Fifty Grand

“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 Maria 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. “Maria, did Esteban tell you to, uh, leave the…”

“Si, senor, 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.”

“Si, senor.”

“You know what I’m talking about?”

“Si, 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. “Senor!”

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

“Hey, don’t senor me. Come on, you’re not bad-looking, Maria, 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, senor,” 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, senor.”

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.

“Senor, 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.

“Cabron,” 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.

10 THE LADY FROM SHANGHAI

A bus stop. Mountains to the west and east. A spear of cloud in a cobalt sky. The road a straight line running through woods on either side of a broad valley. The outskirts of Fairview to the south, nothing but forest to the north. Forest all the way to Canada.

The sound of a chain saw.

I have changed again. This time black jeans, a white blouse, and a blazer that Angela left behind. I have combed my hair and taken the slump from my body language.

Like Jack, I too will be performing.

From the direction of Fairview the bus comes.

It stops but the driver doesn’t open the door. He points at his watch and mouths the word early.

Si, amigo, and if I were one of those tall trophy wives on Pearl Street-

Not that they’d ever ride the bus.

A sound behind me. A Mexican laborer carrying sticks. He puts them down, walks a little into the forest, and relieves himself against a fir tree.

“Come on,” I mouth to the driver but he shakes his head.

Oh, America, you’re making it too easy for me.

Seconds go by. The cool sun. The idling bus. The sound of streaming piss.

When it’s exactly five minutes past, the driver pushes a button and a compressor releases its hold on the door.

A hiss of air. The smell of AC, coffee, people.

The laborer catches my eye. An older man. Not his first time over the border. I suddenly see his whole trajectory: a crossing in Juarez, a night journey through west Texas; a lecture in vulgar street Spanish from Esteban or a punk overseer just in from East L.A.; and then work all day until the sun goes down. Sleep in the Wetback Motel or some dive in Denver, up and work again.