The Rule of Thirds

by Matt Phillips

  THE RULE OF THIRDS

  A Grifter’s Song Episode 13

  Matt Phillips

  Series Created and Edited

  by Frank Zafiro

  PRAISE FOR THE RULE OF THIRDS

  “Phillips writes good grift. The Rule of Thirds is a sexy, savvy, con caper with a sting in its tail.” —DDC Morgan, author of Blood &Cinders

  “Tijuana noir is its own thing, and The Rule of Thirds is Exhibit A. It’s lean and mean, short and not sweet at all.” —Albert Tucher, author of The Same Mistake Twice and The Honorary Jersey Girl

  “Matt Phillips offers a piece of border noir that’s as much about survival and ambition as it is about the current Mexican/American dynamic. Characters trying to make it big while clawing to just make it day to day. A tight, punchy ride that kicks up the social stratum.” —Hector Duarte, Jr., author of Desperate Times Call

  “The Rule of Thirds moves so fast it’ll snap your neck if you’re not careful. Pure noir with unlikable and yet engaging characters, a fascinating premise, and escalating tension that’ll make you sweat.” —Paul Heatley, author of Cutthroat and Just Like Jesus

  Copyright © 2021 by Matt Phillips

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Down & Out Books

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  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover design by Zach McCain

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  The Rule of Thirds

  About the Author

  Books by the Author

  Preview from the fourteenth episode of A Grifter’s Song

  The Down and Out by Lawrence Maddox

  “In feature films the director is God;

  in documentary films God is the director.”

  —Alfred Hitchcock

  The First Third

  Billy Jake liked the bartender—she was cute in a MILF kind of way. Had shoulder-length brown hair, one side cut to skin to make her look younger or more hip. Or to show off the scar on the side of her head. Billy noticed it when she pushed her hair behind her right ear. Tall for a lady, but with petite shoulders above her tight-fitting halter top. Didn’t take shit from anybody and knew every Spanish curse word in the book. Twice now Billy had come to see her, in the sex club one block from Avenida Revolución. A place called Noche. Night. Not even grammatically correct, but that didn’t bother Billy Jake. He liked quirky places. Oddball people. Whatever he could get his hands on that was just left of center. Billy liked freaks, outsiders.

  He got a vibe from the bartender. Something up with her.

  For the second time, he was trying to impress her. Talking about docs.

  What he did for a living. Or wanted to do. Twenty-three years old and already knew what he was meant to do with his life.

  “See, what a lot of people don’t know—even documentary people, okay—is that the Maysles brothers paid those guys. You know what I’m talking about, right? Their first doc, ‘Salesman.’”

  Of course she didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. How could she? Clue her in then.

  “You remember,” he said. “That’s the one they follow the salesman, these guys selling fancy bibles door-to-door. Back in the sixties. Shot on film. Black and white. But what’s funny, the salesman used the camera guy as a way to sell to people, get in the house and pitch, right? And they were getting paid the whole time. The Maysles Brothers paying expenses for these fuckers, giving ’em a hundred bucks each day of shooting. I mean, c’mon—that’s not the truth. It’s not being honest. Cinema Verite my sweet white ass, right? But don’t get me wrong. I’m not judging. The Maysles Brothers—they’re legendary. What I say, you got to pay to get what you need? You better pay. It’s a simple thing. Get the shot. If it costs or not.” He watched her eyeball him, pour another shot of tequila and put it on the bar for him. Billy Jake smiled that left of center, sideways smile of his. “Get the shot,” he said again and drained the glass.

  The bartender put her bare elbows on the bar, her chin resting on her cupped hands. Billy tried to put a twinkle in his eye, kept that smile on his peach-fuzzed mug.

  She said, “I guess you like movies, huh?”

  “Shit!” He slapped the bar. “Like movies? I fucking love movies. But not just any kind, okay? I love documentaries. That’s what I was born to do, babe—shoot docs.”

  She straightened and stared at him down the bridge of her nose. “You ever made a movie before?”

  “A doc,” he said. “I make docs.”

  “You ever made a doc before?”

  Billy felt his stomach tighten and his balls move up into his pelvis. He wished he had a better answer, something to impress her. Like, Yeah, I made that one you might have seen about headhunters in the Amazon. Or, You seen that doc about the Middle East, they made it in a war zone? That’s my work. But none of that was true. Instead, he had a couple short films he made at UCLA as an undergrad. Nothing great—regional film fest material, but he knew he could make a feature-length doc. He was so certain that he’d bet his entire fucking trust fund on it. If, of course, he had access to the fucking thing. For now, he was on an allowance. Whatever. More than enough to have some fun down in TJ.

  He raised his eyebrows and said, “I made some shorts. I’m down here doing research—trying to find a subject for my first feature-length. What it is, sometimes it takes a while. If you want to find a—”

  “Good subject,” she said. “Somebody who’s compelling.”

  He was impressed. “Yeah, that’s it. It’s all about the subject. And that goes back to what I was saying about the Maysles Brothers. See, they thought they were doing a doc about Bible salesman, but what it was—and they had to find this out—was a doc about one guy. Man, shit…” Billy Jake slapped his hands together and hooted. “Imagine making a doc, you don’t even know what the fucking thing’s about until you’re halfway through shooting, just trying to keep the shot in focus and you start to see it. Like, yeah, that’s what this fucker’s about. That’s what the fuck this fucker is about…”

  She smiled and walked to the other end of the bar, nodded at a couple of the strippers walking in through a back door. Billy Jake heard the soft volley of buenas tardes as each woman entered, their eyes lighting on him for an instant and drifting. The bartender came back with a beer for him.

  “What’s your name, kid?”

  “Kid?” Billy Jake laughed at that. “I’m big enough to make you happy, momma.” He loved Mexico. Made him feel—for some damn reason—that he could act like a player, or a pimp.

  “I bet you are. Or think you are.”

  “Touché, right?” He put out his hand. “I’m Billy Jake.”

  The bartender shook his hand. “Rachel.”

  “Rachel,” he repeated and held her hand long enough to know it was creepy. He let go and said, “Sorry—you have nice hands. And eyes. And, well, a lot that’s nice.”

  “Thanks, Billy Jake,” she said like it was one name. “Drink that one on me. So, you been down here for a few days. I’ve seen you, what, three times?”

  “Twice,” he said.

  “Okay,
twice.” She cocked a hip and winked at him. “That’s enough to have an idea. What are you going to make your doc about?”

  The question caught Billy Jake by surprise. He licked his lips and sniffed the air. He smelled cigarettes and sweat, a lingering accent of women’s perfume. “I was thinking, maybe I could make a doc about strippers. You know, something personal. I’m talking even a profiler maybe. Focus on one girl. She’s from TJ, has brains and looks, but she comes up in the barrio, right? Like, think—”

  “A stripper doc?” Rachel rolled her eyes. “That’s your big idea? It’s your first doc, your big boy movie, and you’re going to do it on a sad little stripper? C’mon, Billy Jake.”

  Billy’s mouth fell open and it took him a second to close it. Anger started to come up inside him, but he pressed it back down, beneath his lust for the woman in front of him. “Shit, smart ass,” Billy Jake said. “You got a better idea?”

  She didn’t have to answer.

  Billy Jake knew from the look on her face:

  She had a way better idea.

  Rachel watched as Sam shoved the last bite of an al pastor taco into his mouth. He chewed and then swallowed half a Modelo Especial. She looked down at her own taco—Rachel was sick of Mexican food. Three months in Tijuana—after the messy business in Detroit—and the romance had worn off for her. She took a month to lay low, get better. Heal the body, recharge the mind. That sort of thing. Then another week to find the gig at Noche. But if they didn’t find an angle soon she was going to ask Sam to hop a flight to Mexico City. Or Río. Or Costa Rica. Anywhere but TJ, with its dirty streets and shadow alleys full of sidelong glances and flesh trade. It wasn’t all bad, she knew. And she felt shitty for thinking about the city like that. Lots of art and great food—hardworking people and families. Another time, set up with a cushion maybe, and she’d dig the feel and rhythm. But it didn’t seem like a place where you could make a big score. It was grift city, sure, but small time. She made a face at the taco and shoved her plate toward Sam.

  “You sure?”

  She nodded and watched as he chowed down, wiped his face with the back of a hand. One thing about Sam—and she loved him for it—was his confidence. He was slaving away for Chito, the wannabe cartel man, because he was certain something would come along for them. Chito was at odds with the mob back home, sliding his product in and taking market share from the big, slick operations tied to the old guard. So, his philosophy lined up with Sam’s, but Sam wouldn’t hang around for chump change. Rachel knew he was confident they’d find a good score, something to maybe keep them in the money for a year.

  While they set up the next thing.

  Because Rachel was certain—this cycle would never end.

  From now until she died, it was going to be one con after another.

  “I thought you liked this place?” Sam and his raised eyebrows, that vertical scar on his face stretching just a bit with the expression.

  Rachel said, “I do. I’m just sick of border food.”

  “Let’s get a steak tomorrow.”

  “Where at?”

  Sam said, “Chito told me about a place down in Rosarito—El Nido. It’s a Mexican steakhouse. Decent margaritas, too.”

  Rachel watched the working people walk by on the sidewalk. She and Sam were sitting in an open-air taco shop. Close to their second-floor apartment. In a working-class barrio that Rachel—at first—thought of as quaint and interesting. Now, she saw it for what it was: a bunch of people trying to make shit work. She was surprised how easy it was to get the job at the strip club. Flash a little leg, let your nipples show through a thin shirt, and there you go—you’re hired.

  Bienvenidos.

  “I don’t know—steak is okay.”

  Sam squinted at her. “You think this guy, this kid, really comes from money?”

  She closed her eyes and pictured Billy Jake. UCLA grad on the lam down in Mexico. Has top notch filmmaking equipment. Talks like he’s owed every damn thing in the world. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m sure he comes from money. A lot of money.”

  “And he wants to make a doc about the club?”

  “The club’s part of it. But really he’s interested in the girls.”

  Sam tilted his head from one shoulder to the other. “I’m wondering how we can leverage that.”

  “I told him I had a better idea.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah,” Rachel said. “I did.”

  “Like what?”

  A couple teenagers passed on the sidewalk, Spanish curses spilling from their mouths. That’d be cool, she thought, to be young again. She looked Sam in his big, beautiful eyes. “I told him he should make a doc on the cartel, an insider’s look. I’m thinking we—”

  Sam lifted a hand, a signal to stop. “What?”

  “I told him—”

  “I heard you, Rachel.” He lowered his hand and lifted his beer, drained it. When he set the empty bottle back on the table, he stared at it like it was a crystal ball.

  “The bottle isn’t offering advice.”

  “I know that, Rachel.”

  “I think it’s sexy when you call me Rachel.”

  He rolled his eyes at her. “How am I supposed to pitch that to Chito? Should I say, ‘Hey, I got a guy wants to come in here and put this whole operation on video. Perfect for when you get picked up by the Federales.’ I bet Chito’s going to buy that, right?”

  “I don’t know, Sam. You’re a confidence man, right?” Sarcasm ran off every syllable as she spoke. “Figure it the fuck out. All I’m saying is I got a red-hot mark—red-fucking-hot—and we got a way to bring him in. Don’t we want to bring him in, see what’s what?”

  “You realize the point of this—” he wagged a finger from Rachel to himself, “—is to make money. Besides the love part of things, of course.”

  “Right,” Rachel said. “Besides the love part.”

  “I don’t mean it like that.”

  He reached for her and she shrugged him off, made a disgusted face. “I’m sorry love is so secondary to you.”

  “Rachel.”

  “Say it again—you’re turning me on.”

  “Rachel,” he said. “Rachel.”

  “It was an idea.”

  Sam looked at the taco shop’s water-stained ceiling, sighed from all the way down in his toes. “Let me think about how to do it. But I still wonder…What’s the payoff for us?”

  “We get the kid, somehow, to put money into something.”

  “Keep in mind,” Sam said, “he’ll be taping the whole thing.”

  “So, we get him to do something illegal—he’s our third on some kind of deal. That way, he’s in on it and he can’t go to anybody with it. I’m telling you, this kid wants to fuck me.”

  Sam shook his head, leaned back in his chair with an exasperated look on his face. “God, Rachel.”

  “I’ll just keep it out there as a possibility for him.”

  “Is that necessary?”

  “You tell me,” Rachel said. “You’re about to meet him.” She stood, her bare shoulders hunching under a big smile, and pulled a chair out for the skinny kid coming in off the street and into the taco shop.

  Billy Jake sank into the chair, that off-center smile on his face. “Howdy,” he said. “Nice to finally meet you, Sam.”

  Billy Jake’s motel room smelled like BO and WD40.

  Sam watched him peek out the dirty window, scan the street three floors below them. After grunting at the scene, he turned to ogle Rachel as she flopped onto the bed. The mattress springs creaked.

  Billy propped himself against the wall, crossed his arms.

  Sam stood near the door, still wary of this lanky kid with the crazy smile. “How long you been in town?”

  Billy shrugged and said, “Two weeks. I’m down here looking for something to shoot. My first doc.”

  “Your debut,” Sam said, feeding it to the kid in case this was—
like Rachel insisted—a good way to score. “Hey, man—that’s very cool.” Sam bit the inside of his right cheek, counted seven empty beer bottles on the nightstand, swung his gaze back to Billy.

  The kid was staring at Rachel again.

  Without changing the direction of his gaze, Billy said, “You want to see my gear?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  Billy Jake pulled out two large Pelican cases, opened them on the bed next to Rachel. She was playing her sex appeal up, resting one hand on her left breast—had that absent-minded sexy look on her face. The kid tried to concentrate as he pulled out his camera, held it for Sam to admire. “Panasonic HC-X1000. Leica lens and XLR inputs. This puppy don’t fuck around. I could have spent more, to be honest, but you get too big a camera, something fancy, and people start wondering what the fuck you’re doing.” He put the camera back in the case, sat down on the bed—an inch or so from Rachel’s bare leg. “Last thing you want is you’re running around Mexico and some fuck wad gets curious, decides to rip you off. This puppy’s small enough—hell, it’s tiny enough—that I can hide it under my coat. Shoots immaculate, Sam—I can tell you that. Four-K or downgrade to HD at sixty FPS. I can shoot in pitch black with this fucker. Light it up in post and wa-la. And sound, shit, you want to talk about sound? I got wireless gear that’ll read from a mile away. No problem, I can—”

  “Enough with all the talk.”

  That stopped Billy in his tracks.

  “Are you a fuck up, Billy Jake?”

  The kid looked at Rachel who raised her eyebrows at him. He looked back to Sam. “No. Hell, no. I’m not a fuck up. Am I a little crazy? Yeah, could be. But this is what I was built to do. I’m a filmmaker, man. I been watching docs since I was six years old. Everything from Gimme Shelter to Harlan County U.S.A. to The Thin Blue Line and Grizzly Man. I watch all the foreign shit, too. Don’t question my fucking expertise, dude.” Billy Jake’s cheeks were red and he was standing now, lurching toward Sam like an upright ant on parade. Not threatening at all, but odd and disjointed.