The audition went smoothly.
Edgar trusted Anson, believed in his charm and acting talent, and was confident that Anson was the perfect choice to play Spider-Man.
Now, it was the agent's turn to seal the deal.
His brain started working at full speed.
Then, Edgar caught onto an idea.
"Oh, Laura is currently dating Alvin Sargent. He's a screenwriter who wrote the screenplay for 'Ordinary People' for Robert Redford in 1980, winning four Oscars, including Best Picture, Best Director, and Best Adapted Screenplay."
"But he hasn't written anything noteworthy for fifteen years."
A smile crept onto Edgar's face—
Normally, Edgar's deanor was gentle and low-key, so unremarkable at first glance that people wouldn't notice him. It often took a second or third look to discover his charm; but when he smiled, he radiated a warm, glowing aura like a piece of polished jade.
"These screenwriters and authors always like to gather at the White Horse Tavern in Greenwich Village."
"That place used to be the hangout spot for writers like Dylan Thomas and Jack Kerouac. If I'm not mistaken, that's where Laura and Alvin t at a literary gathering, which sparked their connection."
Although Anson wasn't curious, Edgar still explained.
"Laura and Alvin had worked on film projects together before, more than one, with her as the producer and him as the screenwriter. But nothing special happened between them back then; they were both married at the ti. It wasn't until later, when they were both single again, that their chance eting at the White Horse Tavern made them see each other in a new light."
"I need soone I can trust…"
As he spoke, Edgar started talking to himself, ignoring Anson.
Taking a deep breath, Edgar pulled out his phone and quickly dialed a number.
"Hey, Quinn, it's . Rember that favor you owe ? I need it repaid now."
"Yes, today, tomorrow, and the day after. Just these three days."
"Every afternoon during happy hour, head to the White Horse Tavern. Look for an elderly man with graying hair, skin that looks like he's been sunbathing, and a broad face with a big nose. He should be around seventy to seventy-five years old…"
"Yes, I know that's a broad description, but keep an eye out. He might have a notebook or laptop with him, pretending to look for inspiration while drinking beer."
"He's not a poet; he's a screenwriter."
Ha.
Edgar chuckled, "Yes, a screenwriter—soone pretending to be a literary man but actually has nothing to do with poetry or literature."
"When you find him, pretend you're chatting with a friend, but speak a little louder. ntion that your friend is currently working on Garry Marshall's set and heard that Garry couldn't stop praising a new actor nad Anson."
"Yes, Anson. No last na. Emphasize that he's a newcor. As for the complints, use your imagination. Exaggerate as much as you can."
"Three days. Do it as soon as possible."
"That's it. If you can do this, your debt is cleared."
"I'll be waiting for your good news."
He hung up the phone.
The whole operation was swift and decisive, taking less than sixty seconds.
Anson looked at Edgar, slightly surprised. "How can you be sure Alvin will tell Laura?"
Taking a roundabout approach, instead of directly informing Laura, Edgar used a third party's hearsay to plant the idea in Laura's mind. This way, he could create the appearance of coincidence and avoid those old foxes from detecting their manipulation—
Just like in "Inception," it's not about directly conveying information but planting the seed of an idea, waiting for it to take root in the subconscious.
In the end, when the idea fully forms, Laura will believe it was her own decision, without suspecting anyone else. Everything will seem perfectly natural.
However, if any part of the process goes wrong, the outco might be different.
Edgar wasn't worried though. "Anson, have you ever written a screenplay?"
Anson: ...
Edgar continued, "Writing a screenplay is like sitting in front of a computer for six months without producing a single word, heading to the White Horse Tavern every day pretending to seek inspiration, but in reality, not having the mindset for it. All your attention is focused on eavesdropping, and then you go ho, unwilling to admit you accomplished nothing."
"So, when talking to your partner, you start spilling all the gossip, convincing yourself that you weren't completely unproductive."
"Do you know how those Hollywood rumors spread?"
"Makeup artists, hairstylists, actors, screenwriters."
"Trust , Laura will find out. Whether or not she likes you, she will definitely call Garry to ask for his opinion."
Professionals do things differently.
But that wasn't all.
If they relied solely on this action, they'd still be leaving the initiative in Laura's hands. They needed to be more proactive.
Edgar thought for a mont, "What impression did Sam have of you?"
"Based on his reactions, he broke his usual routine at least three tis. Curiosity got the better of him, which seems like a positive sign," Anson responded objectively.
Edgar looked at Anson, "I think we should sit down with the director. Not just about the audition but to let him experience your charm as a person, both as an actor and as an individual."
"Now it's different from this morning. The audition is over, so there's no need to orchestrate a chance encounter. We can take direct action. Do you trust ?"
Switching from subtle to overt strategies, the sa approach in different circumstances naturally yields different results.
Anson nodded in agreent, "Lunch or dinner?"
Straight to the point.
Edgar's expression brightened, "Dinner. In that case, let's make an official invitation. I'll get in touch with Ian Bryce's assistant."
The phone in Edgar's hand hadn't even cooled down before he dialed another number to make arrangents.
...
Nightfall gradually descended.
Clearly, New York is different from Los Angeles. In this season, Los Angeles still offers breathtaking sunsets, but in New York, the sun had already sunk below the horizon. The entire city was enveloped in a bright, glowing aura from countless lights, and the nightlife was already in full swing.
Clang.
As the glass door was pushed open, the chi of a red lantern-style wind bell rang out. The bustling noise hit like a wave, and the servers rushing back and forth didn't pause for a mont, fully absorbed in their tasks. There was no maître d' at the door to assist with seating, a stark contrast to New York's usual restaurant culture.
Everything felt casual and free.
Of course, not all Chinese restaurants are like this. Most adapt to New York's culture, making adjustnts to fit in; but occasionally, so restaurants preserve their customs and characteristics, which unexpectedly helps them carve out a niche in the competitive environnt.
This restaurant was one such place.
It was barely 7 p.m., still an hour away from New York's typical dinner ti, yet the place was nearly full.
Sam Raimi was sitting alone, huddled at a four-person table in the corner, watching the bustling servers pass by without daring to speak up. The table in front of him was almost entirely bare, save for a lonely pot of tea. Despite this, the servers still didn't notice him.
Then, two figures appeared before him. "Good evening. Is this seat taken?"
—End of Chapter.
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