The Rule of Thirds

by Matt Phillips

  The Mexican guy led him through stacks of lumber and sheet metal, into a long hallway. Billy got a shot of the guy’s two-tones as he clicked across the cement. Some fucking cartel enforcer—the guy looked like a hip executive or something. They walked through near darkness for about twenty feet, came out into a break room area with a microwave and refrigerator. On the other side, another short hallway and the hot light of office halogens. The smell of commercial cleaning supplies and stale coffee. They moved through the room, entered the hallway and Billy heard Sam’s voice. As the Mexican guy waved him into an office on the right, he brought the camera up a bit, got a sweeping shot of the room: Sam and Rachel on one side of a folding table. Chito next to them with an armed guard—one Billy recognized with an AK slung over his shoulder. One of Chito’s nephews, most likely. Two other Mexican guys. Both in trim suits without wrinkles or flaws. There were two black duffel bags on the table.

  Chito said, “Like I was saying, cabrón—the other half is here.”

  Billy said, “Yo, everybody. Sorry I’m late.”

  Rapid-fire Spanish from one of the well-dressed guys, the taller of the two. Billy noticed he wore a gold cross on a chain, let it hang out on top of his tie. He seemed to give direction to the other guy.

  Billy stopped in his tracks, pivoted the camera toward them.

  Rachel said, “Turn it off, Billy. Now.”

  He glared at her, pissed she didn’t want to play the game with him and tell them it wasn’t recording. “Part of the deal was—”

  “Fuck your deal, gringo.” It was the guy with the gold cross on the chain. “I don’t want my face on your fucking camera.”

  Chito and Sam were staring at Billy. He tried to appeal to Rachel with a gaze, but she gave him nothing. “Okay, man—for sure.” He turned the camera around so it was facing behind him. He walked to the table, dropped the backpack. “There it is.”

  Chito nodded at his nephew who approached the table, began to pull stacks of money from one of the duffels. He placed the cash—small, thick bundles—on the table and topped them with Billy’s contribution. The nephew stepped back and Chito said, “It’s eighty thousand, US.”

  One of the fashion squad—the subordinate—shoved the stacks into Billy’s backpack, slung it over a shoulder. He moved behind the leader who said, “Your product,” and nodded at the remaining bag. They backed out of the office, footsteps clopping their way down the hall until it was silent.

  Billy swung the camera to capture the table. He said, “They stole my freaking backpack,” and began poking at the duffel with the camera. “Let’s get a shot of this shit, man. A shot of all this product and for sure—”

  Pop. Pop. Pop.

  From out in the warehouse.

  Pop. Pop.

  Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.

  “What the fuck?” Billy’s gaze focused on Rachel.

  Rachel’s chin hit her chest. Sam closed his eyes.

  Chito waited, but no more gunfire sounded. After about thirty seconds, he said, “Each of you knows I’m a businessman. What this was—it was business.”

  Sam said, “You made the buy eighty Gs. For the product and our forty. That’s a one hundred K swing. You go from forty to one-twenty—just like that.”

  “Si. Just like that,” Chito said. “Like in a Mexican dream.” He grinned.

  Chito’s nephew moved to the table, slung the duffel of Crystal Meth over his shoulder. He followed Chito toward the door.

  Sam said, “You said nobody gets their ticket punched.”

  Chito stopped, turned to face Sam and Rachel and Billy. “I changed my mind, Sam. I could—what is it you say?—punch more tickets.” He looked with hatred at Rachel. “If you want.”

  Rachel said, “We want our twenty.”

  “Not a chance,” Chito said as he walked out into the hallway followed by his nephew and eighty grand worth of crystal meth. And with the other eighty Gs waiting for him wherever the cartel men were dying—or dead—in the warehouse.

  Billy looked down at the camera in his hand—he got it all on instinct, his hand rotating the camera back and forth as the exchange occurred. He thought, well, there’s that. “What the fuck happened?”

  “We got jacked,” Sam said.

  He was already headed toward the doorway, Rachel close behind him. Billy cursed under his breath and followed. Through the hallway at a run, Sam’s limp pronounced in the low light of the shot. Across the break room. Into the darkness of the next hallway and through it. They spilled into the warehouse, the tangy smell of gunfire on the air. Oh, shit. Billy Jake brought his camera up to his shoulder, glassed a splayed body with blood pooled around the head. Handgun hanging loose from the guy’s right paw. Fuck me, Billy thought. I’m going to give them this shit in real time—no cuts. A fucking tracking shot. Real goddamn life and death. Fuck the fuck out of me. Gunshot wound to the torso and neck. Lots of blood. Billy’s stomach flipped and he gagged, pushed it back down with a grunt. Rachel screamed and Billy twisted to get it. Also got Sam lunging toward her, an animal yawp coming out of him. The pop-pop-pop-pop sounded before Sam and Rachel hit the concrete, blasted Billy’s ears so he couldn’t hear—nothing but white noise ringing in his head. He went to his knees, propelled by some atavistic instinct. Braced the camera against his chest, rotated to catch frantic footsteps. Scrambled to his knees, swung the camera to a shoulder. Got Chito running in with an AK.

  Another scream from Rachel.

  Chito stopped cold as the pop-pop-pop sounded again. He dropped the AK, went to his knees. Blood in one hand. His eyes glassy and surprised. Billy moved closer, drawn in by the shot itself.

  “Billy!” Rachel’s voice. “Get the fuck down!”

  Huh, what? Billy only knew he was getting the shot. This one of Chito getting peppered by another pop-pop-pop. Pop-pop. And Billy turned around to see the guy wearing the gold cross limping toward him. A gun swinging wild from his left hand, attached to a bloody arm. Man, that suit got shredded.

  And Billy got laid out by Sam, but somehow held onto the camera.

  More pop-pop-pop, but Sam and Rachel were yanking Billy past the SUVs and the Fiat and Sam was digging into Billy’s pants for the keys. And Billy caught something out of his side vision—fabric moving. He raised the camera, swung it above Sam who was messing with the key fob. It was Rachel in the frame—she was sprinting toward the back of the first SUV. The back hatch was open and two bags were sitting there, inside the rear storage. The backpack and the duffel—the money and the drugs. She reached the SUV, threw the backpack on one shoulder and the duffel on the other. She turned and started back toward the Acura. Full sprint and face like a mannequin.

  Billy said, “Holy fuck, man.”

  Sam turned, said, “Fuck—Rachel!” He plunged a hand into his coat and came out with a handgun. Sam popped shots over Rachel’s head. Sharp pings came off the SUV and the gold cross man shouted Spanish curse words at the entire fucking scene. He was lurching around the SUV, sliding in his own blood along the armored exterior.

  Rachel hopped in the passenger seat as Sam chirped the Acura’s alarm. He got into the driver’s seat and Billy somehow found his way into the back, kept his camera pointed out the windshield.

  Fucking fuck, man!

  He got the shot through the windshield as they squealed backwards, punched through the thin garage door with the screech of collapsing metal. The door falling over the car like a robotic blanket, sliding off. The gold cross man, a twisted look on his bloody face, popped off more shots, limped toward the Fiat. Sam whipped the Acura around and Billy Jake got that too, a nice whip effect as he braced himself but still held onto the camera.

  Rachel said, “Right here. Next left.”

  Sam obeyed.

  “Left,” she said. “Go—fast.”

  “What the fuck just happened?” Billy put the camera on Sam.

  “We almost got got,” he said.

  Now, Rachel. “He knows th
e streets better than us.”

  “We’re good,” Sam said.

  “You guys are some crazy fucking bastards.”

  Rachel turned in the passenger seat, pointed a small black gun at him. “Put the camera down, Billy Jake.”

  “What the fuck?”

  “Put it down.”

  “Okay, jeez.” He saw the look in her eyes and didn’t want to test it.

  “Are you with us or what?”

  “Were you fucks trying to take me for a ride?” Billy Jake remembered the look on Rachel’s face as she was running through the gunfire. Not surprise or fear, but a familiar focus. And he knew—something told him it was true. “Yeah. You were trying to rip me off.”

  Rachel licked her bottom lip and put the gun back in her lap. “It wasn’t personal. You were just a mark.”

  “What are you? Gangsters?”

  Sam laughed. “We’re not gangsters.”

  “What then, man?”

  Rachel raised her eyebrows. “Do you want the rest of this story, or what? Are you going to get the final shot? Do you want a complete film, like you’ve been saying? Do you, Billy Jake?”

  He nodded, lifted the camera to capture Rachel’s glare.

  “Not my face.”

  Sam said, “It’s okay—he’ll blur it out.”

  Billy caught Sam’s eyes in the rearview.

  “You’ll blur it out, right?”

  Billy Jake nodded. “I’ll blur it out.”

  Rachel hesitated, but not for long. “We’re grifters, Billy Jake. And you got conned. That’s all there is to it.”

  Maybe he should have been disappointed or angry, but Billy didn’t feel any of that. Not even close. Instead, he was elated. I got it, he thought, I got my first fucking film in the can. And it’s going to be a fucking award winner. You bet your sweet ass, motherfucker. It’s an award winner.

  And then he heard Sam say, “Oh, fuck. Rachel, look.” He slammed on the brakes and the Acura squealed to an abrupt stop.

  Billy Jake got the shot—again—through the windshield.

  It was gold cross man and he was stopped in the center of an empty intersection, pulling himself out of the tiny Fiat.

  Billy said, “Who is this dude?”

  Sam was already opening his door.

  Rachel said, “The cartel. The real cartel.”

  The way Billy Jake thought he’d edit this flick:

  Open with a slow motion shot of Sam getting out of the Acura, raising his gun, moving through the intersection like a gunfighter or movie cop. That trademark Sam limp hindering him, but somehow making him seem more bad ass. Speed up the scene as the gun jumped in his hand, Sam not even wincing at the sound and power. Not real speed, okay, but slightly faster. Slow it down again as gold cross man fell over the hood, dropped his gun. Keep it slow as he rolled off the car and into the street. And make sure you keep Sam limp-stalking toward him, glaring down and firing that final, killer shot.

  But you cut it right before that bullet hits.

  Keep this flick tasteful.

  Not try and glorify the violence, but make sure the audience knows.

  Sam killed that motherfucker.

  And, yes, Billy was going to blur Sam’s face. Not ideal, but as he thought about it…He figured it might add an element of mystery. Like, have the audience saying, who the fuck is this?

  Who the fuck?

  And L-cut to the shot—the first shot he got on his first day with Sam—of Sam driving the Fiat in the barrio. The sound of the gunshot echoing and fading as the engine and bumpy road came in, Sam in his face shield pulling to the curb and running inside that safe house. The first scene tied together with the final scene.

  Make that the opening sequence.

  Yeah—put it together like that.

  That’s how this motherfucker starts.

  They stared at the yellow and white taxis pulling to the curb, dropping drunk tourists and giggling coeds. Shit, everybody drunk. All the people stumbling down the walkway that led past the trinket shops and ended with long lines and a passport scan and nosey questions from someone sworn to protect America—the San Ysidro border crossing. Sam kept the Acura running, his eyes flitting back and forth from the rearview mirror to the sideview closest to the street—the passenger side. No cops or pursuit cars. Surprised Billy Jake that the sirens didn’t come for, what, ten minutes? They were halfway across the city by then, strategizing on what to do.

  Split up is what they decided. Keep following the plan.

  Sam said, “Is this thing all wheel drive?”

  “Yeah,” Billy Jake said. “Top of the line.”

  “You won’t get her back.”

  “No shit,” Billy said.

  Rachel turned toward him, rested her head on the seat back and said, “You’re our third. It’s us two. Me and Sam. And it’s you. I like you Billy Jake—I always did. If it wasn’t me and Sam…” She didn’t finish the sentence.

  Billy Jake nodded, sighed. Another grift, this last bit of persuasion from Rachel to get him to do what she wanted. But Billy was thinking of something else. “The Rule of Thirds,” he said.

  “What?” Sam turned and looked at him. “Why do you say that?”

  “Me, man—I’m not in the center of this thing.” Billy Jake laughed, knew that crazy smile was illustrating his face. “I’m not in the center. I’m just the point that draws people in, makes it so they can get into the film. I’m on the dividing line. I’m a point of interest.”

  Rachel said, “We’re giving you back twenty. And the Crystal. Call the number Sam gave you and you’ll get connected. It’ll easily go for the eighty and—”

  “Bam,” Sam said. “You pull a hundred from it, all told.”

  “Minus the forty I got to get back into my dad’s safe. And my fucking car.”

  Sam shrugged.

  Rachel said, “So, you come out with forty.”

  Billy sighed. “And you two pull an easy sixty Gs off my dumb ass, right?”

  Sam shook his head. “Billy, look…This shit got a little crazy.”

  “No shit, motherfucker.”

  “But all you got to do is play it cool. Carry the bag. Walk across. You’re golden.”

  “The Rule of Thirds,” Billy said again. “Fuck me.”

  “Turn on your camera,” Rachel said. “Get it all on tape, right?”

  Billy Jake giggled. “Right,” he said. “That’s goddamn right…I’ll get it all on tape. Fucking A—I’ll get all this shit on the tape.”

  Back to TOC

  MATT PHILLIPS lives in San Diego. His books include You Must Have a Death Wish, Countdown, Know Me from Smoke, The Bad Kind of Lucky, Three Kinds of Fool, and Accidental Outlaws. More info at MattPhillipsWriter.com.

  Back to TOC

  BOOKS BY MATT PHILLIPS

  You Must Have a Death Wish

  Countdown

  Know Me from Smoke

  Accidental Outlaws

  The Bad Kind of Lucky

  Three Kinds of Fool

  Redbone

  Back to TOC

  Here is a preview from the fourteenth episode of A Grifter’s Song, The Down and Out by Lawrence Maddox.

  Click here for a complete catalog of titles available from Down & Out Books and its divisions and imprints.

  The two homeless men swung wildly at each other on the sidewalk. The smaller man, blood dribbling down his matted facial hair, collapsed to one knee.

  “There’s no worse ‘Welcome Back’ to a city than seeing two bums duke it out on a street corner,” Sam said. He eased the rented Cadillac Escalade to a stop at the traffic signal. “Broad daylight too.”

  “I don’t remember it being like this the last time we were in L.A.,” Rachel said, studying the makeshift tents under the Ventura Freeway overpass.

  “It was. We just worked in the nice spots.”

  “Nice spots? It’s Studio City. We just passed Warn
er’s. Universal Studios is two minutes away.”

  Sam didn’t answer. The homeless being right up in his grill gave him the willies. No addresses. No jobs. No family that gave a damn. There’d been more than one time, when the cash ran out after a string of cons-gone-wrong, that he and Rachel had been close to living on the street. Scary close.

  It was even scarier when he was a kid in Iowa. Sam didn’t like thinking about it.

  The light turned green just as the bigger man kicked his opponent into a shopping cart, sending it and its piled contents into the street. As Sam sped past he noticed the big man had a solid milk-white left eye.

  Rachel seemed to sense Sam’s tension. She placed her hand on his. This was her grift and it took some convincing to get Sam to go along. “Don’t worry, baby. When this is over we’ll walk out of Hollywood like Meryl Streep on Oscar night.”

  Sam nodded. He pulled up to the short line of cars at Dynamic Studio’s Main Gate security kiosk. Beyond the entrance, a water tower loomed over countless rows of massive sound stages. “Got our old licenses?”

  Rachel held them up. “These two made us a lot of money before.”

  “Yeah, and they made us a lot of enemies. If Reed Bennek gets word we’re back, he’ll come after us with everything he’s got.” He turned to Rachel. “Just so you know, I’m one hundred percent in. There’s risk but netting two hundred and fifty large, maybe more, is worth it.” Sam laughed lightly. “I’ve never seen a mark more ready to fall than Leonides. So I’m done bitching about it, okay?”

  “Bitch away. Just thank me when we’re flying first class outta here.”

  Sam eyed the security guard up ahead. “Porter set a lot of the old con up. He got these licenses made,” Sam said quietly. “It’s like he’s still helping us.”

  Rachel stroked his thigh. “Things, you know, Sam. They change.”

  Sam let that sink in. Sometimes for worse.

  A BMW electric Roadster pulled away from the kiosk and suddenly Sam and Rachel were next. Sam took a deep breath. Show time. He remembered that movie moment when Butch and Sundance, surrounded by Bolivian soldiers, gave each other that look before charging into a blaze of freeze-frame glory. He and Rachel shared a similar look.