by Josie Brown
Hey, you’ll be lucky if the producer doesn’t hit you up to help fund the flick in exchange for an “executive producer” credit.
Reality Check #2: Don’t expect the script to truly reflect your experiences in any way, shape or form. There is a reason movies based on real people or incidents all start off with the disclaimer, “Inspired by…” which is even more of a tip-off than “Based on…”
Bottom line: Your story may have taken place in Peoria, but it won’t play well there. That said, expect a few embellishments, and perhaps a whopper or two.
Reality Check #3: You, madam, are no Erin Brockovich—so don’t expect Julia Roberts to play you in the movie. That also goes for Charlize Theron, Jennifer Lawrence, and Scarlett Johansson.
(Okay, maybe Meryl Streep, but only because she can play anyone. Lucky you!)
“One double espresso, extra slow drip, for Dude Lebowski!” the Starbucks Barista shouts over the murmurs of patrons.
“Wait…the Dude is here?” a customer asks loudly.
All heads turn in order to scrutinize everyone within sight, cell phones poised to take a picture of anyone even resembling Jeff Bridges.
Arnie starts over to the counter, but I grab his arm and pull him back. “Way to go, genius! We’re supposed to be incognito, remember? If you go over there, everyone in the place will stare right at us.”
Arnie shrugs sheepishly. “When the cashier asked what name to put on the cup, Lebowski was the first one that came to mind.”
Ryan buries his head in his hands. I don’t blame him. Life keeps dealing him one blow after another.
The new Director of Intelligence has done exactly as he promised the committee: he’s cleaning house of contractors he deems traitorous. No doubt, heads will roll, subpoenas will fly, and culprits will feel the long arm of the law—as defined by Carl Stone.
And thanks to my refusal to leave Jack, guess who’s first on his hit list?
Since last week, Acme’s offices have been shuttered by the Department of Justice. All files and computers have been seized, along with its bank accounts.
And all of Acme’s operatives have scattered to the wind—
Except for the ones on my mission team: Jack, Arnie, Abu, Emma, Dominic and, of course, me.
Jack still doesn’t know about Carl’s request. I plan on keeping it this way. He loves me and the children, but I have no doubt he’d make the sacrifice that would keep the nation secure from Carl and his devious schemes.
The first consequence of my declaration of war with my soon-to-be ex is that every move we make is being watched. It’s an exhausting game of cat-and-mouse. Should they find us congregating in any fashion, they’ll assume the worst—which, in this case, is also the truth:
With or without the sanction of our own government, we’re sworn to take down the Quorum.
And since Carl still runs it, we have to take him down, too.
To shake the agents who are tailing us, Jack and I have established a pattern that is typical of any Hilldale couple. In the morning, we head off in different directions as we carpool our children to school. Afterwards, we run our separate errands. Mine take me to the grocery store, the mall, perhaps the hair salon or nail studio. Jack usually ends up at Home Depot, the bank, or the country club for a game of golf.
Throughout the day, like other loving couples, we send each other lovey-dovey emails or texts intercutting mundane requests with terms of endearments. For example, Jack will ask me, his “Poochie-Smoochie,” to pick up his favorite suit from the dry-cleaners, whereas I’ll remind Jack, a.k.a., “Studmuffin,” to buy dog food.
In truth, these loving reminders use coded phrases relaying the who-what-where-when and how of our next rendezvous with the rest of our Acme team: Ryan, Dominic, Abu, Arnie and Emma.
By lunchtime, we’re home again. Usually, we spend our afternoons exchanging mundane gossip, checking our email—
And making love.
Loud, hot, steamy sex.
At least, that’s what it sounds like to those listening in.
During these supposed sessions of afternoon delight, the curtains are drawn in the bedroom. Every now and then a shadow in the window can be mistaken for a couple in the throes of passion. In truth, it is a reflection from a light box, timed to appear during a dialogue consisting of naughty talk laced with a litany of sensual moans.
We certainly know how to put on a show.
While our audience is enthralled, we walk out the back door, leap over the fence, grab an unregistered car, and head to the agreed-upon assignation.
Today’s missive, which I received from my manicurist during a pedicure, sent us to this Starbuck’s, in Manhattan Beach. We’ve been taking our cue from start-ups and the self-employed and are making any space offering free WiFi our office away from home.
Before Arnie can blow the lid on our seemingly innocent gathering, I grab his arm. “Don’t go,” I warn him. “Instead, order the same thing under a different name—something innocuous, like ‘John Brown.’” My own fake moniker for my caramel macchiato is as plain Jane as can be—Susan Smith.
As he nods, the barista calls out, “Dominic Fleming, your martini, shaken with a twist, is ready!”
Ryan slams his hand on the coffee table in front of us. “What part of ‘covert’ do you people not understand?”
Jack looks up from the newspaper he’s reading. “Wait…they serve martinis here, too?”
“Usually after four, but they bend the rules for those who merit it.” Dominic waves grandly at the barista. “Thank you, my good man. Kindly send someone over with it.”
Jack throws the paper on the coffee table. “This joint is self-serve. What makes you think the kid is going to run over with your drinkie-poo?”
“Ah, here it is now.” Dominic graces the girl who delivers it with a wink.
She winks back—and writes her telephone number on a napkin before sauntering off.
“That’s it,” Ryan growls. “Next time, we meet in a cemetery.”
“Great idea, boss,” Emma exclaims cheerfully. “Maybe we can find an empty mausoleum.”
I shudder. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve had my fill of tombs.”
“No problem there—at least, not in the near future. In fact, all travel to exotic locales will be a thing of the past if Acme doesn’t replace the revenue that just flew out the door with Carl’s appointment.” It’s that thought, not the café’s Gold Coast blend, that has Ryan grimacing as he sips his coffee. “Not only are the Feds climbing up our asses with proctoscopes, but every one of our clients and assets—both domestically and internationally—have been interrogated about us.”
“Doesn’t anyone find it odd that the previous Director of Intelligence died the day after he retired to his Montana ranch?” asks Emma.
“Of course they do,” Jack assures her. “Not to mention that the cause of death—being trampled by a herd of Black Angus steers that were his pride and joy—isn’t exactly normal.”
“All the more reason to erase any evidence that may land us in jail, if it can’t be validated as a sanctioned operation. I’ve no doubt Arnie scrubbed our hard drives to a fare-thee-well,” Ryan muses out loud. “But ask yourself: why are we being tailed? Carl is on a fishing expedition, and Acme is his Moby Dick.”
“Ryan’s right,” Dominic says, as he plucks the olive from the toothpick in his drink. “In fact, things may be worse than we know. My contact in Morocco tells me that there’s a reward being offered to anyone with proof that Acme has, quote, performed deeds that can be considered detrimental to the security of the country, unquote.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Abu sputters. “Every one of Acme’s missions were sanctioned—if not by the US intelligence community, then by POTUS himself.”
“I’ve set up a meeting with POTUS, to personally hand over validated evidence of all Acme mission orders. But until he clears us of all charges, we’ve each got a target over our heads. Needless to say, no foreign government
s will hire us, either.” Ryan winces. “In the meantime, we all have bills to pay—which brings me to one job that has fallen into our laps. It’s not our usual mission. Hell, it’s not a mission at all.”
Jack leans forward. “You mean, a corporate security or espionage gig?”
“Ha, I wish! Sadly, our new reputation precedes us into Fortune 500 boardrooms as well.” Ryan attempts a smile, but it’s as tepid as the coffee in his cup. “We’ve been asked to consult on a movie—an espionage thriller. The producer is Addison Montague. Apparently, the film will star Leo DiCaprio and Amy Adams. Martin Scorsese is onboard to direct. As you can imagine, with that A Team, they want to be as authentic as possible.”
“What a relief,” sniffs Dominic. “None of that Bourne or Mission Impossible silliness.”
Ryan nods. “That’s exactly how Montague put it. He’s looking for two consultants with field experience to vet the script, as well as a tech equipment advisor on the set during production.”
Arnie practically hits the ceiling with his fist pump. “I am so in!”
Ryan doesn’t flinch. “I had no doubt about it. As for those of you with field experience, they’ll want to meet with you later today—two o’clock, at Montague’s offices, on Sunset. Who’s in? Let’s see a show of hands.”
Mine goes up, as does Dominic’s.
Ryan glances over at Jack. “You don’t want to be considered?”
Jack shrugs. “I don’t audition.”
Dominic gives his shoulder a sympathetic pat. “Can’t say I blame you, old boy. No need to have one’s nose rubbed ignominiously against the obvious.”
Jack frowns. “And what do you mean by that?”
Condescension roils in Dominic’s chuckle. “Why even bother, when I’m so obviously better suited for the position?” A quick glance at his Omega has him rising gracefully out of his wingback. “Ah! I’ll just have time for a quick facial before the meeting.” He looks down at me. “Shall I pick you up before heading over, dear? Heaven knows what they’ll think of you if you drive up in your mommy mobile. Not quite the roadster they’d envision for a femme fatale.”
He’s got a point. Still, the stony look on Jack’s face is reason enough to pass, even if it means heading over on Mary’s bicycle.
“Not to worry,” I murmur. “I’ll meet you there.” I turn to Abu. “You’ve got field experience. Why don’t you put yourself up for it, too?”
Abu snorts. “What, are you kidding? Nah, I’ve got a better idea of how I can wait out this temporary economic downturn: a cupcake shop. You know, one of those gourmet joints, with a party room and all. And Dominic has given me a great idea—to get a liquor license while I’m at it.” He smiles. “I’ve got the perfect location picked out. Send over some of your wonderful recipes, and I’ll cut you in for five percent.”
“Works for me.” We shake on it. Then I whisper, “How are you going to break the news to Ryan?”
“Don’t worry about that. He’ll see the benefit. At the very least, we’ll have a place to meet without worrying about who’s listening in.”
True, that.
And a place to drink, too. If Dominic or I blow this opportunity to keep Acme’s doors open, we’ll all be looking for a place to drown our sorrows.
“You’re what they call a ‘honeypot,’ right? How many men have you killed?”
This is how Addison Montague introduces himself after he’s kept me—under the alias of “Jane Smith”—cooling my heels in his reception area for the past hour while he manned the phone, yelling at (a) the agent of an aging action star who drinks too much on location for a movie currently in production, (b) the lawyer of a rising starlet-slash-former-porn-star who refuses to do a nude scene, although it’s in her contract, and (c) his travel agent, who wants to know what to do since both his wife and his mistress want to plan getaways with him for the coming weekend.
I should have walked out thirty minutes ago, but I’m here to win the job—unlike Dominic, who is nowhere to be seen. That must be some facial he’s getting.
The past hour and a half has given me plenty of time to stare at the posters from Addison’s box office successes. More importantly, I’ve also had a few minutes to access his INTERPOL dossier. What I’ve read is both impressive and depressing. Despite having won his fair share of Oscars, Cannes Film Festival Palme d’Ors, and Sundance Film Festival Grand Jury prizes, it’s his casting couch prowess that has catapulted him to the pinnacle of Hollywood’s star-studded firmament.
After taking a moment to at least pretend to consider his question about my own street cred, I look up from the script in my hand, which has kept me less than enthralled. “My kill rate is in the mid-double digits.”
Addison’s unibrow rises so high I’m afraid it’ll knock that ridiculous toupee off his head. He’s practically salivating as he asks, “Tell the truth—do you get off on it?”
I hope the spittle on the side of his mouth isn’t an indication of his own bedside manner—not that I plan on finding out personally. I shrug. “It’s a gig, like any other. You make movies, I save the world.” I hold up the screenplay, Lethal. “But, to be honest, I don’t think you can save this project—at least, not the way it’s now written.”
Addison takes that as an open invitation to sidle up next to me. “Oh yeah? What’s wrong with it?” He leans in so close that now I’m using the script as a shield.
If he keeps this up, he’ll be the next notch on my belt.
“If you must know, it’s got a great high concept, but it’s filled with all the typical thriller clichés that will have the critics calling it crap.” Both Addison and I turn to see Jack, leaning against the door.
“Who the hell are you?” Addison asks.
“John Smith.” Jack smiles. “And her husband. Not that it matters. The way this is written, you’ll have a hell of a time selling it to your usual money men.”
Addison may be talking to Jack, but he only has eyes for me. “How do you figure?”
I’m about to give him my take on it, but before I can open my mouth, Jack says, “Your hero should have balls of steel. Instead he’s got a wrist so limp, it’s a wonder he can hold up his martini glass. What’s worse, you’ve got a buffoon for a villain, and one of those heroines who’s homely until she takes off her glasses and loosens her fun bun—then, all of a sudden, she’s a fox? Give me a break.”
“Anything else?” Addison is now so close that I can smell what he had for lunch: I’m guessing rack of lamb at the Ivy.
“Sure,” Jack retorts. “The gadgets mentioned in this toilet paper of a script are so antiquated that this could have been written during the first Gulf War. Oh, and by the way, the farthest a sniper bullet has killed was just over twenty-seven hundred yards, so your writer is way off the mark there, too.”
“Twenty-three or twenty-four hundred, however, is more realistic,” I chime in. “My farthest hit was twenty-two-fifty.”
Jack shakes his head. “Honey, if you’re thinking of the Rio mission, it was eighteen-hundred, tops.”
“Sweetheart, you’re wrong,” I say through a flash of smiling gritted teeth. “I should know because I was the one doing the shooting—remember?”
Jack sighs loudly. “Now, now, cupcake, give me some credit. I was there, too—and standing right next to the target.”
“’Standing?’ Ha! You were dancing with that over-inflated hussy—”
“A basic two-step. No twerking”—Jack winks knowingly at Addison—“but she was a grinder.”
The producer chuckles cautiously. I think he’s figured out he’s in over his head with us.
“Next time, darling, instead of whispering sweet nothings in her ear, figure out a way to get out of my crosshairs.” I pucker into a pout. “Things could have been a bit messy if you’d embraced her right when I pulled the trigger.”
Addison’s eyes grow big. “You shot her—while he was holding her?”
“It’s okay. The woman was already dead.” Jack
looks over at Addison and pantomimes a knife slicing a neck. “What Donna neglected to mention was that she was aiming for the guy next to us.”
“Yeah, alright, I was off by six inches! So sue me.” I flutter my lashes at Addison. “The second shot’s always the charm.”
Addison edges away from me—but when he realizes he’s now standing next to Jack, he slides back toward me.
The lesser of two evils, I guess.
The three of us stand there for a long minute. Finally Addison nods. “Well, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, when can you start?”
“What exactly does the job entail?” I ask.
“You’ll take a second, more detailed, look at the script. If it’s as bad as you say, it’ll need a re-write. But it’s got to be a fast one. Otherwise we’ll lose our stars and our director. You’ll have to hole up with the screenwriter. I’ll reserve a couple of suites at the Sunset Tower. I’m offering two thousand a day, starting tomorrow. You’ll be paid when he turns in the script, which should be within a week or so.’
Jack smiles. “Two thousand a day—apiece, right?”
“Sure. Two”—Addison’s gaze shifts in my direction—“apiece.”
I don’t like the way he says that.
I can tell Jack doesn’t either, because his grin fades away. “Yeah, okay. Send the paperwork to my email. We don’t get paid on the back end. Instead we start the moment the first check clears the bank.” He holds out his hand to Addison.
The producer laughs. “Quaint,” he says, as he shakes it.
When I do the same, he pulls me in close.
Wrong move. I twist his arm behind his back and drive his face into the wall.
“How did you know I like it rough?” he gasps. “Honey, if this is any indication of what you’re like in the sack, there’s an extra five grand in it for you, any night you’re free.”
