“I’m sure it is,” I said.

“A loaf of bread, a red balloon … you could be the star of, what was that French film?”

“The Red Balloon?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, unpleasantly. “So, fallen on hard times?”

“I’m just helping out a friend,” I lied.

Just then, Annabelle called over, “Hey, what’s-your-name, watch your loaf! It’s trailing in the dirt!”

Exposed, I cursed under my breath and said nothing more. Abner chuckled, his cheeks expanding, his eyes disappearing.

“How generous of you,” he said.

I could have told him the truth—Abner would be chastened by my helping out my mother; God knows he’d lived long enough with his own—but I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. So I didn’t take the bait.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll get back on your feet in no time. Now,” he said, mischievously, “may I have some miche?”

“You’ll have to ask her,” I said, through my teeth, and gestured with my balloon at Annabelle.

“Actually, what am I saying? It’ll only go bad in my fridge. I’m flying out to L.A. tomorrow.”

“Bon voyage.”

Though I hadn’t asked him why, he went on to explain. “Maybe you read the trades. I’ve been hired to adapt The Seven Ordeals of Quelman.”

My only response was silence. Here was the most famous and beloved cult fantasy novel—four sets of trilogies, actually—of all time. And Abner Cooley had been hired to write the script! I had never been able to finish the first book. I had no interest in, intention of, or talent at being a screenwriter. Still, I was boiling with anger at the injustice.

“Good for you,” I choked out.

“Yep. They decided to go right to the source for once. The producers want a few changes that might not sit well with the fans in geekville. But”—he shrugged, cavalierly—“that’s the difference between film and book.”

Film and book! Abner wasn’t even using the proper plurals; he was talking like one of the studio scum he had started his career by skewering. He had fully completed his duplicitous journey to the other side, where people made a living wage. And geekville? Where did Abner think he got his own birth certificate?

“Good luck with that,” I nearly whispered.

“Thanks. It’ll be twelve films in all. They’ll release the first one next Christmas, then three a year until the end of the decade.”

“Can’t wait.”

Abner heard the sarcasm in my voice and, if anything, it made him even more smug. “Look … there’s nothing wrong with doing what you’re doing. We all need to eat.”

“Some more than others,” I blurted out. I knew the remark was beneath me, but I didn’t care. I realized that I was gripping the baguette—onion sourdough, I think—like a club.

“Hey, street life!” Annabelle yelled over at me now. “Quit flirting, and make that sale!”

The furious look in my eye made Abner cancel his order. With a muttered, “Good to see you, Milano,” he walked away as fast as his giant legs could take him.

There was a brief, embarrassing pause. Then Annabelle, smelling of bread dust and denim, was suddenly at my side again.

“That’s not exactly what I’d call good salesmanship,” she said.

“Look,” I answered, just about at patience’s end, “I thought I was only supposed to look pretty.”

“Oh,” Annabelle said, “I say that to all the girls.”

Then, with a sunburned little smile, she walked behind her booth again.

I stared after her. Despite her disdain for me, in her cruel, craggy, cowgirl way, Annabelle was growing more attractive by the minute. I noted with approval how she filled out her jeans. This job might not be so bad, after all.

When I turned back, I was staring at Abner’s big face again.

“Look, Milano,” he said, breathless now. “How’d you like to come work for me?”

The twist of personality had come so fast, I shook my head to clear it. “What?”

“There’s something I forgot to tell you.”

“And what’s that?”

“Someone,” he panted, “is trying to kill me.”

ON A BREAK—FOR WHICH I HAD TO BEG ANNABELLE—I HEARD ABNER’S story.

We sat in a diner on Park Avenue South at Seventeenth Street, which was cheaper than anything he could now afford. And even though Abner spoke with a new beseeching neediness, he still insisted on separate checks.

Before he started, he looked around for eavesdroppers. “Here’s the thing. The Quelman gig isn’t exactly the joyride I’d been expecting.”

I listened with reluctant sympathy. My tolerance for Abner was already limited and today he was adding a new unpleasant color to his palette: self-pity. Still, it was new.

“You know Prince Corno?” he asked.

“Who?”

“Prince Corno, from the first three volumes?”

I vaguely had some memory of a character named this from my brief time spent skimming the Quelman fantasies. “What about him?”

“Remember that he’s called ‘The Great Lonely One’?”

I shrugged. “Sure.”

“Well, that’s not how the suits in Cali want him to remain.”

I cringed at Abner’s new jargon. “Speak English.”

“Corno’s a warrior. A leader of men. His only companion is his little omniscient owl, Shaba. Generations of readers know this and love him for it. And the executives want—get this—for him to have a girlfriend.”