Fifty Grand

by Adrian McKinty

  Jack’s face was red. “So what are you saying? I’m trying to read between the goddamn lines here. Have I lost the movie again? Are you fucking kidding me?”

  Paul smiled. “Relax, buddy, you haven’t lost anything. Focus still wants to do it. This is just a hiccup. A rag in the gears, not a sabot.”

  “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, man! Can you speak English for once!” Jack yelled.

  “Look, relax, I’ll talk to CAA and get the story. As I understand it, the movie’s been delayed but not postponed and not canceled. I’ll get the information. Now just fucking relax. The script is finished. We have a completed script. Can you imagine how many people are really screwed because of the writers’ strike?”

  “Just get me the story, will ya?”

  “Ok, ok. I’ll do my best. Probably doesn’t help that we’re in fucking Colorado, not L.A. You sit there, I’ll go and get this cleared up.”

  Paul went upstairs to make a phone call. Jack sat heavily in a chair and put his head in his hands. I finally changed the vacuum bag and rewrapped a worn piece of silver duct tape around the tube. The suction was lousy but Youkilis never had to use it so what did he care.

  Suddenly Jack looked up at me. “Hey, would you mind shutting that fucking thing off,” he said.

  “Sí, señor.”

  “Oh, it’s you. Sorry about that. I’m at the end of my . . . I’m just . . . I’m going to lose the fucking movie. My first real lead and it’s all going to shit.”

  I nodded but I couldn’t even fake sympathy. Try working sixty hours a week for four dollars an hour like Paco, try living on a dollar a day in Havana. But although I was unable to give him a simulacrum of concern, I hadn’t meant to look contemptuous. Jack smiled. “Yeah, I know what you’re thinking: Spoiled Hollywood motherfucker, doesn’t know a goddamn thing about the real world. Yeah? Something like that.”

  I shook my head.

  “Listen, I know about the real world. I worked hard to get where I am today. Fucking hard. Thousands of auditions. Not hundreds, fucking thousands. You know, I lost out on one of the leads on Battlestar Galactica by a whisker. Gave it to a goddamn Brit. Since when have there ever been Brits in outer space? TV, I know, but steady work, look at Katee Sackhoff, two shows now. Look at me, if Gunmetal fails again I’ll have nothing. Empty slate until the summer. That’s an eon in Hollywood, I might as well be in a fucking coma.”

  “Who are you talking to? Are you on the cell phone?” Paul yelled down the stairs.

  “See? Hear his voice? He’s shitting himself. It’s not just about the money. It’s a house of cards. This movie falls apart, what’s Plan B? There is no Plan B. And then there’s the strike. Fucking writers. And then our guild goes out. That’s a year. And there’s a whole new crop of young actors up for your part. I should be in the fucking Cruise war movie. I can do an accent.”

  “Get off the phone, Jack! Don’t discuss this with anyone. We don’t know what’s happening yet.”

  Jack walked to the bottom of the stairs. “I’m not on the fucking phone, you dick! Ok?”

  “Then who are you talking to?” Paul shouted.

  “Nobody. Ok?”

  Nobody. That summed it up. But somehow it wasn’t so bad. Jack had a twinkle in his eye as he spoke, as if he knew he was giving a performance, hamming it up even for the maid.

  “What did you say?” Paul shouted again.

  “I’m not talking to anyone,” Jack replied, and this time he actually winked at me.

  “Good. We don’t know anything. If I can’t get CAA, I’ll call Danny Tucker at Universal,” Paul yelled back.

  “Do that. I’m dropping a load here. And you’re wrong, I’m glad we’re not in L.A., pressure would be killing me. Oh, and by the fucking way, isn’t that your job, to take the pressure off me?” Jack yelled.

  “Fuck off to your house, I didn’t tell you to come over. Shit, shut up, I just got through to his secretary,” Paul shouted and closed a bedroom door.

  Jack stood at the bottom of the stairs, teasing his hair.

  I turned on the vacuum and again began cleaning the study, lifting the throw rugs and running the old machine underneath them. Jack watched me for a second, walked over, and pulled the plug out of the wall.

  “My head is killing me. Can you possibly do that with a sweep or a brush or something, or can you come back tomorrow?”

  “Sí, señor,” I said.

  I put the vacuum in the downstairs closet and began walking to the front door.

  Jack came after me, stopped me with a hand under my elbow. “No, no, wait, today is fine, but please, no noise. And I’m really sorry about all the swearing. Lot of pressure on us at the moment, you know. I lost this movie once before. If it falls apart now, I mean, I don’t know.”

  “Ok,” I said.

  I rooted around under the stairs for a broom and found one that looked like a prop from a movie set. The bristles were one big useless wedge. Jack went into the kitchen to get a drink. I looked at my watch. It was eleven o’clock. I was making good time. After Paul’s, Jack’s house was the last on my route. Apparently, on a normal day, I’d go down the hill and start cleaning some of the homes in lower Fairview and finish up by cleaning the shops on Pearl Street. But we hadn’t had a normal day yet and Esteban wanted us to stay away from Fairview while he found out if the INS was still lurking.

  It meant that after Jack’s I would have the afternoon free to see Mrs. Cooper—the second interview subject on Ricky’s list.

  I was nearly finished sweeping when Jack came back into the living room, sat on Paul’s sofa, and flipped on the TV. He was sipping a pink foaming beverage and muttering to himself, “Bastards, all the luck. That bald fucker.”

  The identity of the bald fucker was not immediately obvious but when a saturnine man with receding hair appeared at the front door I wondered if I was about to see some real fireworks.

  “Can you get the door . . . uh, María?” Jack said.

  I went to the door, opened it, and the man pushed past. “I’m expected,” he said. Jack looked up but did not seem particularly enthused.

  “Hey, Jack, how ya doing? How’s the vacation going?” the man said.

  “Bob, Bob, Bob, I’m screwed, old buddy.”

  Bob sat in the chair opposite Jack. “You seem upset. What’s the matter?”

  “Uhh, Paul got this urgent call this morning from Bill Geiss at CAA. Focus is pulling the movie from spring. Earliest we can roll now is fall—if it’s going to roll at all. I don’t know what the fuck is going on.”

  “What movie is this?”

  “The only movie, Gunmetal. Man, I had all my eggs in that Titanic. Jesus. Turned down a coupla things. Supposed to be in L.A. for rehearsals in two weeks. And of course Greengrass is in Fiji or somewhere, can’t be reached.”

  Bob nodded. “What does Paul say?”

  “He doesn’t think it’s dead. He’s trying to get information. Tell you, this fucking project has been jinxed from the start. The things I’ve been through. You’ve no idea. The retooling. The re-fucking-imagining. Halo and Doom killed the original video game concept. Now it’s about a nineteenth-century Brit thrown into the future.”

  “Sounds promising.”

  “Yeah, it does. Originally it was a Jude Law vehicle, about a million fucking years ago.”

  “Is it the writers’ strike? Those bastards are lucky we allow them in the building. In Selznick’s day he’d have fired the lot of them.”

  “No. Nothing to do with the writers, it’s something else, I don’t know what’s going on.”

  Bob smiled reassuringly. “Look, don’t get yourself worked up. You don’t know anything yet.”

  Jack shook his head. “I don’t need to know. I’m jinxed, man. I could’ve had Colin Farrell’s role in Minority Report. Missed that by a whisker. That was a star-making vehicle, Christ. Me and Cruise for real, not just ‘Here’s your coffee, sir,’ in MI3. Would have buddied up. Jesus, I’d’ve l
et him convert me, I swear to God.”

  “You should watch that tape on You Tube, you have to be certifiable,” Bob said with a chuckle.

  “Yeah, insane all the way to the bank. In Hollywood they’re third only to the gays and Jews. No offense, Bob.”

  Bob smiled. “None taken. I’ve heard worse. I worked with Peckinpah.”

  “Really. What was the project?”

  Bob shook his head. “The reason I bought a house here was to get away from the bullshit and shop talk.”

  “Sorry, yeah, me too. Yeah, you’re right. You’re right. Let’s talk about something else. When did you get in?”

  “Last night.”

  “From L.A.?”

  Bob turned to look at me. “Can she be trusted?”

  Jack smiled. “María? Me and María go way back. Don’t be fooled. She’s not a maid, she’s remaking that Ally Sheedy movie, this is her method. Ain’t that right, María?”

  “Sí, Señor Jack.”

  Bob grunted and continued. “Might have a deal cooking. I’ll talk to Paul. We might be getting The Hobbit sorted out. Hush-hush. Anyway, no, I was in Scottsdale. Hundred degrees in December. I was at the club. Ever been there, the Happy Valley Country Club? Nice place. Anyway, I quit my round halfway through. Except for those struck by lightning or in the throws of cardiac arrest, it was an event without precedent.”

  Jack nodded but I could tell he wasn’t really listening. “Too expensive to quit,” Bob explained. “Golf was meant to be played on rainy Scottish moors with the ambient temperature at a brisk fifty degrees or so. A hundred in the shade is not my cup of tea. Ever been to St. Andrews?”

  “I don’t play golf, Bob,” Jack said.

  I went into the kitchen and didn’t hear the rest of the conversation. I had finished all the cleaning I could do downstairs. I rummaged in my shoulder bag, took out the Japanese ice, and put it in the medicine cabinet. I closed the cabinet door and examined myself in the mirror. I looked tired, older. The lack of sleep, the stress. I frowned in the mirror and found that I was oddly put out. What’s the matter, Mercado?

  I searched my feelings and found that it wasn’t the mission that was bothering me, it was Jack.

  Jack?

  For some reason I was irritated looking bad in front of him, I was annoyed at his indifference and his joke at my expense.

  “Good God, Mercado, this is the last thing you need,” I muttered to my reflection. Surely you don’t have a crush on the movie star? The reflection shook her head. No. I hadn’t seen any of his films, he was vain, he was five years older than me, and he had the maturity of Lieutenant Díaz back in Havana.

  No. That wasn’t it at all.

  I ran my finger under the faucet and smoothed out my eyebrows. I pulled the lipstick from my pocket and put some on.

  I went back into the living room, nodded to Jack.

  “Adios, Señor Jack,” I said with a cheerful voice.

  “Bye,” Jack said absently.

  “María, is that María? María, are you leaving?” Paul yelled from upstairs.

  “Sí, señor,” I said.

  “Could you come upstairs for a sec?” Paul asked.

  “I’ll go with you,” Jack said, springing from his chair.

  We went up together.

  Paul was still on the phone. He was grinning. He gave Jack the thumbs-up.

  “Shit. What’s the word?” Jack asked anxiously.

  Paul put his hand over the receiver.

  “I’m on hold, but the word is good. As far as I can see it’s a minor fuckup, nothing more. They’re pushing the picture back a couple of weeks. Studio space in Vancouver is at a premium and Focus doesn’t want to overpay, so we’re waiting for the next lull. Walter says it’s going to be a four-week push back, not more, give everyone more time to rehearse and you to get working on those pecs.”

  “It’s not off?” Jack said, his voice trembling.

  “Fuck no. It’s not off. Look, buddy, that’s why I told you not to read the trades. Let me and Stevie handle everything. All you have to do is learn your lines, bulk up, and grow a mustache. Don’t Google yourself and don’t read the trades. You blow everything out of all proportion.”

  “So it’s happening?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fuck!” Jack said with boyish delight and punched his fist in the air. He was happy for about two seconds before doubt seized him again.

  “You’re a hundred percent sure? Tell me the truth,” he asked.

  “This movie is happening, man. You’re on your way to the A-list, baby.”

  Jack stuck out his hand and Paul gave him a complicated handshake.

  “Oh, man, that’s just great, that’s just great,” Jack said.

  Paul grinned. “Listen, Jack, I need to talk to María here for a minute, you go back downstairs,” Paul said.

  “Bob’s down there,” Jack said in a whisper.

  “Oh shit, has he been talking about Pebble Beach?”

  “St. Andrews. But he mentioned The Hobbit.”

  “Holy shit. Get back down there and agree with everything he says and talk about how great Peter Jackson looks now that he’s lost a few pounds.”

  “I will.”

  “And Jack, please don’t panic and don’t talk about the movie to anybody.”

  “Nobody,” Jack said and zipped his mouth comically.

  “I’m serious, Jack. Make like Clarence Thomas in oral argument.”

  “I don’t get the reference but I’ll be good,” Jack said, punched Paul on the arm, and went downstairs. When he was gone, Paul leaned in close. “María, did Esteban tell you to, uh, leave the . . .”

  “Sí, señor, it’s in the usual place. Downstairs bathroom cabinet.”

  Paul grinned. “Great, and listen, speaking of Vancouver, I’m going to need some of that quality hemp Esteban gets.”

  “Sí, señor.”

  “You know what I’m talking about?”

  “Sí, it is fresh in today.”

  “Great,” Paul said, and with a big show he reached into his sweats, produced his wallet, and gave me a twenty-dollar bill. I put it my pocket and as I turned he patted me on the ass.

  I turned again, furious. “Señor!”

  Paul grinned. He looked like a Yankee in a Cuban newspaper cartoon.

  “Hey, don’t señor me. Come on, you’re not bad-looking, María, I won’t take it for free. You wanna drop by this afternoon?” Paul asked.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Sure you do. Esteban says we can get anything we want.”

  “Ah, no. You are mistaken. I am not one of those girls, señor,” I replied.

  He frowned and then nodded slowly. “Ahh, I see what you’re saying. Look, it doesn’t have to be anything formal. Just come by, you don’t even have to tell Esteban, this could be just between you and me. Ever tried that fucking Jap ice? Blow your mind.”

  “No, señor.”

  I could tell that Paul wasn’t used to getting no for an answer. All residue of his smile faded like the last ration of condensed milk in the coffee cup.

  He leaned close, put his hand behind my neck, squeezed slightly. “I’ll make it worth your while,” he whispered in my ear.

  “Señor, I have to—”

  Paul tightened his grip. “More than worth your while.”

  The curve of the staircase. Jack’s voice. Paul’s breath. The hold music coming from the phone.

  Lightness.

  Nausea.

  The lipstick I’d put on for Jack, not you.

  His fingertips greasy like yucca plant, his breath closer.

  And I didn’t want to hit him, I just wanted to dissolve, to slide out of his grip, down through the carpet, down through the floor . . .

  “Seriously, you and me and that Ice Nine, greatest fuck you’ll ever have—”

  “Hi, sorry about that, Paul. Paul, are you there?” the voice on the phone said.

  Paul let me go. When I got outside I crumpled t
he twenty and threw it away.

  “Cabrón,” I said, and barring some surprising development with Mrs. Cooper either Esteban or Mr. Paul fucking Youkilis was going to be giving me a lot more than twenty fucking dollars.

  CHAPTER 10

  THE LADY FROM SHANGHAI

  A

  bus stop. Mountains to the west and east. A spear of cloud in a cobalt sky. The road a straight line running through woods on either side of a broad valley. The outskirts of Fairview to the south, nothing but forest to the north. Forest all the way to Canada.

  The sound of a chain saw.

  I have changed again. This time black jeans, a white blouse, and a blazer that Angela left behind. I have combed my hair and taken the slump from my body language.

  Like Jack, I too will be performing.

  From the direction of Fairview the bus comes.

  It stops but the driver doesn’t open the door. He points at his watch and mouths the word early.

  Sí, amigo, and if I were one of those tall trophy wives on Pearl Street—

  Not that they’d ever ride the bus.

  A sound behind me. A Mexican laborer carrying sticks. He puts them down, walks a little into the forest, and relieves himself against a fir tree.

  “Come on,” I mouth to the driver but he shakes his head.

  Oh, America, you’re making it too easy for me.

  Seconds go by. The cool sun. The idling bus. The sound of streaming piss.

  When it’s exactly five minutes past, the driver pushes a button and a compressor releases its hold on the door.

  A hiss of air. The smell of AC, coffee, people.

  The laborer catches my eye. An older man. Not his first time over the border. I suddenly see his whole trajectory: a crossing in Juárez, a night journey through west Texas; a lecture in vulgar street Spanish from Esteban or a punk overseer just in from East L.A.; and then work all day until the sun goes down. Sleep in the Wetback Motel or some dive in Denver, up and work again.

  A look passes between us.

  A look of recognition.

  Life is hard.

  No fucking kidding.

  The man nods. I nod back.

  “Gittin’ in, miss?” the driver asks impatiently. I step onto the bus and leave five quarters. Exact change. I don’t wait for the ticket. I walk to the last row and take a seat. Six or seven passengers. I see them but I don’t see them. They don’t see me, either. Who does ride the bus in this town? Kids, DUI repeat offenders, foreigners. The door closes, the clutch slips, we shudder forward.