Fifty Grand

9 THE MEN FROM SASKATCHEWAN

Esteban prodded me awake at four-thirty in the morning. “Can you drive a car?” he asked.

“Wha?”

Paco woke on the other bed. “I can drive,” he said.

Esteban shook his head. “No, we need you at the construction site. We’re against a deadline there. We get penalized a thousand dollars a day if we’re not finished by Christmas. The Ortegas going to L.A. has really screwed us.”

“Yeah, I can drive,” I said.

“Good, come on, let’s go.”

“What time is it?”

“Come on.”

“At least let me go to the bathroom.”

“Hurry.”

In five minutes we were outside in the Range Rover. Esteban’s right arm was in a homemade sling.

“Where to?” I asked.

“Drive downtown, we’ll swing by Starbucks, it opens at five.”

“And then where to?”

“Wyoming.”

“Wyoming?” I said with surprise. “Wyoming’s the one with the Mormons and the-”

“No, no, that’s Utah. It’s just up the road, couple of hours. Come on, foot on the brake, turn the key, yeah, that’s it.”

I pulled out of the parking lot and made the turn for downtown. Across the street from the motel a big rented Toyota Tundra with New York plates was parked in a turning circle. I took no notice of the car but my cop brain saw a man apparently sleeping inside.

At the Starbucks we were the first customers and the coffee was poor, almost undrinkable. Esteban seemed to like it, though, and he bought a couple of pastries to go with it. I had him get me two yellow bananas and a small bright orange.

Wyoming turned out to be ninety minutes north of Fairview. There were no direct highways but good double-lane roads with little traffic. An easy drive. Signs everywhere warning us about the dangers of elk, deer, and bears but I didn’t see any animals at all. A few big rigs, a lonely pickup or two.

The Range Rover was good, though it caught the wind on some of the exposed sections. I let the sheer take me over a little more than I should so we could talk about the car, but Esteban didn’t even notice.

“The car drives pretty well,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“A little top-heavy.”

“Yeah?”

“See you got a dent on the front.”

“What?”

“You had an accident?”

“Oh, that, that was nothing.”

“What happened?”

“Just fucking drive, María, it’s not far now.”

A little over the state line Esteban had me pull off the road onto a Park Service trail that led to a frozen lake surrounded by snow-covered forest.

We finally stopped in a small, empty parking lot.

“Ok, where are we?” I asked.

Esteban grinned. “You like it? This place is perfect. The Park Service closes it from Thanksgiving through April. No one comes here. They don’t allow ice fishing because although the lake freezes, the ice isn’t quite thick enough for the health-and-safety people. So it’s perfect.”

“We’re here to fish?” I asked.

“No. Don’t you listen? It’s not safe enough. You can walk on the ice but it’s not safe enough for the little huts those ice fishermen build. No, rest assured no one will be out here the whole winter.”

“I don’t understand. So what are we doing here?”

“It’s a meet.”

The light dawned. “Oh, I see. Who are we meeting?”

“The men from Saskatchewan.”

I wanted to ask more but Esteban put a finger against his thick chapped lips. The conversation had terminated.

After a few minutes it got cold and he told me to turn the engine back on.

He blasted the heat and scanned the radio for a Spanish station but the mountains were blocking the ones from Denver and in Wyoming the music choices were between soulless white people singing songs about Jesus and soulless white people singing about their marital problems.

As 7:00 a.m. approached, Esteban killed the radio and turned off the car. He removed the key and put it in his pocket.

“What’s happening?” I asked.

Esteban reached into the glove compartment and pulled on a ski mask.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I asked.

He opened the passenger door, went to the back of the Range Rover, and took out a sports bag and his hunting rifle. He came back around to the driver’s side of the car, gave me the bag.

“Listen to me, María, it’s very simple. You give them the bag, they’ll give you a bag. There’s no need to sample the merchandise and they have no need to count the money. We all trust each other. Just bag for bag. It’s that simple.”

“Why don’t you do it?”

“I’ll be in the forest, covering you with my rifle,” he said. “Don’t worry, I can still shoot with my arm like this, and despite my stupidity last night, believe me, I’m pretty good.”

“Wait a fucking minute. I’m meeting your d-”

Esteban lowered the rifle and pointed it at my chest. “I suggest you take it easy. They’ll be along presently. I’ll be covering you from the trees.”

He backed away into the forest.

Thoughts racing. What would he do if I got out and ran for it? Shoot me? No. But why not? For all his fine talk about Greater Mexico, what was I to him? Another wetback expendable, a chiquita at that.

As he disappeared under the branches of a big pine I shouted after him: “No wonder everyone’s fucking off to L.A. if this is how you treat your workers!”

He didn’t reply and in another two seconds I couldn’t see him anymore.

I sat there.

Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. Thirty.

The men came.

Not men at all-kids. Blond-haired Canadians in big coats. Bags under their eyes made them look as if they’d hit their early twenties but the driver’s licenses probably told a different story.

Their blue Dodge Ram stopped next to the Range Rover.

I got out. They got out. They’d driven all night and had the smell of exhaustion and fear people got in the MININT building on Plaza de la Revolución.

I gave them the money and they gave me a large clear bag filled with white powder and an even bigger bag of marijuana.

“What’s the white stuff?” I asked.

“Ice Nine from Japan, via Hawaii,” one of them said.

They were excited. They were surprised to be dealing with a woman and they wanted to talk about the drive down, the money, everything. But I had an uncomfortable feeling pricking at the back of my neck. I was concerned for them. In his angry, humiliated mood, I wouldn’t put it past Esteban to assassinate both of them and keep the cash and the drugs. Kill all three of us, take that phony bandage off his hand, drive back, laughing all the way.

“… and Dale’s shitting it, like totally shitting it, man, and I’m saying it’s not the Mounties, it’s a fucking fire marshal-” one of them was saying until I cut him off.

“Beat it.”

“What?”

“If you know what’s good for you. My boss is in the trees with a rifle. I don’t trust him. Get out of here. Scram.”

They scrammed.

Five minutes later Esteban returned. He slid back the bolt on his rifle and took the round out of the chamber. Live ammo. He’d been ready to shoot.

“You did well, María.”

“Thanks.”

Silence on the drive back. At the outskirts of Fairview, Esteban took the wheel and drove without any seeming discomfort. He dropped me at the bottom of the hill on Malibu Mountain.

“What now?” I asked him.

“What do you think? Your regular route.”

“No bonus, no day off for my help, no tip?”

“I’ve got a tip for you-shut up and do your job.”

“I don’t have a uniform.”

“Forget that. Just go-and you better step on it, you’re an hour late. Oh, and tie the garbage bags properly at the top of the trash can, we’ve had complaints,” he said, passing me a key ring with the alarm codes and house numbers taped to individual keys.

“Tie the garbage bags,” I muttered.

“What did you say?”

“I said you really are a bastard, Esteban. Worse than that sheriff. You’re screwing your own people,” I said.

He made a fist. “You watch your mouth, María. You want to be back in Mexico? That’s an easy one. That’s one phone call. You’ve been given a great opportunity here, don’t blow it.”

I nodded, lowered my eyes.

“Look at me,” he said.

Our eyes met. He yawned and his voice assumed a more conciliatory tone. “Look, you did well this morning. There’s something about you. You got an air of responsibility. I like it. Tell you what, when I go to Denver with Rodrigo to unload the ice, you can borrow the car. Drive to work, drive to Safeway, do a couple of errands for me.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

I stood there.

“What are you waiting for? Quit your gaping and get up there, we don’t want any more complaints.”

“Ok.”

He wound the window and started to drive off but the Range Rover suddenly squealed to a halt.

“No. María, wait a minute. Wait there,” Esteban said.

I stood in the ditch while Esteban fiddled with something in the front seat. A stretch limo drove past, heading up the hill toward the Cruise estate. I tried to look inside but the glass was frosted black like Jefe’s car.

“Come here, María,” Esteban said.

“I’m here.”

He handed me three small Ziploc bags filled with the Ice 9 from Japan.

“What the fuck is this?” I asked.

Esteban rubbed his hand over his beard. “This is nothing. This couldn’t be more straightforward. Number 22, number 24, number 30 on the Old Boulder Road. That’s Rick Hanson, Yuri Amatov, and Paul Youkilis. Got it?”

“What’s in the bag?”

“It’s meth from Asia. Look, don’t worry, you’ll get cut in. Couple of days when I’m liquid. That’s why I have to go to Denver.”

He stared at me for a second and I took the baggies and put them in my coat pocket.

“Where do you want me to put it?” I asked.

“Listen to me. This is important. After you’ve cleaned each residence and as you’re leaving, place each bag in the downstairs medicine cabinet.”

“What’s that?”

“The little cupboard thing behind the mirror. They all have one. Don’t refer to the ice and don’t talk about it if you’re asked, just leave the baggie and go.”

“Hanson doesn’t have a downstairs bathroom.”

Esteban spat. “Use your fucking head then! The upstairs cabinet. If they have any problems they’ll contact me,” he said. “Now, no more of your bullshit and get to fucking work.”

He drove off in a squeal of rear tires and burned tread. I watched the car go, wondering how fast he drove up and down this road and if he’d even know the difference between a deer and a man in the dark.

The air was frigid as I walked up the hill to the first of the houses.

I found the key and the alarm. The instructions were idiotproof. Bell or buzzer first and then key if they’re not home or asleep. Thirty seconds to disable the alarm and arm it again as you’re leaving.

I pressed the bell. “Who is it?” Mr. Hanson asked through an intercom.

“Maid service.”

“You fuckers,” Mr. Hanson said.

A buzzing sound and the door opened but I didn’t go in. Not yet. I was emotional. Angry. Tired.

I took a moment to have a dialogue with myself. It’s ok, Detective, it’s all part of the process, don’t worry about it. This day is important. You found the place. The place you’ve dreamed about. So forget the anger, forget the drugs, forget the Canadian boys, forget the money, remember the lake.

Remember the lake.

Hanson was drunk. He was sixty, trim, handsome, tall, an avid skier. Angela said that he played doctors or lawyers in commercials or occasionally the father of a female lead in television dramas, but not sitcoms as his personality wasn’t large enough for that. He probably thought that being inebriated at nine in the morning was charming, but it wasn’t. I emptied his trash cans, swept his hardwood floor, cleaned his toilet, ran the dishwasher, and wiped the surfaces. He was still in bed and flipping through the channels when I appeared with the vacuum cleaner.

There was a french press filled with cold yellow urine next to the bed when I came in. He pointed at it. I emptied it in the en suite bathroom.

“Giuh hanbac for a hajaa,” he said repeatedly.

It was only when I was leaving that I realized he was saying, “I’ll give you a hundred bucks for a hand job.”

Meth and booze are a killer combination as consistent as cocaine and heroin, so defying Esteban, I put the Ice 9 behind two shampoo bottles on the top shelf of the bathroom cabinet-hopefully he’d need to be reasonably sober to find it.

I closed the front door and walked up the hill to the next residence, an easy one, that of an actor called Bobby Munson who was in L.A. and apparently not coming to Fairview at all this winter. There I did some light dusting and flushed the toilets.

The next house, a weekend retreat for a rich Denver family, was also empty. They had a Dyson vacuum cleaner and it was almost a joy to run that thing around. I dusted, emptied trash, made beds, ate fruit from their fridge. Oranges, grapes, and a kiwi that I lovingly cut, peeled, and diced into quarters. They seemed just the type to have a hidden camera that spied on the help, but fruit was my American obsession and what difference did petty larceny make when I was planning a kidnapping and worse.

Yuri Amatov was a production designer-whatever that is-a skinny, bald man about forty. When I rang the doorbell, he took my arm and led me inside.

“Where is it?” he asked.

“Excuse me, señor?”

“Where the fuck is it?” he screamed.

I reached into my messenger bag and brought out the cellophane-wrapped meth. He snatched it from me. “Now fuck off,” he said.

“The cleaning, señor?”

“What part of ‘fuck off’ don’t you understand?”

Another walk. The gradient increased as you went farther up the hill; seemingly the climate zone changed too. The wind was blowing from the north, the temperature had fallen considerably, and the sky was filled with ominous gray clouds.

“Looks like snow,” I said to myself with no excitement whatsoever.

These thoughts left my mind at Youkilis’s house.

Gravel drive. Carved wooden door. Bell. Paul Youkilis came to the door in a sweatshirt, sweatpants, flip-flops.

“You’re late,” he said, looming over me.

“I’m sorry, we-”

Youkilis raised a hand. “I don’t want the details, just get this shit cleaned up. It’s driving me crazy.”

“Sí, señor,” I said.

He smiled and added, “Christ, I sound like such a fucking feudalist. Get this shit cleaned up, please. I can’t work in these conditions.”

“Sí, señor.”

The conditions were Chinese food cartons, newspapers, a couple of beer cans, and what looked like dog excrement in the kitchen.

Youkilis’s house was smaller than Jack’s. A few downstairs rooms painted in bright primary colors and adorned with Mediterranean pottery. The windows looked out on forest and there was no mountain view. I couldn’t tell if this was all he could afford or whether he had just taken it to be next to Jack. Presumably he got 10 percent of Jack’s salary, but how much did Jack make? How much did a second-string actor get in Hollywood? I should probably find out.

Youkilis went upstairs. I’d been cleaning for about fifteen minutes when I became aware that Jack was upstairs with him.

As I was changing the vacuum bag both men came down.

Evidently they had been in the middle of a heated discussion, but now neither was saying anything. Jack was wearing jeans and a blue shirt unbuttoned to the navel. His hair was product-free and he looked tired, frazzled.

Something was going on.

“Plato thought everything had a true self, an ideal form, from which all things deviated,” Youkilis said.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Jack snapped.

“Everything has to be perfect. For a movie to happen, all the stars have to align, there are so many things that can fuck up: the money, the director, the cast. Every single little thing has to be perfect.”

Jack’s face was red. “So what are you saying? I’m trying to read between the goddamn lines here. Have I lost the movie again? Are you fucking kidding me?”

Paul smiled. “Relax, buddy, you haven’t lost anything. Focus still wants to do it. This is just a hiccup. A rag in the gears, not a sabot.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, man! Can you speak English for once!” Jack yelled.

“Look, relax, I’ll talk to CAA and get the story. As I understand it, the movie’s been delayed but not postponed and not canceled. I’ll get the information. Now just fucking relax. The script is finished. We have a completed script. Can you imagine how many people are really screwed because of the writers’ strike?”

“Just get me the story, will ya?”

“Ok, ok. I’ll do my best. Probably doesn’t help that we’re in fucking Colorado, not L.A. You sit there, I’ll go and get this cleared up.”

Paul went upstairs to make a phone call. Jack sat heavily in a chair and put his head in his hands. I finally changed the vacuum bag and rewrapped a worn piece of silver duct tape around the tube. The suction was lousy but Youkilis never had to use it so what did he care.

Suddenly Jack looked up at me. “Hey, would you mind shutting that fucking thing off,” he said.

“Sí, señor.”

“Oh, it’s you. Sorry about that. I’m at the end of my… I’m just… I’m going to lose the fucking movie. My first real lead and it’s all going to shit.”

I nodded but I couldn’t even fake sympathy. Try working sixty hours a week for four dollars an hour like Paco, try living on a dollar a day in Havana. But although I was unable to give him a simulacrum of concern, I hadn’t meant to look contemptuous. Jack smiled. “Yeah, I know what you’re thinking: Spoiled Hollywood motherfucker, doesn’t know a goddamn thing about the real world. Yeah? Something like that.”

I shook my head.

“Listen, I know about the real world. I worked hard to get where I am today. Fucking hard. Thousands of auditions. Not hundreds, fucking thousands. You know, I lost out on one of the leads on Battlestar Galactica by a whisker. Gave it to a goddamn Brit. Since when have there ever been Brits in outer space? TV, I know, but steady work, look at Katee Sackhoff, two shows now. Look at me, if Gunmetal fails again I’ll have nothing. Empty slate until the summer. That’s an eon in Hollywood, I might as well be in a fucking coma.”

“Who are you talking to? Are you on the cell phone?” Paul yelled down the stairs.

“See? Hear his voice? He’s shitting himself. It’s not just about the money. It’s a house of cards. This movie falls apart, what’s Plan B? There is no Plan B. And then there’s the strike. Fucking writers. And then our guild goes out. That’s a year. And there’s a whole new crop of young actors up for your part. I should be in the fucking Cruise war movie. I can do an accent.”

“Get off the phone, Jack! Don’t discuss this with anyone. We don’t know what’s happening yet.”

Jack walked to the bottom of the stairs. “I’m not on the fucking phone, you dick! Ok?”

“Then who are you talking to?” Paul shouted.

“Nobody. Ok?”

Nobody. That summed it up. But somehow it wasn’t so bad. Jack had a twinkle in his eye as he spoke, as if he knew he was giving a performance, hamming it up even for the maid.

“What did you say?” Paul shouted again.

“I’m not talking to anyone,” Jack replied, and this time he actually winked at me.

“Good. We don’t know anything. If I can’t get CAA, I’ll call Danny Tucker at Universal,” Paul yelled back.

“Do that. I’m dropping a load here. And you’re wrong, I’m glad we’re not in L.A., pressure would be killing me. Oh, and by the fucking way, isn’t that your job, to take the pressure off me?” Jack yelled.

“Fuck off to your house, I didn’t tell you to come over. Shit, shut up, I just got through to his secretary,” Paul shouted and closed a bedroom door.

Jack stood at the bottom of the stairs, teasing his hair.

I turned on the vacuum and again began cleaning the study, lifting the throw rugs and running the old machine underneath them. Jack watched me for a second, walked over, and pulled the plug out of the wall.

“My head is killing me. Can you possibly do that with a sweep or a brush or something, or can you come back tomorrow?”

“Sí, señor,” I said.

I put the vacuum in the downstairs closet and began walking to the front door.

Jack came after me, stopped me with a hand under my elbow. “No, no, wait, today is fine, but please, no noise. And I’m really sorry about all the swearing. Lot of pressure on us at the moment, you know. I lost this movie once before. If it falls apart now, I mean, I don’t know.”

“Ok,” I said.

I rooted around under the stairs for a broom and found one that looked like a prop from a movie set. The bristles were one big useless wedge. Jack went into the kitchen to get a drink. I looked at my watch. It was eleven o’clock. I was making good time. After Paul’s, Jack’s house was the last on my route. Apparently, on a normal day, I’d go down the hill and start cleaning some of the homes in lower Fairview and finish up by cleaning the shops on Pearl Street. But we hadn’t had a normal day yet and Esteban wanted us to stay away from Fairview while he found out if the INS was still lurking.

It meant that after Jack’s I would have the afternoon free to see Mrs. Cooper-the second interview subject on Ricky’s list.

I was nearly finished sweeping when Jack came back into the living room, sat on Paul’s sofa, and flipped on the TV. He was sipping a pink foaming beverage and muttering to himself, “Bastards, all the luck. That bald fucker.”

The identity of the bald fucker was not immediately obvious but when a saturnine man with receding hair appeared at the front door I wondered if I was about to see some real fireworks.

“Can you get the door… uh, María?” Jack said.

I went to the door, opened it, and the man pushed past. “I’m expected,” he said. Jack looked up but did not seem particularly enthused.

“Hey, Jack, how ya doing? How’s the vacation going?” the man said.

“Bob, Bob, Bob, I’m screwed, old buddy.”

Bob sat in the chair opposite Jack. “You seem upset. What’s the matter?”

“Uhh, Paul got this urgent call this morning from Bill Geiss at CAA. Focus is pulling the movie from spring. Earliest we can roll now is fall-if it’s going to roll at all. I don’t know what the fuck is going on.”

“What movie is this?”

“The only movie, Gunmetal. Man, I had all my eggs in that Titanic. Jesus. Turned down a coupla things. Supposed to be in L.A. for rehearsals in two weeks. And of course Greengrass is in Fiji or somewhere, can’t be reached.”

Bob nodded. “What does Paul say?”

“He doesn’t think it’s dead. He’s trying to get information. Tell you, this fucking project has been jinxed from the start. The things I’ve been through. You’ve no idea. The retooling. The re-fucking-imagining. Halo and Doom killed the original video game concept. Now it’s about a nineteenth-century Brit thrown into the future.”

“Sounds promising.”

“Yeah, it does. Originally it was a Jude Law vehicle, about a million fucking years ago.”

“Is it the writers’ strike? Those bastards are lucky we allow them in the building. In Selznick’s day he’d have fired the lot of them.”

“No. Nothing to do with the writers, it’s something else, I don’t know what’s going on.”

Bob smiled reassuringly. “Look, don’t get yourself worked up. You don’t know anything yet.”

Jack shook his head. “I don’t need to know. I’m jinxed, man. I could’ve had Colin Farrell’s role in Minority Report. Missed that by a whisker. That was a star-making vehicle, Christ. Me and Cruise for real, not just ‘Here’s your coffee, sir,’ in MI3. Would have buddied up. Jesus, I’d’ve let him convert me, I swear to God.”

“You should watch that tape on You Tube, you have to be certifiable,” Bob said with a chuckle.

“Yeah, insane all the way to the bank. In Hollywood they’re third only to the gays and Jews. No offense, Bob.”

Bob smiled. “None taken. I’ve heard worse. I worked with Peckinpah.”

“Really. What was the project?”

Bob shook his head. “The reason I bought a house here was to get away from the bullshit and shop talk.”

“Sorry, yeah, me too. Yeah, you’re right. You’re right. Let’s talk about something else. When did you get in?”

“Last night.”

“From L.A.?”

Bob turned to look at me. “Can she be trusted?”

Jack smiled. “María? Me and María go way back. Don’t be fooled. She’s not a maid, she’s remaking that Ally Sheedy movie, this is her method. Ain’t that right, María?”

“Sí, Señor Jack.”

Bob grunted and continued. “Might have a deal cooking. I’ll talk to Paul. We might be getting The Hobbit sorted out. Hush-hush. Anyway, no, I was in Scottsdale. Hundred degrees in December. I was at the club. Ever been there, the Happy Valley Country Club? Nice place. Anyway, I quit my round halfway through. Except for those struck by lightning or in the throws of cardiac arrest, it was an event without precedent.”

Jack nodded but I could tell he wasn’t really listening. “Too expensive to quit,” Bob explained. “Golf was meant to be played on rainy Scottish moors with the ambient temperature at a brisk fifty degrees or so. A hundred in the shade is not my cup of tea. Ever been to St. Andrews?”

“I don’t play golf, Bob,” Jack said.

I went into the kitchen and didn’t hear the rest of the conversation. I had finished all the cleaning I could do downstairs. I rummaged in my shoulder bag, took out the Japanese ice, and put it in the medicine cabinet. I closed the cabinet door and examined myself in the mirror. I looked tired, older. The lack of sleep, the stress. I frowned in the mirror and found that I was oddly put out. What’s the matter, Mercado?

I searched my feelings and found that it wasn’t the mission that was bothering me, it was Jack.

Jack?

For some reason I was irritated looking bad in front of him, I was annoyed at his indifference and his joke at my expense.

“Good God, Mercado, this is the last thing you need,” I muttered to my reflection. Surely you don’t have a crush on the movie star? The reflection shook her head. No. I hadn’t seen any of his films, he was vain, he was five years older than me, and he had the maturity of Lieutenant Díaz back in Havana.

No. That wasn’t it at all.

I ran my finger under the faucet and smoothed out my eyebrows. I pulled the lipstick from my pocket and put some on.

I went back into the living room, nodded to Jack.

“Adios, Señor Jack,” I said with a cheerful voice.

“Bye,” Jack said absently.

“María, is that María? María, are you leaving?” Paul yelled from upstairs.

“Sí, señor,” I said.

“Could you come upstairs for a sec?” Paul asked.

“I’ll go with you,” Jack said, springing from his chair.

We went up together.

Paul was still on the phone. He was grinning. He gave Jack the thumbs-up.

“Shit. What’s the word?” Jack asked anxiously.

Paul put his hand over the receiver.

“I’m on hold, but the word is good. As far as I can see it’s a minor fuckup, nothing more. They’re pushing the picture back a couple of weeks. Studio space in Vancouver is at a premium and Focus doesn’t want to overpay, so we’re waiting for the next lull. Walter says it’s going to be a four-week push back, not more, give everyone more time to rehearse and you to get working on those pecs.”

“It’s not off?” Jack said, his voice trembling.

“Fuck no. It’s not off. Look, buddy, that’s why I told you not to read the trades. Let me and Stevie handle everything. All you have to do is learn your lines, bulk up, and grow a mustache. Don’t Google yourself and don’t read the trades. You blow everything out of all proportion.”

“So it’s happening?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck!” Jack said with boyish delight and punched his fist in the air. He was happy for about two seconds before doubt seized him again.

“You’re a hundred percent sure? Tell me the truth,” he asked.

“This movie is happening, man. You’re on your way to the A-list, baby.”

Jack stuck out his hand and Paul gave him a complicated handshake.

“Oh, man, that’s just great, that’s just great,” Jack said.

Paul grinned. “Listen, Jack, I need to talk to María here for a minute, you go back downstairs,” Paul said.

“Bob’s down there,” Jack said in a whisper.

“Oh shit, has he been talking about Pebble Beach?”

“St. Andrews. But he mentioned The Hobbit.”

“Holy shit. Get back down there and agree with everything he says and talk about how great Peter Jackson looks now that he’s lost a few pounds.”

“I will.”

“And Jack, please don’t panic and don’t talk about the movie to anybody.”

“Nobody,” Jack said and zipped his mouth comically.

“I’m serious, Jack. Make like Clarence Thomas in oral argument.”

“I don’t get the reference but I’ll be good,” Jack said, punched Paul on the arm, and went downstairs. When he was gone, Paul leaned in close. “María, did Esteban tell you to, uh, leave the…”

“Sí, señor, it’s in the usual place. Downstairs bathroom cabinet.”

Paul grinned. “Great, and listen, speaking of Vancouver, I’m going to need some of that quality hemp Esteban gets.”

“Sí, señor.”

“You know what I’m talking about?”

“Sí, it is fresh in today.”

“Great,” Paul said, and with a big show he reached into his sweats, produced his wallet, and gave me a twenty-dollar bill. I put it my pocket and as I turned he patted me on the ass.

I turned again, furious. “Señor!”

Paul grinned. He looked like a Yankee in a Cuban newspaper cartoon.

“Hey, don’t señor me. Come on, you’re not bad-looking, María, I won’t take it for free. You wanna drop by this afternoon?” Paul asked.

“I don’t understand.”

“Sure you do. Esteban says we can get anything we want.”

“Ah, no. You are mistaken. I am not one of those girls, señor,” I replied.

He frowned and then nodded slowly. “Ahh, I see what you’re saying. Look, it doesn’t have to be anything formal. Just come by, you don’t even have to tell Esteban, this could be just between you and me. Ever tried that fucking Jap ice? Blow your mind.”

“No, señor.”

I could tell that Paul wasn’t used to getting no for an answer. All residue of his smile faded like the last ration of condensed milk in the coffee cup.

He leaned close, put his hand behind my neck, squeezed slightly. “I’ll make it worth your while,” he whispered in my ear.

“Señor, I have to-”

Paul tightened his grip. “More than worth your while.”

The curve of the staircase. Jack’s voice. Paul’s breath. The hold music coming from the phone.

Lightness.

Nausea.

The lipstick I’d put on for Jack, not you.

His fingertips greasy like yucca plant, his breath closer.

And I didn’t want to hit him, I just wanted to dissolve, to slide out of his grip, down through the carpet, down through the floor…

“Seriously, you and me and that Ice Nine, greatest fuck you’ll ever have-”

“Hi, sorry about that, Paul. Paul, are you there?” the voice on the phone said.

Paul let me go. When I got outside I crumpled the twenty and threw it away.

“Cabrón,” I said, and barring some surprising development with Mrs. Cooper either Esteban or Mr. Paul fucking Youkilis was going to be giving me a lot more than twenty fucking dollars.