The Rule of Thirds

by Matt Phillips

  “I have seen it,” Chito said. “I believe it’s better than any drug I can find to sell.”

  “You might be right,” Sam said. “Fucking hell—you are right.”

  Rachel ran her fork through her mole sauce, brown as chocolate and rich as wine, stabbed a piece of pork and brought it to her lips. She caught Billy Jake eye-fucking her and gave him a cute little bite. She even groaned a little bit to drive it home. Sam was working up to the big ask, stroking Billy’s considerable ego. This rich kid thinking he’s a real filmmaker—it entertained Rachel and she was having fun reeling him in, seducing him.

  They were sitting in a ranchero joint near the border, made its money off locals and people crossing from the US for dinner dates. Mexican-Americans, mostly. People with family in Tijuana. It was one of Rachel’s favorites, though Sam liked to bitch about the prices.

  Sam said, “I mean, I know you have a lot. All the stuff with me. The spots around town. All the drops and pick ups. Me and Chito at his house. You got the warehouse scene and lots of interviews.”

  “Don’t forget—I got the crossing. Me taking product over the border, putting myself into this thing.” Billy sipped his beer with a self-satisfied smirk. Here he was, the artist coming into his own.

  Nothing like witnessing somebody become an asshole, Rachel thought. She swallowed her pork, sighed. “Billy, you’ve got some great stuff, but I bet you need a kicker.”

  “A kicker?”

  “Yeah,” Sam said, “something to get the oohs and aahs from the audience. Something to push your movie through all the noise.”

  “It’s a film, Sam—I call it film.” He swung his eyes back to Rachel. “At first, I thought your man here was going to be the subject, but it turns out he’s boring.”

  Sam crossed his arms and rolled his eyes.

  “The way I have it now—it’s me in the film. I’m the subject. Me getting into this whole thing, starting with the day I met you.”

  “Sounds like you have it all figured out, Billy Jake.” She said his last name with a tinge of lust. If he wasn’t feeling it before, he should be now. She ran her fork through the deep brown sauce on her plate, brought it to her lips and sucked. “I think you’ll make a great film star.”

  “But you’re right,” he said. “I do need a kicker.”

  Sam uncrossed his arms, put his elbows on the table.

  The restaurant was filling up, almost every booth taken. Rachel, Sam, and Billy occupied a round table in the center of the dining room—the tables around them, too, were filling. Outside, the sun was fading in the west and the streets were alive with motorbikes and cars and the constant chirp of police sirens.

  Billy looked at Sam and said, “You got any ideas?”

  “Matter of fact, I do.”

  “Well—let’s hear it.”

  “You want to impress some motherfuckers, how about you do your own deal. Go in on a package with Chito—tell that Super Size Me guy to top that shit.”

  “Hey, don’t you knock Morgan Spurlock. Very, very underrated filmmaker. Unconventional methods, yes. But he knows how to tell—”

  “I bet you’re not even a real artist,” Rachel said.

  “Huh?”

  “Like, you’re one of these art school kids who pretends he’s an artist. But really he just wants a hand job from the nerdiest chick in class. You’re one of these guys who buys a book for people to see that you have it, but you never read the fucking thing. How’s your copy of Moby Dick? Or The Color Purple?”

  Billy lifted a finger to her, his most demeaning gesture yet. “That is not me, Rachel. Fuck. That. I am not some wanna be film geek who won’t take his ass where his mouth promises.”

  “So you’ll do it?” Sam raised his eyebrows, waited.

  Rachel leaned forward, the tip of her index finger probing at her mouth. “Yeah. So you’ll do it?”

  Billy gulped. He looked around the restaurant with the furtive gaze of a caged rodent.

  “Nobody’s listening,” Sam said.

  “How much?”

  Rachel said, “Fifty grand.” That got her a look from Sam.

  “Uh-uh. No fucking way. My dad will never—”

  “Forty Gs gets you in, Billy. That much gets you in business with Chito. Can you pull together forty Gs? I bet you can.”

  “What about you two, man?”

  “Us?” Rachel leaned back in her chair, chuckled. “This film, you did say it was a film, right? This film isn’t about us, Billy.”

  “It’s about you,” Sam said. “Isn’t that what you were saying?”

  “Yeah. I know. But forty thousand bucks? Fuck me.”

  Rachel winked at him and said, “You pull something like this off, premiere at Sundance? God, Billy Jake. There’s lots of people who will want to fuck you—and I mean that in the best way possible.”

  Billy’s head moved up and down with almost imperceptible precision. “Forty grand. Okay. Yeah. Forty. Forty’s a good number.”

  “Forty’s a great number,” Rachel said.

  Sam said, “Forty gets you in with Chito.”

  “Right. Me and Chito. In business together. Forty grand.” He had a far-off look in his eyes. “And I can film the whole thing, right?”

  “Fuck yes,” Sam said. “Why else would you do it?”

  “That’s right,” Billy said. “Now you’re thinking like a director.”

  And now Billy Jake was making a heist film. He strapped the Go Pro camera to his chest, rigged up in the guest house. Where he’d lived since graduating from UCLA and finding jackshit for work. Not that he’d tried to find a paying job. His dad was gone, off somewhere doing lawyer shit again. Didn’t bother Billy—he lived here for the free rent and ample food and booze.

  But he liked Mexico better.

  He sure as shit liked Mexico better.

  Go Pro strapped on—he flipped the switch, knew he was recording.

  Out into the courtyard, into the big house. A nod to the house cleaning crew, buzzing like flies in the kitchen. Down into the living area with the sixty-five-inch flat screen and across plush carpet to the far staircase. Up the stairs two at a time, Billy running though he didn’t have to. Pacing is what he was thinking, I need to find a way to switch up the pacing. Down the hallway quick and hand on the doorknob to his dad’s office. Okay, he entered. A slow circle to give the audience a sense of the room—a lawyer’s study with all the law books and decorative filing cabinets of dark wood. Don’t turn on the light. Keep it dark and noir, bring a little light to the scene in post—if you need it. Billy crossed the room and moved around the large wood desk. Kneeled and swung away a false front on a cabinet. Clear to the viewer it was a combination safe, as big as one of those tiny refrigerators. Maybe light this a bit, Billy thought. Make sure the audience catches the gleam of the numbers around the circular dial. And Billy started turning the dial, working the combo he knew since he was fourteen. Made himself miss a few times. To add some suspense. Billy was already thinking about the soundtrack to this scene, how he was going to secure the rights to a Beastie Boys song.

  Shit. Have my distributor work on that once I show them a cut.

  He made the combo and the safe clicked open. Billy pulled out a stack of manila envelopes, set them aside. Dug into the safe and came out with two stacks of cash. He rifled one in front of the camera—all hundreds and fifties. No fucking doubt. At least twenty grand there, if not more. Okay, rifle the other stack. More hundreds. Less fifties.

  Well, fuck me, Billy thought.

  I’m really doing this. Could take more, but no—this was about his film. Not his bank account.

  He placed the envelopes back in the safe, shut the door. Twisted the dial a few times. Closed the faux cabinet. Flashed the money to the camera again and shoved the stacks into his pants. Fuck, he thought, I didn’t get that, me shoving the money into my pants. But that’s okay. I got so fucking much. Plus, the money.

 
Back down the stairs, across the living area, through the kitchen.

  Past the cleaners in the entryway and across the courtyard.

  Back into his guest house.

  Billy took the stacks of money out of his pants, tossed them into an open leather briefcase sitting on the bed. He closed the briefcase. Tossed it back into the center of the bed. He thought, that’s it. I got it. He switched off the Go Pro and said, “Fucking shit. I’m doing it.”

  And then he thought to himself: Cut, people. That’s a scene.

  The crossing.

  Always gave Billy Jake an odd feeling, like he was walking through a waterfall or something. Out of one world and into the next. From the US into Mexico. He rolled down the driver’s side window on his Acura SUV, breathed in the smell of exhaust. Merged the Acura into frenetic traffic headed west. He made a left onto a side street, rolled through a neighborhood of small houses with their barking dogs and chain-link. He was wondering what to do—Sam sent him a text that morning with an address. Some joint in Zona Norte. Billy Jake had been to the area with Sam, making the rounds for Chito, but he was nervous to drive there himself. Didn’t want to get lost. And the meet was still two hours away—six pm.

  Tacos and beer, maybe?

  Billy’s stomach growled. Yeah, tacos and beer.

  He made another left, careful to stay parallel and within sight of the border. He planned to turn his phone off when he went to the meet. No good to leave data everywhere for cops to find. If anything went bad, God forbid. Did Mexican cops scour Google for data? Did the Border Patrol or ICE? Billy didn’t know. He had the directions printed for how to get to the Zona Norte address, but they started right across the border. He didn’t want to take any chances, not with forty grand hidden under his seat.

  He spotted an open-air taco shop on the right, pulled into a spot. Got some looks at the car—pretty nice for this neighborhood and with California plates. Here I am, Billy Jake thought, already a target. He didn’t always bring the Acura—preferred to park it in San Ysidro and walk across, take a taxi to his hotel. But Sam insisted, said they’d need Billy to play like a tourist, cross back over the border after the deal was done. He regretted it now. Should have walked across like usual. Well, shit. He got out, chirped the alarm. Found a seat outside facing the car across the taco bar. One of the cooks wandered over and Billy said, “Carne asada tacos, por favor. Tres.”

  He settled in to watch the traffic and guard his forty Gs.

  Rachel came out of the bathroom in jeans and a tight black blouse, scooped up a denim jacket and slipped it over her shoulders. Sam handed her a small handgun—a Glock .27. She wasn’t confident with the gun, but knew she should have one. Probably shoot herself in the foot if she tried to use it. She slipped the handgun into a jacket pocket. She sat down on the bed, watched Sam packing a duffel with fake passports, about three grand in small bills, another set of two handguns—same make and caliber. Bottles of water. Printed instructions for accessing a private marina down in Ensenada, where a nondescript Bayliner waited for them and their journey south to La Paz. The first leg of their journey south. All this arranged by Chito—the guns, and the boat. Because he was getting half of their forty Gs. Rachel said, “Isn’t there some way we can rip Chito off, too?”

  Sam stopped what he was doing, glared at her. “Let’s not let greed get us killed.” He went back to stacking clothes into the duffel.

  “Stop packing all that shit—we’ll just buy more.”

  Sam nodded, stood there with his hands on his hips. He reached into his jacket pocket—black leather—and pulled out his own Glock .27, examined it. Put it back in his pocket.

  “How do you feel?” Rachel bit her bottom lip, watched him for any sign of nerves or doubt.

  He shrugged and said, “We might as well go through with it. I’m nervous for the kid—thinking it’ll be bad if he doesn’t actually have the money.”

  Rachel stood and zipped the duffel. “He’ll have the money, Sam. I know he will.” She tilted up onto her toes and kissed him on the bottom of his chin. “Let’s go, baby.”

  They walked out of the motel room together, both careful to look down the corridor in each direction. Nobody there. Not that they expected it, but maybe Chito was somehow playing them. The sound of traffic filtered up to the second-floor landing. Headlights shimmered in the distance. Rachel peered over the railing at the car in the parking lot. It was the Fiat Sam used for work, a tiny car without four-wheel drive or real power. Couldn’t Chito have gotten them a Jeep or something? Rachel wasn’t nervous about the deal—she was nervous about getting away afterwards, getting far enough that nobody could come for them. South to Ensenada sounded good, but…

  “Sam, wait.”

  “What?” He stopped and turned toward her, the duffel swinging from his left hand. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know about the boat.”

  “We’re set, Rachel. It’s gassed up and—”

  “But Chito set it up.”

  Sam followed Rachel’s gaze, looked over the railing at the Fiat. “You don’t like it. Why?”

  Rachel felt for the handgun in her pocket, was somehow comforted as her fingers found the oddly shaped machine. “It’s like the plan is perfect. When has it ever been perfect? We need to improvise, we can’t do it in a fucking Fiat.”

  “I’d rather we have four-wheel drive.”

  “Right—we can disappear into Baja if we need to. But the way it is now. It’s like…”

  “A setup,” Sam said.

  Rachel nodded.

  “Let’s talk about it on the way, Rachel. We’ll figure something out.” He spun and started down the corridor.

  Rachel caught up with him at the stairs, followed as they reached the bottom, walked briskly across the parking lot and got into the Fiat. She buckled her seat belt, watched Sam as he backed out of the spot. They shot out into two lane traffic and she settled in for the drive. “We’ll need a different car.”

  “Maybe whatever Chito brings.”

  Rachel wondered how they could jack Chito’s ride. “SUV?”

  “Yeah—body armor on the fucker too.”

  “Might be too easy to spot.”

  Sam grunted. “You’re probably right. You don’t like the idea of the boat? Or, it just doesn’t feel right?”

  “It doesn’t feel right,” she said.

  “What else doesn’t feel right?” He waited at a red traffic light, moved forward as the light turned and traffic crawled through the intersection. Early evening in Tijuana and lots of people headed home from work or finding a place for beer and dinner. “What about with Billy Jake? I know you think—”

  “The grift isn’t the problem,” Rachel said. “The grift is good.”

  “The grift is good—yeah, it is. I wish it was more money though.”

  “Me too.”

  Sam smirked, steered with one hand while he put the other on Rachel’s knee. “The kid has access to money, but I think we tapped him out. Don’t you think we tapped him out?”

  “Without going for daddy, bringing him into it? Yeah—for sure.” She watched the headlights in the oncoming lane, squinted as the glare refracted through the windshield. “We can get down to Ensenada in this car, park it at the marina. We take the boat out, beach it to the south. Punta Banda, or one of those beach campgrounds.”

  “Then we boost a Jeep. A big truck—something like that.”

  “Drive all night and switch the plates.” Sam sighed and added, “That’ll probably work.”

  “Let’s hope Chito isn’t as smart as he wants to be.”

  “Let’s hope,” Sam said. “This far into it, all we can do is hope.”

  Billy Jake got a few establishing shots as dusk settled into darkness.

  The warehouse outlined by pink hues.

  A long shot of the alley on the south side, a stray dog trotting across it through a blinking streetlamp. A wide look at two body armored S
UVs pulling in, big dudes hopping out to open garage doors. The SUVs growling inside and the doors closing behind them.

  Good thing he got there early, parked a block or so away. He had the money in a backpack. And a backup memory card for his camera, too. In case.

  Hell, he even had a spare memory card taped to the underside of his camera body, something to switch and hand over if anybody demanded his footage. A trick one of his film professors taught him. Might come in handy. Billy watched the street, thought how—besides the memory card trick—this wasn’t the kind of shit they taught you in film school: No textbooks on how to work your way into something truly interesting. No seminars on shooting in dangerous situations, around dangerous men. No—that kind of shit had to be learned on the job.

  Billy heard an engine, dodged behind a dumpster and shot Sam and Rachel pulling up in their Fiat, Sam getting out of the driver’s seat to bang on the garage door. It opened and they drove inside the warehouse.

  That’s it, Billy thought, I got all the players.

  Now it’s time for our protagonist to make his entry.

  That’s me—Billy Jake.

  He let that crazy smile illuminate his face as he headed back to the Acura.

  Billy didn’t get out to knock on the warehouse door. Instead, he tapped his horn twice and the door rolled open, a handsome Mexican dude in a three-piece peering up and down the street before he centered his glare on the Acura. Billy rolled through the doorway and stopped behind the Fiat Sam always drove. The car bothered Billy, made him feel like they were going to get run over by a tractor-trailer.

  The Acura, on the other hand, could haul ass if you wanted.

  He got out with the camera in his right hand, hanging there with the lens toward the cement floor. But running sound and capturing footage. He’d play it off at first, but he planned to get as much as possible. He leaned back into the car and grabbed the backpack from under his seat. The Mexican appeared behind him like a ghost. He nodded for Billy to walk past the cars. The Fiat, two SUVs, a good-looking Ford pickup.