Page 3 of Winning Bid

I might soon find out. “That sounds like hell.”

“It’s exhausting. I just wanted to cut loose and relax. My manager wants me locked up forever just to keep my image clean. But I am done with that. It’s time people realize I’ve grown up. I’m not the baby on a family sitcom anymore. Get over it.”

Locked up forever? That sounds about right. “If you really want to break out of that shell, take the harder roles. You know the drill. The best way to devalue a naked picture is to put one out yourself.”

“A sex tape?”

“Sure. Or something less personal. An arthouse film with tasteful nudity. Or raunchy nudity. Whatever you like. But the more people see your tits, the less those pictures are valued. If they can’t make money from them?—“

“They’ll stop following me.” She slowly nods. “I knew I could count on you, Anderson. Blake, we’re doing that Grainger picture.”

The aforementioned Blake smacks his head in frustration. “Well done, Anderson. I’ll be sure to tell your father about how you’ve ruined her career.”

But Trina rolled her eyes. “I’m the actress. Not you. Stop being so damned dramatic.”

“I am not being dramatic … ”

Their bickering goes on just long enough to set my teeth on edge. I can’t believe I ever wanted to be involved in Hollywood. Even the small taste of it we get in Boston is enough to make me want to never see another movie. Or maybe that’s just my foul mood.

After the meeting finally ends, I call Moss. “Hey, so I was hoping we could talk about some haddock fishing. You game?”

His muddled European accent always caught me off-guard. The man looked like a Russian bruiser, but there was an Italian lilt to his tones that bordered on French. “Of course. I am always ready for the fish.”

“Ah, no fish yet. I want to discuss a trip, though. Busy?”

“Too busy for you? Never.”

“You know the coffee shop on Eighth and Elm?”

He clicks his tongue. “Da. But Sal’s Pizza down the road from you is better for haddock fishing trip planning.”

I didn’t know the place. “It’s not even ten?—"

“They open early for me. I am the best customer.”

Ah. They’re on our payroll. “Be there in fifteen?”

“See you then.”

3

ANDERSON

As I pull up, it’s obvious the pizza shop had not planned on opening this early. Men cart giant sacks of flour through the place, and dishes clatter loudly over a soundtrack of Italian pop. It’s a standard pizza place with checkerboard floors and red accents throughout. The tables are small, and self-serve drinks come in those giant red plastic tumblers I’ve seen in every pizza parlor. Moss sits in the back, speaking to a short, old, white man in a stained apron.

The old man grins beneath a furry gray mustache when he sees me. He clasps my hand in his and shakes it with too much enthusiasm. “Mr. West’s boy, it is a pleasure to meet you! I am Sal!”

“Nice to meet you, Sal. I’m Anderson.”

“You want a pie? I make special for you.”

“I’m great, but thanks.”

“Okay, just a stromboli then, uh?”

I laugh. Talking to Sal is like talking to the Italian grandfather I never had. “Maybe just a soda.”

“Take anything you want. If it is mine, it is yours.” With that, he leaves us to our own devices, and I sit in the booth opposite Moss. “What the hell did my dad do to that guy? No one on our ride-alongs greeted us that friendly.”

---