The Rule of Thirds

by Matt Phillips

  “Alright. Fine.” Sam held up both hands, motioned for Billy to sit. “I’m just asking is all.” The kid sank onto the bed, his left thigh so near Rachel’s leg that Sam imagined slipping a piece of sheet metal between them. “I’m the one at risk, okay? I take you into this thing, what I do, and my boss is going to shit. I got to ease him into it, otherwise he’ll be the one who does the shooting.” Sam mimed a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. “I can’t have anybody, you know—”

  “Acting like a fuck up,” Billy finished.

  “That’s it.”

  Rachel said, “I knew you two would get along.”

  The following day.

  Sam slid the envelope across the table, watched Chito’s face as he flipped through the bills—a collection from down in Ensenada. Chito lifted his left hand, motioned for one of his nephews to approach and take the money. The kid—late teens, maybe—took the money and left a bottle of tequila on the table. Chito’s house reminded Sam of a university frat house—big TV on the wall, rap bumping in the background, and everybody standing around looking tough with five o’clock shadow and ripped T-shirts. All that and the overflowing garbage can with take-out boxes and bottles of Bud Light. Sam was the lone gringo in Chito’s crew, and he was a new addition. That meant somebody always counted the money. It also meant Sam was expected to solidify his allegiance by drinking and shooting the shit with Chito. Sam watched Chito as he took the first slug. He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand, handed Sam the bottle.

  Long swig and a gag.

  Chito said, “You still learning, gringo.”

  “It takes some getting used to.”

  The chubby cartel wannabe shrugged and chuckled. “You want to make money like a Mexican, you got to drink like a Mexican.”

  Chito liked to pretend Sam could become Mexican—it was a running joke between them and amused Chito because of how he connected with Sam in the first place: a recommendation from one of Sam’s underworld contacts back in Detroit. Assurances that Sam wasn’t with the mob—the exact opposite, in fact—and could be trusted. Sam felt a flash of heat run through him, stop at the top of his head. Made him angry just hearing his own brain form the word—Detroit. What a fucking shit-show. Anyhow, what Chito didn’t know was that Sam had the skinny on him—Chito was a mere foot soldier in the drug game, permitted to exist because the cartel was too important to bother with him. He got some drugs into the states, but not enough to buy his way out of this third-world frat house.

  Sam took another drink of tequila, longer this time. “Yo Soy Mexican,” he said. “I was born to be in this city.” Sam smiled his ten-million-dollar smile, waited until he saw a twinkle of humor in Chito’s eyes. “And I got something that could make us some money, jefe.”

  Chito surveyed the room, looking at each one of his three nephews in turn. His eyes settled back on Sam and the left side of his mouth twitched. “So, my gringo thinks he can make a move.” The tequila bottle seemed to levitate to his mouth as he drank more. The bottle hit its halfway point. “My gringo comes to Tijuana, brought to me by a man I consider a friend, and he’s already trying to come into my business, to put my nephews into the dirt.”

  “I’m not trying to put anybody in the dirt, Chito. I—”

  “That’s good. Because your job isn’t to put people there, in the dirt.” Chito glanced over Sam’s shoulder at Juan, his oldest nephew. “Putting people in the dirt…That’s Juan’s job, no?”

  Sam waited for a gun to touch the back of his head, but it didn’t happen. About ten seconds passed and he met Chito’s gaze with the full force of certainty that this was the moment when the con would turn. Billy Jake was in, but Sam needed Chito to take the bait. When the ten seconds passed without a gun to his head, Sam reeled Chito in a bit more. “The way I see it, if we can make money off something we’re already doing—why not do it, right?”

  Chito stood and walked to a dartboard on the wall. The mayor of Tijuana was pinned to the board, a publicity shot from one of the tabloids. Chito hitched up his white painter’s pants and yanked some darts. He walked to a spot on the floor marked by masking tape and began tossing. His first dart punctured the mayor’s nose. “I make all my money doing business with the gringos. Funny. It’s a good business, what I have. Blessed by our friends from Sinaloa.” A second dart hit the mayor in his right eye. “Gringos—it doesn’t matter if I piss them off. Some gringo in Detroit or New York or fucking El Paso, I dare him to come for me.” Chito looked back at Sam. “But if we piss off Sinaloa, that might get us both killed, amigo.” He turned back to the board, took out the mayor’s left eye. He sat back down at the table and took another dose of tequila. “Are we going to piss off Sinaloa?”

  Sam shook his head. “No. Not if we do it the way I say.”

  “How you say?”

  “How I suggest,” Sam said. He scratched his right eyebrow, took a long breath. “With your blessing.”

  Chito licked his upper lip, closed one eye. After a few moments, he crossed himself, made the sign of the cross in front of Sam. A blessing, it seemed. “As if us poor Mexicans need to bless the lucky Americanos,” he said. “The ones who are born into paradise.”

  His nephews laughed.

  Rachel slid a bottle of beer across the bar to Sam, watched his sexy hands close around it. It always turned her on when he was working—something about the way he moved, how his body told her what he was thinking, what he was going to do next. She leaned onto the bar, conscious of how her breasts were drawing Billy Jake’s eyes. The kid was in for their first planning meeting, how they were going to shoot tomorrow. Rachel said, “Whatever you do, follow Sam’s lead. He’s been doing this awhile and he knows—”

  “I respect what you two are doing, bringing me in here. I do.” Billy lifted his flat-brimmed baseball cap—the Dodgers—and revealed his wide blue eyes. “But I got some expertise too, okay?”

  Little prick. Rachel said, “Sure. I know that, honey.”

  “Rachel’s just looking out for me,” Sam said. “That’s what it is.”

  Billy nodded, a slow realization. “Okay. I get that. I understand it. We’re going to do this, we need to protect each other.”

  “Yeah,” Rachel said and pinned Billy with her fuck you eyes. “Why don’t you tell us how you’re going to protect Sam, you’re so fucking certain.” Was that a look of hurt in his eyes? Good.

  “Everybody wears these.” He pulled out a stack of what—to Rachel—looked like handkerchiefs. “Face shields. Fishermen wear them. Protects your face from a sunburn off the water.” He removed his hat and pulled a face shield over his head, left only his eyes and forehead visible. “Sam goes in before I do, gives one to everybody in the room. He comes out and we walk back in together, camera running.”

  Sam said, “But isn’t that—”

  “It’s called directing a doc,” Billy said. “A film like this, I have to set it up. You’re my fixer, and I go in behind you.”

  Sam seemed to be deciding.

  Rachel liked it. “Works for me.” She nodded at a group of girls coming into the bar—still not open this early in the afternoon, but soon the place would be filled with perverted teenage American boys and sick-in-the head locals, all of them ogling these barely legal chicks. Yeah, Rachel thought, we need an exit plan. Sooner would be so much better than later.

  “I guess that makes sense,” Sam said.

  “What we need,” Billy said as he swung his right arm high in the air, “Is a narrative arc. Something to tie everything together.”

  “I told you it’s going to be hard to get one guy who—”

  “We don’t have to have it now,” Billy said. “We just have to watch for it, see it when it’s there.”

  Rachel reached across the bar and grabbed Billy’s left earlobe, pinched it as hard as she could.

  “What the—”

  “Shut up, Billy Jake.” She yanked him toward her, put her hot breath on his no
se.

  “Ah, Christ! Fuck!”

  “Can it, motherfucker.” His blue eyes looked like smoke. Rachel wanted to spit in them, but she settled for tough talk. “We’re giving you this. It’s like a gift. Young guy like you, finds his way into a cartel. What do you think that’ll do for your career? Don’t talk. I know what it can do, what it will do. But you’re not going to get us killed—I won’t let you get us killed. Don’t you dare interrupt my man when he’s talking. And you get out there, you follow him. I hear word one from Sam that you’re putting him in danger? I’ll make you fucking pay.”

  Billy Jake’s eyes went wide, and then he squinted. Rachel let him go and he sank back into his bar stool. He looked from her to Sam. Did it again, a look of disappointed surprise coming into his face. “You two are…together? Shit. You didn’t tell me that—I had no idea.”

  Sam tasted the insides of his mouth, smiled. “That a problem for you, Billy Jake?”

  Rachel answered for him. “No—it’s not a problem. Billy Jake just wants to make his first feature doc. That’s all that matters to him in the whole wide world.”

  The Second Third

  Billy Jake was confused about where they were—some neighborhood in Tijuana, but he got lost with Sam whipping the small Fiat around corners and through warehouses. Now they slowed down on a street of small homes divided by short chain-link fencing. Cottages to Billy Jake’s eye and camera. He held the shot steady the best he could, thought he might like the frenetic look of bouncing through Tijuana when he got into editing. He said, “Where are we?”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Sam pulled to the curb, pushed his face shield up over his nose. His was a white skeleton on black fabric. “All you need to know is we’re picking up some cash for the boss.”

  Billy thought Sam looked good with the face shield, a mysterious white boy doing muscle work in Tijuana. “Let me go in behind you,” he said. “I’ll get that first shot—”

  “I got to get these guys their masks. Wait here.” Sam exited the vehicle, half-jogged up a cement walkway toward a teal house with a chained pit bull guarding the side yard. Billy noticed Sam’s slight limp then—was surprised he didn’t notice it before. Not too noticeable, but there. The pit bull yelped and growled. Sam knocked twice, was let inside and the door closed.

  “Shit,” Billy Jake said. He put the camera on the street, caught two kids riding BMX bikes down the street, a grandma pushing a small cart with bagged produce and other groceries. A municipal police truck approached the stop sign about a hundred yards ahead, turned right, away from where Sam parked. Billy Jake got that in the can too, thought it’d add drama to a scene like this. “Fuck yes,” he said. “That’s nice.” All these fly-on-the-wall shots—Billy knew—could be the difference between a believable doc and some second-rate made-for-TV docudrama. Fuck that—he was a real filmmaker.

  Sam whistled from the open doorway, motioned for Billy to approach. Billy caught him looking up and down the street in his skeleton mask—another good shot. Tracking up the sidewalk now, a good look at the pit bull straining against the chain. Barked its head off at Billy Jake and his weird looking camera. He followed Sam inside the house. The living room was all couches with a big screen TV on the wall. Six guys with long guns and face shields on—everybody sporting what looked like tribal etching on their faces. Billy Jake had clown face shields too, but he was waiting for the right time to use those. Two guys stood in the hallway with their guns, watched Billy Jake like hunters. The other four were sitting, eyes dead as crushed eggs. He scanned the room, got everything in the can. Nothing like men with guns to captivate an audience.

  Sam said, “Stand against the wall.”

  Billy followed instructions.

  One guy spoke a barrage of Spanish, waved his gun at Sam.

  Sam answered in chopped reply, fit a few English words in for effect. Fuck and shit, to be exact.

  For a moment, everybody stared at everybody else. Billy Jake got that on camera, caught himself smiling as he did. He tried to wipe the grin off his face, noticed one of the gunmen in the hallway shaking his head. The guy who seemed to be in charge said, “Pinche gringos.”

  Sam said, “Just give me the dinero, hombre.” The guy reached into the couch cushions, came out with a greasy white envelope. Sam approached, took the envelope. He folded it under his arm and said, “Gracias.” He turned to Billy, motioned at the door.

  Billy said, “Hold up a minute.” He saw it happening before Sam did, knew it was that thing in him that made him a filmmaker. Some extra sense, an awareness. A gut instinct that couldn’t be taught or even learned. The guy who handed Sam the envelope stood, walked toward the camera. He held out his gun—an automatic rifle—for Sam to catch on camera. He ran his hands over the firearm, put a finger into the barrel, got a laugh from all his buddies. Billy Jake thought: Thank God for this omni mic. Onboard sound, baby. The guy lifted the gun over his head, shook it. Brought it back down and removed the clip, let Billy Jake put his camera lens down on the pressed together rounds. He slammed the clip back in, put the gun on his shoulder. He stood back like the gangster he was and let Billy back up into a wide shot. Mise-en-scene, motherfucker. When he had it, Billy said, “Grassy-ass, señor,” and didn’t understand why everybody laughed at him.

  Sam said, “Let’s go.”

  Billy followed him out the door, camera still rolling, wondered what the hell he was missing.

  “Man, it’ll be so much better—more hard-hitting—if I get in there with you. I’m not trying to crunch your style, Sam. I just want to get the best shot I can. Every fucking time.”

  Sam made a sharp left, bounced the Fiat over a deep pothole.

  Billy Jake said, “Ow—shit!”

  “Those guys don’t fuck around, man. You get a shot of one of their faces? Maybe it turns out he’s a fucking cop. Or, worse, he’s been turned by the cartel and he decides to chop of your fucking head.” Sam made a right, crossed Avenida Revolución. He parallel parked the car outside a restaurant called Caribe’s. It was lunch time.

  And margarita time.

  “Wait,” Billy Jake said. “I thought you were working for the cartel?”

  “I am, but what I mean is…” Sam hesitated for an instant, but knew this was—again—a moment when he had to keep Billy Jake on the hook. “Turned by another cartel is what I’m saying.” He watched Billy think about it, those wild eyes of his closing slightly over a pursed mouth.

  “Like, a mole?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Fuck me, man. If we could find a mole, what would you do to him? I mean, really, what the fuck would you have to do to him?”

  “Or her?”

  Billy Jake raised his eyebrows. “Or her.”

  “You got to kill a mole. What else are you going to do? Look, man—I’m hungry, okay? Let’s get some lunch.” He got out of the car before Billy could respond.

  Inside, they found a booth in the far corner, Sam facing outward to watch the busy street and door. He said, “Order the rolled tacos. It’s the best thing here.”

  “I want a beer.” Billy put the camera on the table, pointed it toward the door, punched record. Just in case, man, he thought.

  The waitress—a girl of sixteen or so—came over and took their order. Sam ordered in Spanish, a clipped smile showing on his face for an instant—the formality of manners. He told Billy, “I ordered for you. Not a beer. Margaritas and rolled tacos.”

  “Shit, man. Am I the director of this thing or what?” More than joking when he said it. “I can’t even eat you tell me—”

  “I’m the director,” Sam said, “but you get the credit.”

  They got their margaritas and Sam drained his. Billy licked the salt on the rim of his glass, made a lime-squeeze face. There were horns honking outside and shouts from vendors and sidewalk salesman. The restaurant was playing Mexican pop music and a cook was singing along in the kitchen.

  Billy said,
“Hey, man—are you strapped?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I hope you are. Fuck. Hey, should I pick up a gun? A Glock, maybe? Something I can—”

  “It’s illegal to bring guns into Mexico.”

  “I’m saying I get it here,” Billy said. “Off the streets. Or from one of your people. The cartel, right?”

  Sam sighed and shook his head. “You’re a real character, you know that? You ask me, stick to carrying a camera.”

  Billy swiveled the camera, made sure it was recording. Made sure the mic was picking up sound, too. “You ever kill anybody? I mean, like, kill anybody on purpose?”

  “What kind of question is that?” Sam lifted his eyebrows at the waitress, a sign to bring him another margarita. “I know you want to make a name for yourself, but you’ll never get anybody to open up to you. Not when you come on that strong.”

  “What makes you the expert?”

  Sam smiled, ran an index finger down the vertical scar on the side of his face.

  Billy said, “Seriously. I want to know.”

  “I’m not saying I’m a filmmaker, but I can tell you: I know how to convince people, how to persuade.”

  “Shit.” Billy slurped the last portion of his margarita.

  “Take you, for instance. The way Rachel told it, you wanted to make a doc about strippers.”

  “It’s true.”

  The plates of rolled tacos arrived and Sam started on his food. Billy leaned down and sniffed, decided the scents of ground beef and salsa were satisfying. He took a bite, saw why Sam wanted to eat here. He was halfway through his plate when he said, “You telling me you wouldn’t watch a doc about strippers? Bull. Shit.”

  “I’m not saying that—what I’m saying is: I persuaded you—through a series of interactions and strategic stimuli—to make a doc about a cartel.”