by Ivy Oliver
After I slam the door, panting, I stand next to Sandy for a minute to let my heart slow down.
I don't like the little bastards more than anyone else. Matter of fact, I hate them. I damn near shot a camel spider back when I was in the shit, but that's not a war story I often tell.
Sandy waits patiently.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
“What is it?”
“They're all over the place in there,” I say. Something is wrong.”
“What do you mean?” she says.
I look back at the trailer.
“How'd they get in? Why were they all on the bed? Why didn't they stay there if something attracted them? I swear there's fifty of them, maybe more. Right where he might wander in after a long day and lay down without looking first. That's a lot of stings. More stings, more danger.”
Sandy's eyes widen just a touch, and she lowers her voice.
“You don't…you don't think someone put them there, do you?”
I return her look with a short, sharp nod, barely perceptible. She gasps.
“Something clicked for me. The financials. Super expensive foam rocks, shitty construction, wild budget overruns. Movie that nobody will ever see, unfillable script, dangerous work out in the desert. Now this. Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence…”
“Three times, pattern,” she says. She points at her head. “Just because nobody looks up here doesn't mean it's empty, you feel me?”
“Go back to my trailer and sit with Matt. I'll be back there in a couple of minutes.”
She nods and runs off, carrying the clothes. I head back to the tent and find Nick on the phone with Margot. I pick up his binders full of financial records and shoot him a look. He waves me off and doesn't object when I take them.
Back at the trailer, I squeeze in with Matt and Sandy. She's standing, he's sitting cross-legged on the bed next to a pile of his clothes.
“What's this about?”
I lay the binder open on the dresser and start flipping through it.
“Remember how Nick commented on the cost of those cheap sets? Hundreds of thousands of dollars for foam rubber and plywood?”
Matt nods.
“Think,” I say. “Think hard.”
“My mom is bad with money. This is not news to me, guys.”
“Is she?” I say. “Is she bad with money? Is this being bad with money?”
“What else would it be?” he says, shrugging.
Sandy leans over next to me and starts fiddling with her phone.
“Thank God for wifi,” she says. “Guys, I did a quick search for a few of these companies. None of them have websites. Only thing I can find is a registered agent for one of them. Address in Delaware.”
“Registered agent?” Matt says.
“Delaware, Nevada and…Utah?” I glance at Sandy, and she nods in agreement. “Allow anonymous corporations. You pay an agent to receive papers if the company is served.”
“Okay,” Matt says. “So…”
“New companies, anonymous owners, huge spending for cheap product and services,” Sandy says.
“So somebody is swindling my mom?” Matt sighs. “Color me shocked.”
“You said she's bad with money,” I say. “Is she?”
Matt looks at me for a second, starts to mouth an answer, stops, and then his eyes go wide.
“Oh holy shit,” he says, “Oh holy shit you are fucking kidding me. No way, man. No fucking way.”
Sandy folds her arms under her chest and stares at him. I lean on the dresser and do the same. He wilts a little and looks down.
“She's using making a movie to funnel money to…who? Herself? Why? If she needs money she can just ask.”
“Unless she doesn't want to ask anymore,” Sandy says. “Think about it, Matt.”
I look at her and nod. “She's got it all, doesn't she? Big houses, cars, jewelry, anything she wants.”
“Yeah,” Matt says, “but—”
“How much did she pay for herself?”
His mouth falls open a little.
“None of it,” he says. “She doesn't actually own anything.”
“Unless she's been funneling money through shell companies,” Sandy says. “Acting like a ditzy idiot blonde. Everybody sees the dumb ex-stripper blowing money, but blowing it on what? To where?”
“You think—”
“It's the perfect cover,” Sandy sighs. “Look, I'll admit it. I use what I have. People look at me and see the blonde hair, fake tan, and fake boobs, and they think dumb bimbo. I've taken advantage a few times. People think they're dealing with Sandy Pines. That's not even my name.”
Matt blinks a few times. “It's…not? I've only ever heard Mom call you Sandy.”
“It was my stage name when we met. I was Sandy Dunes back then.”
“Sandy…Dunes?” I say.
“Look,” she says, a little annoyed. “I was living out of my car, there were ten girls trying to get a spot at the bar, and I needed a name fast or I'd have been booted out. You try being creative when you're down to begging to take your clothes off for money or starve.”
“I never knew you had it that bad,” Matt says softly.
“I never told you about it,” she says. “Not how I wanted you to see me. Do you remember how I used to babysit you when your mom and I had different shifts?”
I give a start as I realize she's tearing up a little.
“Sandy, are you in trouble?” Matt says.
“Well,” she swipes at her face, “Nobody is putting scorpions in my bed.”
“Yet,” I say grimly.
“Oh fuck you, now I'll never get to sleep,” she mutters.
“Sandy,” Matt says. “If you need money, I really, really want you to tell me. You know I have a trust fund, right? I can tap it when I turn 21.”
My head whips around.
“You have a what now?”
“A trust fund?” he says. “Mom had it set up after she married my dad. He put ten million in, I think.”
“When?” I say quickly.
“Uhhh…when they got married, so…fifteen years? It wasn't right away. Anyway, I have a bunch of stocks and crap.”
Sandy and I look at each other.
“Have you ever looked at its value?” she asks, breathless.
“Uh,” Matt says, “Well, no…”
“If you've had ten million sitting in index funds that long,” I say, trailing off.
“Fuck me sideways with a bandsaw,” Sandy whispers.
We both look at her.
“Anyway, I can help you out if—” Matt starts, looking at her.
Sandy shakes her head. “Matt...do you have any idea what this means? You're sitting on a fortune. Think. Hard.”
Matt blinks a few times, then looks up.
“Oh fuck,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah.”
There's a thump at the door, and everyone jumps. I carefully open it just a hint and find Nick standing outside. He looks up at me, peering past at Sandy.
“Where's Matt?”
“In here,” Matt says.
“What the hell are you all doing in there?” Nick asks. “What did you want with the budget?”
“You better come in,” I say.
13
Matt
Stunned, I lean back against the wall.
This is absolutely insane. It sounds like…well, it sounds like my mother is trying to kill me. Or maybe seriously injure me. Nick listens patiently as Sandy and Lucas carefully explain what we've been talking about. In the cramped trailer, he seems to shrink, the lines on his face seem to deepen, and his hairline seems to withdraw half an inch. It's like he ages ten years in ten minutes.
“I should have suspected something like this,” he says. “Every film production is a little shady, but this makes a lot of sense. Explains that ridiculous script, too. We're not supposed to finish. The longer this goes on, the longer she can push money through the production somew
here else.”
“So, what do we do?” I ask.
“Well,” Nick says, “Jim doesn't have to put on the lobster suit anymore.”
“Man, the thing with the scorpions is fucked up, okay?” I say, shuddering.
I hate scorpions. It's like insult to injury. Or phobia to injury. Something like that. When I was a kid I saw this movie, Clash of the Argonauts or something like that, one of the old ones with the janky clay puppets, and there were these giant scorpions that scared the shit out of me.
Lucas sits on the bed next to me. His enormous presence is comforting, and my shaking subsides. Sandy leans on the wall and eyes Nick.
“I want to talk to her,” I say.
“What's the point?” Nick says. “We should just go to the cops. There's smoke here; if there's fire, they'll handle it. This is above my pay grade.”
“You weren't almost killed,” Sandy says.
“Let's not get dramatic here,” Nick says.
I clear my throat. “If I landed wrong from that collapsing set I could have been seriously hurt.”
“He's right,” Lucas agrees.
Nick throws up his hands only to shout in pain as his hands hit the roof.
“Damn it,” he mutters. “Alright, look. I just don't want to believe this is happening. Embezzlement or whatever, fine, but hurting her own kid?”
“You don't know her like I do,” Sandy says grimly. “Margot is out for Margot. Trust me.”
I clear my throat.
“Did you call her, Nick?”
“Yeah. I told her about the accident and the bugs. She's on her way. She'll be out here in the morning.”
“I'd rather meet her in Vegas,” I say.
Lucas nods. “I'm with Matt. I'd rather not stay here now. It's getting too weird.”
“Thirded,” Sandy says.
Lucas pinches his nose.
“Are you really thinking there's any way you come out of this better than you went in?” I say. “She screwed us all, besides whatever else this has been.”
“I should have taken that gig directing the diaper commercials,” Nick moans. “Look, I don't need this woman putting a target on my back. I'm staying here.”
Lucas grimaces.
“I don't want to sleep here,” Sandy says plainly. “For all I know I'm going to go back and find my trailer full of rattlesnakes. I've had enough. I'm drawing a red line.”
“I'm going with her,” I say, standing.
“If you're going, I'm going,” Lucas says.
“Fine,” Nick growls, heading for the door. “I guess it's decided, then.”
I grab my clothes, pull on a shirt, and follow Lucas outside, Sandy in tow. At the motor pool, he grabs a set of keys, and we pile into one of the production's cars. Lucas starts it up, and—
Except it doesn’t start. It rrrp-rrps, and doesn't turn over. We all look at each other.
“Hold on,” Lucas says, popping the hood.
After inspecting it for a few minutes, he motions for us to get out.
“Sandy,” he says, “Hop in and try to start it.”
“What do you think it is? Battery?”
Lucas shakes his head. “It was reading full charge.”
After she turns the key a few times, the engine is completely dead, not even releasing a plaintively little burp as it tries to start.
“Fine, we'll get another one,” Lucas says, angrily slamming down the hood.
He retrieves another set of keys and starts up another of the Tahoes.
Tries to.
Sandy clears her throat. “This is some haunted house shit right here.”
We both glare at her.
“I'm just saying.”
It takes five tries before one of the Tahoes starts up. Lucas lifts the hood and watches under it for a while, doing I'm not sure what. Before we leave, he carries two gas cans out of the shed and puts them in the back. First, though, he opens up and sniffs, grimacing at the smell.
“What was that about?”
“Making sure they're not full of paint thinner or something.”
“Maybe we should stick it out after all,” Sandy says. “This is weird. I don't like it.”
“Me either,” Lucas says, “but I'll like it more when we get to Las Vegas.”
Giving Carl a wave at the gate, we drive away from the set and head for the city. No one speaks for a long time.
For the first time, it strikes me how beautiful it is out here. There's a mountain off in the distance that's blood red, striking in the noontime sun.
“Iron mine,” Lucas says idly. “That's Oxidation. Rust.”
The profusion of colors glows in the fading light. I look over at Lucas and he smiles at me, carefully reaching his hand across the console to take mine. I lean back in my seat and sigh.
“Awww,” Sandy says. Loudly.
I stick my tongue out at her.
Then the engine starts to sputter. Hot air starts to flow from the vents, like Lucas turned on the heater on the lowest setting, but everything is off. He pushes the gas pedal down, but the car slows anyway, finally chugging along at about twenty-five even as he keeps the throttle all the way open.
“What the hell?” he says sharply.
I sit up.
“Shit,” Sandy says. “This is bad, isn't it?”
“Stay calm,” Lucas says. “We might be running out of gas. Could be a broken gauge.”
“You don't sound like you think that's what it is.”
He grimaces.
“We have a problem here.”
He points at the gauge cluster. The battery needle is slowly, but visibly, moving away from the fully charged mark.
“We're running off the battery,” he says. “When it's out of juice, we'll be dead in the water.”
“In the water,” I say, glancing out at the desert.
“Should we turn around?”
“We're halfway there,” he says grimly. “The battery won't last that long.”
He shuts off the lights and checks anything else that might use electricity.
“What the fuck?” Sandy demands, leaning up between the front seats.
“My first guess says alternator is bad, but the heater running by itself is bad. That feels like serpentine belt.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Not with hand tools. It'd have to go up on a lift.”
“That's just fucking great,” Sandy moans. “I can't get any reception on your phone.”
“Try yours,” Lucas says.
I pull mine. No Service blinks lovingly from the upper corner. Perfect, just absolutely perfect.
“What do we do?”
“Roll as long as we can,” Lucas says, but he sounds grim. “Going by the gauge, we have another half hour or so. If we make about twenty miles or so before it goes dead, we'll only have about thirty to walk.”
Sandy sits back and lets out a small, soft sound.
“Won't that take hours? Out here, by ourselves? In the heat?”
Lucas shakes his head. “Better to walk through the night. Too hot during the day. If we keep a good pace and follow the road, we'll make it by sunup. If not, we have a better chance of flagging down help the closer we get to town. There's water and a survival kit in the back. We'll be fine.”
His quiet, assured calm seeps into my psyche and I relax, just slightly.
“Sandy, you have your purse?”
She nods, “Yeah, I do.”
“Good,” he says.
Lucas continues to roll on at about 25, picking up speed when he coasts down a hill, using the gas as much as he can to retain it when we start up the next slope. The grades are gradual, which makes it worse, and we start to bleed off speed. The engine is chugging, and the hot air from the vents comes in fits and starts even when I fiddle with the controls.
We're too far away to see Las Vegas but I know it's out there, somewhere.
Lucas, worried, watches the battery gauge.
“This isn't a compl
etely deserted road. If we're lucky, someone will pull over and offer us a ride or help. Keep trying your phones.”
No dice.
Eventually, Lucas grunts as the steering wheel jerks in his hand.
“What's wrong?” I say, breathless.
“Engine is dying. Just lost power steering. Need to get us onto the shoulder.”
He wrestles the car to the side of the road without touching the brakes. Everything electrical in the cabin flares too bright, fades out, flares again, and the engine offers a final, laborious cough before it dies completely and Lucas wrestles with it as it coasts to a stop, taking every inch the car will give us before he throws it into park and flops back into the seat, looking drained.
“I guess we shouldn't have left,” I sigh.
Sandy groans.
“What do we do now?” she says. “It’ll be daylight still for hours.”
“Inventory,” Lucas says, stepping out.
It’s just after two in the afternoon, and the sun is climbing high, pounding the desert with savage heat. I always thought these desert-based productions worked in the winter, when it's not so hot, but I guess it's a mistake to expect any competence out of this fiasco.
Lucas opens up the back and goes over what we've got.
A couple gallons of water, a survival kit, and the two jugs of gas he brought, now useless. There's a toolkit, so he checks it and goes around to open the hood.
“I probably can't fix anything under here with hand tools, but I might as well look,” he says.
He lifts the hood with a grunt, props it open, and looks over the damage. The engine compartment smells like melted plastic and burnt oil, and a layer of smoke rises from the engine block. Lucas coughs and waves it away with his hand, looking it over.
His expression shifts from grim to hopeless.
“Serpentine belt came off the spools. I can't fix this without a lift. It needs to go into a shop.”
Sandy looks around. “I don't think we're going to find one.”
“What do we do?” I say.
Lucas looks at the car and looks around.
“It'll be the hottest part of the day soon. Exactly when you don't want to be out walking. Problem is, lack of shelter. We need to get out of the sun.”