The Movie Makers

by Gary Phillips

  “How do we neutralize Rakosian?” Sam said, hand to his chest. They now had amassed a useful profile on the gangster who was part of the diverse Armenian mob groupings in Southern California, which included Armenian Power.

  Rachel had been considering options since her afternoon wine. “Even if we could offer him money, he’s not the type to remove his hold on our mark. Not to mention the risk of our exposure. Being on the lam from two outfits is way too much to wrestle with.”

  “If we stayed in the country,” Sam stated.

  She looked over at him, the thin blanket over her cooling torso. “I suppose we could learn Spanish. South America I mean, not the landmine that is Mexico.” Doing what they do, what a total nightmare that would be to cross one of the cartels, she knew.

  He grinned at her, stroking her cheek with the back of his fingers. “There’s always Berlin.”

  “Sheeet.” And they both chuckled at the memory of a con worked on a general dealing in the black market on an American military base there.

  “What if I told Reed that Rakosian threatened me?” Sam speculated. “Panic him that the dude was crowding in more on his life.” More than a decade ago, before the success of the car caper movies, Rakosian had bought up markers owed by the then heavy gambling actor. Bennek had subsequently paid that money back with interest. But from what Porter had been able to dig up, the three surmised that it had to have something to do with Bennek’s niece. A drug dealing abusive boyfriend of hers had been beaten with a pipe wrench one evening about five years ago. He remained in a coma. Porter’s speculation, and this was a theory from the cops up in Sacramento where the incident took place, was the often times absentee father had done the deed. The old man had been in a bar brawl or two over the years. He remained a person of interest but hadn’t been indicted.

  “Whatever proof that Rakosian has gotten a hold of,” Porter had said, “he’s using it to keep his hooks in Bennek, his golden goose.”

  Rachel frowned as she reflected on this and what Sam proposed. “Make Bennek want to run. He cashes out his assets and we grab the loot?” The disdain was evident in her tone.

  “I hear you,” he said. “Where’s the finesse in that?”

  “It’s too desperate a roll of the dice,” she added.

  They knew every con was a risk, but as much as possible you factored for that, you were constructing an elaborate make-believe that your mark willing walked into. Essentially forcing the move on them seemed wrong somehow, though the aim was still to liberate a certain amount of money from the sucker. Though each wouldn’t admit it to the other, Sam and Rachel considered themselves if not artisans, at least craftspeople—certainly not smash and grabbers.

  “Or he could go to Rakosian and then where would we be?” she said.

  Sam was going to answer but was interrupted by a knock at the door. This was not unexpected but slipping on his pants, he also tucked a Glock into his waistband at the small of his back. He said at the door, “Yes?”

  “Delivery from Two-Roads Dragon.”

  He opened the door a crack to a teenager with an Angels baseball cap on and a black disk earring that dangled misshapenly from a lobe. He bore a large paper bag containing their Chinese food. The young man worked for one of the food delivery apps they ordered through and paid online.

  “Thanks,” Sam said, handing the kid a five in cash for his tip.

  He touched the brim of his cap between thumb and forefinger and nodded curtly. He turned sideways on the second-floor landing, walking away. Closing the door, Sam figured the teenager must have seen the gesture on some old movie one night while sampling his chronic and thought it was a hoot. He carried the bag to the table, acutely aware of how hungry he was.

  Rachel stepped out of the bathroom in a silk robe she’d brought in her Givenchy overnight bag as Sam placed the oyster pail cartons on the small table in the room. There were paper plates, disposable chopsticks and plastic forks were also removed. They served themselves and sat at the table. Rachel extracted a bottle of inexpensive red wine with a screw top from her bag. She poured helpings for both of them into the paper cups that were offered as part of the coffee service.

  “We could kill Rakosian.” Sam brought a helping of kung pao chicken to his mouth using his chopsticks. He regarded the food as if a specimen then plopped it in. Killing wasn’t their style, but they had to consider every option.

  “Even if we could get that close to him,” Rachel said, “we’d have to make it look like one of his rivals did it. Or are you saying you don’t mind blowback on Reed?”

  He continued chewing then swallowed, fully appreciating her use of the euphemism. It could be setting the actor up to get killed when Rakosian’s gang sought revenge. “I’m sure an enterprising type like Rakosian has a grip on more than one civilian.” Not too many years ago, the two would have not been so casual about discussing taking a life in cold blood. But things had changed for them.

  “I’m sure too his boys wouldn’t mind working their bloody way through the suspects We’d get away with the skin on our backs but no bank. Look, we’ve put in too much now to just cut and run.” Her face clouded as she had some of her shrimp fried rice. “But if we go the rival route, we’d be totally re-arranging our timetable and our focus.”

  Sam pinched more food between his chopsticks, weighing other possibilities. “Then how do we distract Rakosian long enough for us to do the blow off?”

  “Okay,” she said, nodding, “that’s something. What can come at Rakosian from left field to keep him off balance enough to let us follow through on our plan?”

  Eating more, they considered several variations on the approach, mindful they were not keen on stretching out matters too much longer than their original notion of when to bring things to a climax. Once they settled on which way to go, they plotted out how to pull it off with other expenses to pony up and backstories to construct.

  “You’re not in love with this idea are you?” Sam said. They’d finished with their food and he remained sitting, Rachel pacing about the compact room.

  “The business with Finch still bothers me,” she admitted. “And Aunt Sally.”

  “This is different.”

  “I just want to make sure we’ve examined this problem from as many angles as we can. We can’t get caught flat-footed like that again.”

  He got up, slipping his arms around her waist and drawing her in tight. “There’s no guarantees, there never are.” He kissed her neck. “That’s part of the thrill.”

  She ground her hips into his pelvis, a hand on the side of his face. “But we have to know what the action is. Know which way the situation can get screwed up and compensate.” She extricated herself from his grasp to face him. “Don’t think for a moment I’m losing my nerve. Fact is I’m kinda anxious to have another go-round at my yoga choking buddy.”

  He grinned. “We got this.”

  “We better.”

  They kissed and embraced and fell back into the bed.

  Back in town after ten the next morning, Rachel was pleasantly surprised to find a delivery for her when she walked into the main lobby of her Culver City shared office space.

  “This came for you, Shawnee,” the receptionist said behind the rotunda. She indicated a sealed nine-by-twelve brown kraft envelope laying there.

  “Thank you, Dani,” she said, picking up the delivery. She walked back to her office along a hallway lined on one side with glass bricks that bathed the environs in buttery light. In her office she remained standing and using a letter opener shaped like a scimitar, slit the envelope open. She reminded herself even when no one was looking, keep your game face on.

  The would-be producer removed a few sheets of paper clipped together. The last page was the only one worth looking at of this interparty agreement. A muscle twitched in her neck as she read the countersignature of Reed Bennek.

  In the bank account for their Palm Alley Productions sat half a milli
on of Sam and Rachel’s money—all their money. This had to be real as Bennek’s money manager would do his due diligence and confirm the amount. Which he did. The interparty agreement essentially outlined what each party was bringing to the table. Having signed off, Bennek had seven days to put up his share of three hundred thousand dollars good faith money against an eventual three million for a sizeable percentage of ownership or the deal went away.

  Allowing the hint of a smile to flitter across her face, Rachel texted Sam.

  “What’s on your mind today, Reed?’ Sam asked in his role as Clay Morrison.

  He was sitting at his desk in his sparsely furnished office as they face-timed on their respective laptops. Strategically placed off center and behind Sam was a framed Mark Rothko lithograph and on one side on his desk within Bennek’s sightline a short stack of books, one of them a recent potboiler purportedly written by an ex-president and a bestselling thriller writer.

  “I’ve been having second thoughts about a few things, including the gambler film project,” Bennek said. He was sitting in his study, the blinds partly closed behind him to block the sunlight.

  “What do you identify as the source of these doubts? What has changed recently?”

  “Maybe I need to play it safe for a while.” Bennek looked off then back at the screen.

  “There’s certainly nothing wrong with that. A getaway to recharge?” Sam’s objective was to guide him as smoothly as possible to put up the stake money. But knew he couldn’t spook him. He had to manipulate while being the sounding board, the hand holder to the put upon one percenter. Yeah, his roots were working class, but he’d inhabited the high roller bracket long enough that his life story was now a quaint footnote, not pre-destination. Sam slipped back into his listener skin.

  “Yeah,” the actor was saying, “refresh and renew.”

  “This have to do with the delay in the production of the next Demolisher Road installment?” There had been a late breaking piece this morning in the Industry press about writer-director Barry Coopersmith being accused of sexual misconduct by three different women, one a former personal assistant. Social media was on fire as the punditry and trolling roiled the cyberways.

  “I’m taking that and—” he gestured feebly, “—this other matter as a sign that I shouldn’t press my luck. Maybe now is the not the time to be stepping out that far on the dock.”

  “I can appreciate what you’re saying, Reed. We need growth, and indeed, a certain amount of uncertainty heightens our senses, sharpens our responses to unforeseen events. Conversely—” Sam gestured, mirroring Bennek’s movement only a few seconds before, “—there are times we must step back and take an assessment of where things are at before we go forward again.”

  Bennek nodded thoughtfully.

  “Though we don’t want to be stuck in neutral too long,” Sam added, pushing it some. He had to keep to the script and what it meant to him forefront in the man’s mind. Once he lost interest for whatever reason, the grift would fall apart.

  “I imagine you’re meeting with the other relevant parties?” Sam said.

  “We are. Of course we want to figure out what to do now. But,” he began, sounding exasperated, “even if by some miracle the women recanted tomorrow, the stain remains. Do we get accused of having a deaf ear to the demands of the Me Too movement? That could have serious fallout.”

  “Yes, it’s important you all proceed as transparently as possible.” Sam paused, as if his next words were deeply held. “But since the larger project is mired in its own entanglements, some of which you have no control over, perhaps the other project, which you do have power over, could be the lifeline.”

  At this, interest sparked in Bennek’s voice. They talked for another twenty minutes and then said their good-byes. After the connection was ended, Sam consciously closed the laptop, despite the red light off on the camera, and rose. Bennek had not directly mentioned Rakosian but had hinted about him. Sam didn’t ask him about the gangster, given he’d seen him leaving Bennek’s house. Maybe a life coach would ask about a specific individual, but he and Rachel had concluded the coach would be above such concerns. His or her focus was the wellbeing of the client, re-enforcing positives and potentials.

  “And that fucking Rakosian is one big negative,” Sam proclaimed out loud, “fucking up our potential payday.” He marched away from his desk and out of his office.

  About an hour before, Rachel had stepped inside her office, part of a shared business space in a modest building on Washington Boulevard. She and Sam were running two Monte stores to make them appear as legit as possible. Inside Mol Rakosian and his muscle were there. Rakosian sat behind her desk, engrossed in trying to balance one of her pens on the end of his finger. The leg breaker sat also, off to the side. Incongruously, he sipped a Starbuck’s coffee like any other citizen. She was irritated but decided she better look worried.

  “I told your girl I wouldn’t be messing with you.”

  The gangster held up his hands. “My bad. I overreacted. I came to make amends.” He got up and came around the desk, where he leaned against the edge. “Talking this over with my financial guy, it might be we could do business together.”

  One of the online tidbits planted by their hacker was that while Rachel’s Shawnee was a neophyte, she was backed by an investment of thirty-five million from her purported Silicon Valley connection. Clearly Rakosian or his money man had sniffed this out.

  “Movies are in no shape or form locks on returns,” she said, making it sound like she was getting her nerve back. “My five-year plan is doing small ventures for modest budgets. Straddling the art house and niche crowds. Get some modest returns, maybe sneak in a hit. I’m not looking to go poor, but you siccing your attack dog on me was the cold splash of water I needed to wake up and know I better stay the hell away from the likes of you, Mr. Rakosian.”

  She folded her arms and gave them a flat stare.

  “Now if you don’t mind, could I have my office back?”

  Rakosian smiled appreciatively at his man then back on Rachel. “Like I said, I made the mistake of applying the way business is conducted on my side of the tracks to this area of endeavor.” He glanced at some of the framed movie posters on the walls, pausing momentarily to linger on the art for Casablanca. “I’m looking for long-term opportunities. And believe me, I understand about risks.”

  “So what do you want from me?” Rachel asked. “You want to use me to launder your money?”

  He grinned again, a coffin salesman selling the deluxe version to the grieving family. “I just might have an idea for a crime story series. Like what they show on cable and over the internet.”

  What the…? She said, though, “A story you know well, is that it?”

  “An immigrant tale in a time when the immigrant is getting shat on, Ms. Isabella. A story of old hatreds, retribution sought over decades and rebirth in the land of promise. The universal story yet socked a’plenty with sex—” he raised a finger, “—straight and gay, I hasten to add, along with unbridled violence and yet through it all, tests of loyalty and courage.” He straightened from the desk, spreading his arms wide, beaming.

  “You’re serious?”

  “Very,” he said gravely. “And I got the star of the show in mind as well.”

  Shit, she almost swore. That was why Rakosian hadn’t put the bite on Bennek for money. He wanted to leverage him into this cockamamie project. But what exactly did Rakosian have on him?

  “Stevie, lay the scripts on her,” he said to the bodyguard.

  Rachel stared blankly at the other man who had a valise with him she hadn’t noticed before. It was leaning against the back leg of his chair on the side angled away from her. He stood, and Rachel realized the man was at least six-three. He unzipped the case and fished out three bound scripts and some stapled sheets.

  “These were written by a cousin, a play cousin, my black friends would say.” Rakosian had moved clo
ser to her. “They aren’t what you’d call shooting ready and frankly, really I’m showing you these to give you an idea of what I’m talking about. I understand that these wouldn’t be used going forward.”

  Stevie was facing her and handed them over.

  “Okay…” Rachel began, noting Stevie’s face. Was that annoyance she clocked?

  “No, I understand. Like I said, they’re rough.” Rakosian patted the scripts. “You be as critical as you feel. I’m a grown man and can take it. Because this is about making this the best it can be. I have no doubt people will eat this up.”

  Stevie was already heading toward the door.

  “I’ll be in touch,” Rakosian said, falling in step. He pulled a pair of designer sunglasses from his jacket’s inner pocket and putting them on, the two left her office.

  “Motherfuck,” she muttered, the scripts in hand. She then went to her desk and using her encrypted disposable sent a terse text to Porter.

  Stand by. Change of plans on the coast.

  She purposely didn’t cc Sam. Not that he’d have his doppelganger of her phone laying about for anyone to take a gander at, but she wanted to assess the scripts first then reconnoiter with him. She then prepared some green tea and began reading script one of the CEO of Crime. As promised, it was raw and way too obvious in the way situations progressed one to the other. She found it a tough slog through the first one and determined there was no need to read the other two. There was no way Reed Bennek would go for this as they were currently written. That didn’t mean a killer pitch couldn’t be developed and try and sell the project that way. Of course Industry veterans were leery of an untested production company, but on paper hers was an enterprise with real money. That helped to open doors, along with a star like Bennek attached. If that was the route to take, Rachel mused.

  Getting up to do some stretching, she imagined how the conversation with Sam would go.