outweighs the potential loss. With that in mind, I decided to act on Jack's info.
Even if it turned out to be bogus, it was a small price to pay for the possibility of being on the inside track of the latest and hottest film project in town.
Jack must have read my mind, “It didn't come from Barbary Coast," he said. "This is the goods."
"How did you get it?” I ask scanning the single page of notes.
"Let's just say I know someone who knows someone who delivers coffee to the production office," Jack replied with a mysterious air that did nothing to inspire more confidence.
"And you're just... giving this to me?" I asked, suspicious. "What's the catch?”
"No catch," he said. "Didn't we agree to dig up the hidden plans of the production company? Well, I've been out doing just that. And why are you so suspicious? You've got The Circular Journey's reviews into the yellow zone lately, right?”
I narrowed my eyes and looked around the table to see how the others reacted to this news. "Who told you about my traffic metrics?”
"You did," Claudia interjected. "Last week, right here in this cafe, after your third espresso.”
"Right," I mumbled, vaguely recalling a caffeine-fueled rant about SEO strategies.
"Look," Island Irv said, finally joining the conversation, "you've got two options. You can sit here questioning Jack's motives, or you can use that schedule to get a decent scoop on The Runarounds. If you're lucky, you might write something that hits three Goldblums on your weird rating scale.”
"The Jeff Goldblum Scale™ is not weird. It's an elegant system for measuring journalistic excellence.”
"Whatever," Irv waved dismissively. "The point is, this show could be huge for Wilmington. Not just Hollywood East anymore—Musicwood, too.”
"Musicwood?" I repeated. "That's a terrible moniker. Please don't repeat it, we don't want that to catch on.”
"Too late," Jack grinned. "Already mentioned it to Harvey at the Gazette.”
Wouldn’t you know it? Just when you think you’ve struck gold, you learn that someone else has already staked their claim. It’s just as Shakespeare said, “When you believe everything is finally going your way, Fate is lurking in the shadows, ready to throw a punch.
