Susan’s roly-poly receptionist greeted him and escorted Eddie to the main room. There were balance rails on the walls, and Eddie could see the space doubled as a dance studio. A video camera was set on a flimsy tripod. On the portable table, there were stacks of eight-by-ten headshots and paperwork. Susan Pike, a frizzy-haired, raspy-voiced woman in her fifties, greeted him. He caught the scent of her musky perfume.
“Ed, so wonderful to see you again,” she said.
“Susan. How’s it going?” he said and they hugged. Eddie handed her the package. “Sam asked me to give you this.”
“Oh?” she said, and opened the envelope. He could see her eyes light up when she noted the contents. “I’ll be right back,” she said, “and then we’ll get started. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water? Diet Coke?”
“No, thank you.”
Susan was off and he took a seat on a foldable chair. On the last movie, working with Susan as the casting director, Eddie got the feeling Sam and Susan had known each other for many years, even that they might have slept together. That brought his mind to Sheila. He was glad to see she was in the camera department. That night they’d spent together was really great—the last time he’d been with a woman. Has it been that long? They went out to dinner a couple times after but she always found a reason to cut the night short and never came back to his place or invited him to hers. He’d made overtures to plenty of women since, waitresses, even girls he’d met at the track. He’d even taken a few out but nothing sparked with any of them. He could never close the deal.
He’d found himself watching Sheila while she worked, impressed by the way she went about her camera duties, methodical and committed. He picked up on a sense of adventure and fearlessness. She was tomboyish, sure, but at the same time had a laid-back and relaxed femininity. She seemed confident and sure of herself, didn’t suffer fools, which he liked. She was from North Carolina, so it made sense—a Southern girl. She could have been the grown-up version of that girl from To Kill a Mockingbird. Scout, wasn’t that her name? From all the books he was forced to read in school, that was Eddie’s favorite.
He and Sheila joked around a lot on that shoot and he’d felt a real connection. Eddie imagined they’d make a great couple. This would be a partner who understood how crazy it is to work in the film and TV industry, a big plus. He knew she was working toward being a cinematographer, so maybe they could work together. But Eddie was so busy directing that movie he’d had little time to get to know her.
Then, at the wrap party downtown in a cool art deco event space that had been one of the locations on that film, both Sheila and Giovanni showed up overdressed for the party but fit right into the space. He wore a vintage tux. She was in heels and a black cocktail dress, had put up her hair, and looked great. Eddie was floored. All the while on set she’d worn jeans and flannel shirts, work clothes which disguised the incredible body she had. Who would have known?
He sensed Sheila felt uncomfortable wearing that revealing dress, not really her style, and Eddie figured that could have been the reason she drank so much. He sensed she and Giovanni weren’t dating, but asked her just in case. She admitted Giovanni was gay which didn’t come as a surprise, so Eddie devoted the evening to seducing her.
Then back in his apartment, as they stood beside his bed, the moment he couldn’t get out of his mind was looking in Sheila’s eyes and placing his hands around her slender waist. He remembered feeling the warmth of her hips through the silk fabric. Then to zip down the back of that dress … it made his heart skip just to think about it.
After that night, they went out a few times to sushi restaurants and screenings but she came off cold. He tried to advance the ball but she wouldn’t reciprocate. Then she suddenly broke it off. He was heartbroken. He kept trying to reach out but she wouldn’t return any of his text messages. Had she blocked him on her phone? What did I do wrong?
With Sheila on this film, and away on location, he hoped for an encore performance.
Susan returned and they dove into the tedious casting process—put on the face, meet and greet. He realized, no matter what, his decisions could easily be vetoed by Sam. He’d supply two or three choices for each role and Sam would review the video clips for final say of who to hire. Long ago Eddie realized that television is primarily a producer’s medium, not the director’s. Sam’s name would be on both the opening credits, as executive producer, and then a single card at the very end of the movie would read, “Sam Carver Entertainment.”
Eddie knew the game. He was hired to say “Action … Cut” and take the blame.
* * *
The next morning, after Eddie had washed the Subaru and filled it with gas, he stopped at BevMo to stock up. It was Eddie’s tradition while shooting on location to bring a couple of bottles of high-end single-malt scotch to share with the cast and crew. This was the kind of thing legendary director John Huston would do, drink with Bogart or Edward G. Robinson, old-school, holding court and telling stories at the end of the long production day. He also bought some decent beer and tequila plus Margarita mix because he remembered that was what Sheila liked. He went for a half-dozen vodka minis—Ketel One this time, not his regular Popov, since he was flush. The minis were small enough to fit in his pocket to augment either an overpriced drink at the bar or for a clandestine late-in-the-day nip when the urge called.
Earlier that morning Sam had emailed him with his choices, having viewed the audition clips overnight. There were only a few actors Eddie would have chosen otherwise, but it all looked good and he’d make it work since there was no time to debate. Susan would make the offers—SAG low-budget minimum plus ten percent for the agent, no doubt.
The drive was peaceful, a calm before the storm. He was well aware the next two weeks would be a whirlwind of activity, but this was what he lived for. Deep down he knew most show business people, including himself, had a crazy streak in them. It’s like they all carried an inkling of a tragic flaw—the flame of a burning dream that couldn’t be extinguished. Why am I drawn to this? he sometimes wondered.
One night this subject came up while drinking with a veteran director he respected, an old guy who’d navigated countless episodes of seventies and eighties TV crime drama (including The Rockford Files, Eddie’s all-time favorite). They were bellied up to the bar at Santa Monica’s famed Chez Jay, drinking Manhattans after attending the annual American Film Market across the street at the Loews Hotel. “It’s like this, kid,” the seasoned director had explained to Eddie, “have you ever heard of the Flying Wallendas, the high-wire act?”
“Vaguely,” Eddie replied.
“They were fearless, the best ever, and worked without a net. The whole family would stack up in a pyramid and walk the tightrope together. Unbelievable shit, never a net below them, and always a huge draw. Then there was a tragic fall and a bunch of them died. Had they had a net … but no, that wasn’t their style. So in the hospital a bunch of newspaper reporters get to the surviving patriarch laying in traction or something. They ask the poor bastard, ‘Mister Wallenda, tell us, you’ve lost everything … do you plan to give up the act?’ So the guy thinks about it for a moment, and then says, ‘Life is the wire, all else is waiting.’”
Eddie so loved that story. It rang so true. Now the waiting part was over. For the next couple of months, until he handed over his director’s cut, he would be on the wire and “living the dream” once again. Then sixty days or so later, the waiting would begin all over again. Hopefully this film would be a stepping-stone to the next project and open new horizons. That was how it was supposed to work.
Cruising up the mountain road, Eddie first saw the crudely painted sign that said jerky 500 feet before he spotted the white grip truck pulled over on the shoulder. There was a pickup truck with a camper shell, its tailgate down, and Giovanni, Sheila, and the grip-and-gaffer team of Paul and John standing beside an old man dressed in overalls.
Bingo. Eddie saw this as a perfect opportunity to talk to Sheila.
He parked alongside Giovanni’s Land Rover and got out. The old man’s ferocious pit bull, bound by a long leash tied to a tree, barked at Eddie. The old man hushed his animal with, “Quiet, Rosie! No barking!”
“What’s going on?” Eddie said as he approached, looking to Sheila for a signal, any kind of warmth or little smile. He got nothing.
“Checking out the roadside jerky,” John said, chewing on a sample. “It’s good, try some.”
“Organic beef, buffalo, and turkey,” the crusty vendor said.
Eddie sampled a piece. It was good. Not too chewy and a little spicy.
“Got salmon and herring, too. All 100 percent natural with no MSG, preservatives, or additives. I make it all myself. Name’s Chuck,” he said offering his hand.
Eddie greeted the old guy with a shake. He could feel callouses on the man’s meaty palm. “I’m Eddie. Nice to meet you,” he returned. He could see Chuck had plenty of character with a sun-weathered face and deep-blue eyes framed by muttonchop sideburns.
“Anyone ever call you Fast Eddie?” asked Chuck. “Like the pool player in that movie?”
“You mean Paul Newman, The Color of Money?” Eddie asked.
“No. The Hustler, with Jackie Gleason.”
“Oh, Eddie’s fast all right,” Sheila said with a wry smile, “real fast, but more like Ed Wood or Roger Corman.”
Paul and John burst out laughing.
“Who?” Chuck asked.
“They’re just razzing me,” Eddie said, smiling at Sheila. Good one.
“Y’all really making a movie?” asked Chuck.
“Up at the Crescent Movie Ranch,” said Paul.
“I read the Louis L’Amour Western paperbacks. Robert J. Randisi too. Those ones are good. And Michael Zimmer, him too. Got a few in my truck.”
Eddie said, “That’s great. If you’re interested in being an extra, we could probably work you in.”
“An extra? What’s that?”
“You’d be in the background, as one of the townsfolk, or something along those lines,” Eddie explained.
“No starring role?” Chuck teased.
“Unfortunately, no. We’ve already cast those parts.”
“What’s so extra about it?” asked Chuck.
“That’s what background artists are called,” Eddie explained. “Don’t know why, but they are. If you’re interested, give us your number and we’ll let you know what day we could use you. No promises, but you might get a few bucks for the effort, or at the very least a hot lunch.”
“Should I bring my Winchester?” he asked, nodding to his truck. “Got me a trusty lever-action thirty-thirty like my namesake, Chuck Conners.”
“Who?”
“You know, The Rifleman.”
“Please, no firearms,” Eddie said. “There are no guns in our movie. It’s about miners and we’re making a family film.”
“Okay then.” Chuck seemed disappointed.
“How can we reach you?”
“Here,” Chuck said, handing him the grease-stained paper insert from inside one of the jerky packages. “Phone number is on there. And the address for the website my grandkids made for me, too.” Rosie started barking again, distracting Chuck, who excused himself to calm the agitated dog.
“What do you think?” Eddie asked Giovanni.
“He’s got a very interesting face, no? Maybe we feature him in the foreground, doing some business with horse tack or something, then we track off to reveal the scene. Huh?”
“Sounds good.”
Chuck returned after giving his dog some of the jerky to quiet her. Paul and John bought a handful of packs each then everyone climbed back into their vehicles.
Other than Sheila’s snide comment about Ed Wood, affectionately known as the world’s worst director of all time and a transvestite, and prolific B-movie king Roger Corman, Eddie picked up no other signals from her, no additional glances, nothing. And her comment about being fast, could that have been a reference to sex?
He remembered their night together and the feel of the inside of her soft thighs. Had I come too fast? Probably. Eddie couldn’t help it. She was too sexy. Damn.
On the drive up the hill, Eddie strategized on how he could best reengage Sheila and make her realize they’d make an awesome couple. She’d surely be the cure to his loneliness and depression. He’d walk the line and wouldn’t drink so much. She’d curb his tendency toward self-destruction. He’d take care of her and have something to live for. What had I done wrong? he pondered again. What can I do now to make things right?
* * *
The Gold Strike Lodge was a rustic hotel with a log-cabin facade. Eddie parked around back. He could see the place had touristy charm with its vintage black iron mining implements tacked up on the wood siding. It reminded him of Knott’s Berry Farm before they brought in all the roller coasters and thrill rides.
Once Eddie entered the hotel, he came across Tami’s vanity team—Connie, Bonnie, and Diane—standing beside their bags with a look of terror in their eyes, as if they had just seen a ghost.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“We can’t stay here,” Diane snapped. “Tami can’t stay here!”
“What’s the problem?” he asked her just as he caught sight of Stuart Hardwicke pacing near the stone fireplace while speaking on his cell phone, apparently dealing with this crisis.
“These poor animals,” Diane said. “It’s disgusting.”
Eddie considered the dozens of taxidermy displays throughout the lobby, birds and furry critters on the walls, a few of them perched on pedestals. There was even a grizzly bear up on its hind legs behind the counter.
Diane seethed, “Don’t you people realize Tami is the founding member of Animal Stance?”
“I, uh …” Eddie stammered.
“We can’t let her see this!” Connie exclaimed before the three women grabbed their designer luggage and charged out.
From across the lobby, Stuart offered Eddie a shrug. Who knew?
Chapter
TWELVE
Tom drove to location, fighting a cold.
He was scheduled to start work tomorrow, the first day of principal photography, but today he was technically on the clock, a travel day, and getting paid to simply drive up to the mountains, check into the hotel, and report to wardrobe for a final fitting. He loaded himself up with Alka-Seltzer Plus before he made the two-and-a-half-hour journey.
Tom’s agent had emailed him the actors’ production schedule known within the industry as the “day out of days.” He was disappointed to see he was in and out in seven days which, as he knew from years in the business, meant he’d be paid for one full workweek plus a single day. If the production schedule had permitted just one extra day, even a travel day, SAG guidelines mandated Tom should be paid for the entire second week. That would boil down to another fifteen hundred dollars or so, at least. He so hoped this film would run over schedule. We’ll see.
Working the system came with experience.
Tom had banked considerable overtime on previous jobs by keeping a watchful eye on the clock. He’d even purposely slowed down at the end of the day, blowing a take now and again, or tying up the director with cerebral discussions about his character motivations in order to milk lucrative overtime. Of course, he was careful to make the delays feel random, never appearing to be his fault as to blemish his professional reputation.
On one independent film, knowing the fifteen-plus hour day was well into costly overtime, referred to in the industry as Golden Time, Tom threw the inept, frazzled wardrobe department under the bus by purposely dressing in the wrong clothes. Then, on set, he came off as the hero when he pretended to discover the mistake. The wardrobe change followed by makeup to
uch-ups bought him another hour on the clock. Because they were so into overtime by that point it all boiled down to two hundred bucks more.
Tom planned on bleeding this production too.
He pulled up to the Gold Strike Lodge and made a point to jot down his mileage, another way to pad the bill. He checked himself in the mirror to make sure his thinning hair was just right. The mirror did not lie; Tom was balding. He wondered if hair plugs might help him get more roles. He examined his teeth for peppers and such since he had eaten a panini sandwich on the way up, then he grabbed his bags.
Passing a large horse trailer, he could smell manure. A horse’s eye stared at him though a vent. It was creepy and gave him a chill.
Then the wave came.
He’d felt it before, always at times before something horrible happened, before earthquakes, car accidents, even before deaths of friends and family. It was a strange and awkward feeling, a premonition. His butt puckered and his tongue felt bloated. His fingers tingled and he felt nauseous. He dropped his bags and steadied himself on the fender of a pickup, considered driving back to Los Angeles. That wouldn’t be good. I would disappoint Tami. I didn’t have to audition.
He stood beside the horse trailer for a moment until the feeling passed. Maybe the queasiness was brought on by that cold medicine. Or maybe it was something in that spicy sandwich, soured chipotle mayonnaise or something. To make matters even worse, he saw what looked like an aquarium in the cab of the pickup with snakes coiled inside atop seat-cover upholstery resembling an Indian blanket.
“Can I help you?” a man said, coming around the back of the trailer. He wore dirty jeans and cowboy boots. Tom figured he was probably the owner of the pickup truck he was leaning on.
“No, I’m good,” Tom said. “Just checking out the ponies.”
“Don’t put your fingers in there. Patches can be ornery. Might mistake it for a carrot and take a bite.”
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