Shoot the Dog

by Brad Smith

  “We’ve been in touch, by e-mail mostly,” Olivia said. “But I talked to him a couple days ago. The script is great.”

  “It’s awesome,” Robb said. “It’s so true to the book, which is great. I mean, I insisted on that from the get-go.”

  “Well, there would be no point in doing it otherwise,” Olivia said.

  “Absolutely,” Robb said. “We promised, um . . . the writer.” He stalled. “Shit, the woman who wrote the book.”

  “Ann Furlong,” Sam provided quickly.

  “Yes,” Robb said. “I drew a blank there. I mean, I know her very well. We promised Ann that we’d remain faithful to her vision. And we will.” He hesitated. “I mean, there are a couple of areas that need to be—”

  The waiter appeared with the drinks then, and he stayed to recite the specials for the evening. Sam noticed, as he talked, that his eyes never left Olivia Burns. She had that effect on people.

  When he was gone, Robb took a drink of beer and looked at the menu.

  “You were saying?” Olivia asked.

  It was obvious to Sam that Robb, stoned out of his gourd, had lost whatever it was he was going to say.

  “Something about the script,” Sam prompted.

  “Oh yeah,” he said. “The script is great. But I wonder if we need another element in there. Something . . . really dramatic.”

  Olivia had a drink of wine. “What do you mean?”

  “Just think about this,” Robb said. “I’m just brainstorming now. But what about a scene where Martha fights off an Indian attack?”

  Olivia glanced quickly at Sam, who picked up the menu and opened it, thus excluding herself from the discussion. Olivia turned back to Robb.

  “There’s nothing even remotely like that in the book,” Olivia said.

  “I guess not,” Robb said uncertainly.

  “You’ve read the book?” Olivia asked.

  “Of course I have,” Robb told her. “I love the world of the book. I love it. It’s just . . . I mean this is a motion picture. As a director, I need more to work with. Visually, you know? I think a scene where Martha and the girl—” He hesitated, trying to come up with the name.

  “Sara.”

  “Yeah, Sara. I think a scene where they are forced to fight off this ferocious war party . . . I mean, they’re alone in the wilderness. I think it could be very powerful. And visually, it would just rock. The story as it is, is kind of, I don’t know . . . it’s kind of inert.”

  Olivia glanced again at Sam, who was still hiding behind the menu.

  “Think of Lara Croft,” Robb said. “Now, that’s an empowered woman. That’s what I’m trying to say.”

  “Martha Jones isn’t Lara Croft,” Olivia said. “Is that how you see her?”

  Robb shrugged and had another drink of beer. “I have to go to the little boys’ room.”

  He got up and wandered off in search of the restroom. Sam placed her menu on the table. Olivia was once again looking at her.

  “That’s not how you see this film,” Olivia said.

  “Of course not,” Sam said. “It’s all part of Robb’s process. He likes to throw things out there, stirring up the mix. Then he discards what doesn’t work and keeps what does.” Sam warmed to the image. “It’s like a miner panning for gold. You sift through the gravel and sand until you find what’s really precious. Um . . . Kubrick worked like that. I think it’s a sign of great talent.”

  “Kubrick,” Olivia said.

  “Yes.”

  They ordered dinner when Robb returned and Sam made sure the conversation drifted away from the specifics of the upcoming shoot. She knew that Olivia had gone to Harvard, where she’d majored in English, so she steered things in that direction. Sam had also studied English, at Northwestern, so it was easy to fall into a discussion of the writers they’d encountered along the way. Both had been influenced by O’Connor and Henry James. Olivia was also a huge fan of Steinbeck, which explained to Sam why the actress was so enamored of Frontier Woman. There was an element of The Grapes of Wrath, or even East of Eden, in it.

  Of course Robb, not being much of a reader, was left out of the conversation to a great extent, but he didn’t seem to mind. He was still somewhat wasted, Sam knew, and he was content in that, listening to the two of them and watching the comings and goings in the restaurant. She suspected he knew that he’d said too much earlier on.

  After they’d eaten, the conversation returned to the movie they were about to make and Robb, back in the loop, decided they should all have Scotch. Sam turned and signaled to the waiter. While Robb was going down the list of single malts, Levi Brown called Sam on her cell phone. She told him where they were and he said he was on his way.

  “There’s someone I want you to meet,” he said.

  “Levi,” Sam said after she hung up. Robb ordered Macallan for them all.

  “None for me,” Olivia said suddenly. She got to her feet. “I have some phone calls to make.” Sam glanced at Robb, then stood up as well. They all embraced at the table.

  “We are so pumped that you’re doing this,” Robb told her again.

  He watched her as she walked away, heading for the elevators just outside the restaurant entrance, then turned to Sam, who was frowning.

  “What was that about?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, but there’s going to be a fucking Indian attack in this movie,” he said.

  “I know there is,” Sam told him. “But she doesn’t need to know until she needs to know. Keep that in mind. She’s just another employee. Would you run it by wardrobe? Would you run it by craft services?”

  “Not fucking likely,” he admitted. The waiter arrived with the Scotch.

  “Then you don’t need to run it by the cast,” Sam said. “She’s working for us, not the other way around.”

  “As long as she knows it,” Robb said. He had a drink. “Does Levi know about USN?”

  “Yeah. I called him from the car.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said fuck ’em.”

  When Levi arrived ten minutes later, he had with him an American Indian of about fifty. The man was short and skinny with shiny black hair combed straight back; he wore jeans and a black dress shirt with pearl snaps down the front. Levi introduced him as Marvin Nightingale.

  “Marvin’s the casting agent I told you about,” Levi said when they were seated.

  The waiter returned and Sam ordered more Scotch for everybody.

  “So can you get us the extras we need or are we going to have to bring them in?” Sam asked.

  “There’s all kinds of talent right here,” Marvin told her. “You got any idea how many little theater groups there are in upstate New York? I could get you a thousand Indians.”

  “We can’t afford a thousand Indians,” Sam joked.

  “Well, I can get you what you need,” Marvin said. “For speaking parts too. But I guess you got that covered.”

  “For now,” Sam said. She looked at Robb. “The script is an ever-evolving thing, though. Who knows what might pop up. We might need a war party. You got any pissed-off Indians?”

  “Shit, there’s no shortage of them,” Marvin said. “You ever read a history book?”

  Sam had a sip of the single malt, looking over the rim of the glass to Levi. There was something he wasn’t saying, maybe because he couldn’t say it outright. There had been no reason to bring the guy who was providing the extras to the restaurant. Levi smiled at her, then drank before leaning forward to place his glass on the table.

  “I mentioned to Marvin that occasionally an investment opportunity might become available,” Levi said. “You know, that there might be a couple of spare pieces of the movie still floating around.”

  “I’m not sure there is in this case,” Sam said, following the lead. “But on the other hand—we’re always fine-tuning the budget. I’ve never met a producer who turned down money.” She turned to the agent. “Who would be the investor? You?”


  “Hell no,” Marvin said. “I’m poor like a church mouse. But I know a guy. He’s a big fan of the movies.”

  “What does he do?” Robb asked.

  “You ever hear of the Running Dog Casino?” Marvin asked.

  Robb shook his head. Sam was watching Marvin Nightingale with interest now. She’d been thinking there was nothing to this, and wondering why Levi had thought otherwise. But the word “casino” piqued her interest.

  “I have,” Levi said. “It’s a big deal. They’re building a golf course over there that’s going to run them something like twenty million. They already have a commitment from the PGA. It will be a tour stop beginning in 2014.”

  “Casinos, man,” Marvin said. “They’re a license to print money. They got Asians coming up from New York City by the busload. Those Chinamen love to gamble. They’re tight as bark to a tree in every other way, but they love to bet.”

  “And this casino guy—he wants to get into the movie business?” Sam asked.

  “Shit, that’s all he talks about,” Marvin said. “Except he has no idea where to start. He’s always asking me. Like I know. I told him to find a book he likes and option it. But he’s not much for reading.”

  With that Sam glanced at Robb but it appeared that he missed the parallel. She took a drink of the Scotch and rolled it on her tongue. It really wasn’t to her liking; they were approaching an hour when she preferred to get into tequila. In fact, she had a bottle in the room. For the moment, though, she was aware that both Robb and Levi were watching her expectantly.

  “You know,” she said, “I think it would be kind of cool to have some Native participation in this project. The script is very sympathetic to the Native point of view. The protagonist eventually develops a symbiotic relationship with a local tribe. Which is somewhat ironic, considering what happened to her husband.”

  “What happened to her husband?” Marvin asked.

  Sam smiled. “You’re going to have to wait for the movie. Or buy the book.”

  “I can wait.”

  Sam laughed at that, then turned to Levi. “Our ducks are pretty much in line when it comes to financing. But what do you think—is there a piece of the film kicking around for a Native investment?”

  It was Levi’s turn to play along. “I don’t know. Why not have a meeting and at least talk about it?” He looked at Marvin. “Can you set that up?”

  “In a heartbeat.”

  “What’s your connection to this guy anyway?”

  “I book all the talent for the casino,” Marvin replied. “Singers, comics, every show that goes on there has to go through me. I’ve been there since they opened in 2006. Ronnie trusts me.”

  “What’s the guy’s name?” Sam asked.

  “Ronnie Red Hawk.”

  “Ronnie Red Hawk,” Sam repeated. “I like that.”

  FIVE

  Kari got up shortly after noon. She could hear Nicole in the other bedroom, snoring away like a drunken dockworker. She walked into the kitchen and washed down a Xanax with some orange juice while looking out over Venice Beach, two stories below. Both the beach and the boardwalk were packed with people. The tide was out and there were kids riding bikes along the packed sand by the water’s edge amid young lovers strolling hand in hand. The boardwalk was filled with Rollerbladers, but then it always was, any time, night or day, the skaters recklessly dodging the tourists dressed in their baggy shorts and Tilley hats, cameras dangling from their necks. Kari hadn’t been on her blades for months now. She needed to start again, to get in shape.

  Today was a day for beginnings.

  She made coffee and sat on the balcony watching the scene below while she waited for Nicole to get her lazy ass out of bed. They’d stayed in the night before, drinking wine and getting high with a couple guys Nicole had met somewhere on the beach that afternoon and invited over. Around three in the morning Nicole had disappeared into the bedroom with one of them, a geeky fucker with curly brown hair who looked like one of those guys who was always selling dotcom shit for millions. Apparently he wasn’t one of those guys, though, because an hour later, after he’d presumably had his brains fucked out by Nicole, he borrowed twenty bucks from Kari for cab fare. By that time the other guy, whose name was Willard, was gone. He’d made a move on Kari but she wasn’t into him. He could barely put a sentence together and smelled pretty bad, as if he hadn’t showered for days. Besides, he had a rat’s name. Who calls their kid Willard?

  Down on the beach, Kari’s good buddy Freeman was doing a stellar business, sketching lightning-fast caricatures of tourists too stupid to know that he was basically mocking their appearance for seventy-five bucks a pop. Kari tried to catch his eye but he was too busy at his work—either that or he didn’t want to risk looking up and seeing her, knowing she would make him laugh, busting him with his clientele. She would catch up with him later. He was always holding some killer pot and Kari was out. The two guys from the night before had shown up empty-handed. Nicole had a habit of finding freeloaders, but then she was basically one herself. Takes one to know one.

  Kari drank another cup of coffee while she watched the never-ending parade on the beach. Nicole wandered out from the bedroom at half past one, slouching along in her Marilyn Monroe T-shirt and pink panties. Her blonde hair was sticking out every which way, the roots showing black. She’d obviously never removed her makeup after banging the geek, and her eyes were smudged and crusted.

  “You’re nice,” Kari said.

  “Fuck you.” Nicole poured some coffee and sat down in the wicker chair next to Kari, holding the cup with both hands, her knees up.

  “That fat couple from Muncie is going to see your cooch,” Kari said.

  “Fuck them too.”

  “I’m glad you got up,” Kari said. “I’ve been starving for intellectual conversation.”

  Nicole regarded her darkly but kept silent.

  “Your boyfriend didn’t want to stay over?” Kari asked.

  “I made him leave. You know I hate that whole morning-after thing. I don’t mind fucking them but I don’t want to feed them in the morning and I sure as fuck don’t want to talk to them. What about you and Willard—did you cuddle for hours?”

  “Willard and I were two ships that crossed in the night.” Kari sipped her coffee. “The Titanic and the Lusitania.”

  “The what?” Nicole yawned. “I’ve never even heard of that second movie.”

  “They were ships, not movies.”

  “You know more useless stuff,” Nicole said. “Where do you get it all?”

  “I read books,” Kari said. She looked at the Pacific, rolling on forever in the distance. “I want to go shopping. This is the first day of my probation-free life. Let’s go to Rodeo.”

  “Shopping for what?”

  “For whatever tickles my fancy.”

  They both showered and changed and then took Kari’s Mustang to Rodeo and spent what remained of the afternoon checking out the shops. Kari bought some jeans and three sweaters and a leather jacket for Nicole, who would pout the rest of the day if she didn’t get anything. They looked at jewelry at Casey’s and checked out some abstract art by an obscure Chilean dude at Starrett’s. The dude was actually in the gallery, hanging around his exhibition, and Nicole flirted with him for a bit before realizing he spoke not a word of English.

  There were a few photographers hanging around, as always. Kari fucked with them, stopping at every turn to let them take her picture. When they saw how willing she was, they typically lost interest. There was no market for photos when everybody else had them. Besides, they wanted action shots, Kari leaving a bar drunk or—better yet—reacting to some slight, taking a swing at somebody or screaming her head off. So she smiled and posed and played nice with them, and eventually they left her alone.

  They hit the liquor store on the way home and grabbed a couple burgers at In-N-Out. Cruising down Sunset in the Mustang with the top down, Nicole finished her burger and tossed the wrapper out the windo
w.

  “Jesus,” Kari said.

  “What?”

  “Littering.”

  Nicole ignored the charge, and turned to reach into the backseat for her brand-new leather jacket. It was short and red, and had silver conchos on the collar and cuffs. Kari had told her it looked like it belonged to a Mexican bullfighter but Nicole had to have it. Now she held it to her face with both hands, breathing it in.

  “I love the smell of leather,” she murmured, closing her eyes, her expression near rapturous. “What is it about leather that smells so good? What do they do to it at the factory? I mean, you ever smell a cow? They don’t smell like leather and they’re fucking made of it. Cows smell like shit.”

  “When were you ever near a cow?”

  “My grandfather had a place in the Valley,” Nicole said, looking over. “His neighbor had cows. Beige cows.”

  “And they smelled like shit?”

  “Everything out there smelled like shit. I hated it.”

  When they got back to the beach they parked and walked over to the boardwalk, lugging their shopping bags. Freeman was packing up for the day and Kari called to him as he was heading toward his van.

  “What’s up?” he said, sliding his easel into the back of the vehicle.

  “What’re you smoking?” Kari asked.

  Freeman ran his hand over his shaved head. “I got no time to get high. Heading for a meeting at NBC right now.”

  “For what?”

  “Some reality shit. My agent set it up.”

  “Since when do you have an agent?” Kari asked.

  “Everybody’s got an agent,” Freeman said. “Nicole, you got an agent?”

  “Nope,” Nicole replied. “But I have a new leather jacket. See?”

  “Cool,” Freeman said and turned to Kari. “I got to run. What do you need?”

  “Ounce of hydro?”

  “All right. I’ll send Bobby over with it. You can pay him, okay? But I gotta go.” Freeman laughed. “I gotta go save television.”

  Back in the condo, Nicole walked around in her new jacket while Kari uncorked a bottle of red and cut up some cheese. It was too hot to sit outside, so they stayed in the living room with the air-conditioning cranked. They were halfway through the first bottle of wine when the buzzer sounded from the lobby.