“There you are.” Francisco appeared on the opposite side of the table in a pressed button-down, his swoop of black hair pomaded into 1950s Elvis perfection, an open MacBook Air perched on his forearm.
“Where’s your walkie?” I asked.
“Oh, there aren’t enough for me to have one. Bottom of the totem pole over here, you know.”
“I’ll fix that. What’s up?”
“I just spoke to Tawny Crawford’s people and she’s confirmed for the role of Cherry. I’m booking her flights now. She’s working in LA through Saturday, so I have her on the red-eye Sunday night to Miami, then the first flight out Monday to get here in time to shoot.”
“Why the red-eye?” I asked. “That’s gonna suck and could put us in a tight spot if her flight is delayed.”
He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. Money. Of course. “Okay.” I sighed, frustrated. I liked treating my people well, and this budget austerity program brought on by Steve’s mistakes was death by a thousand cuts. Of course, if Cole hadn’t spent five grand at the bar on Saturday night, we could have afforded to ensure our actress arrived well-rested and in time to shoot her scenes. “Oh, I meant to ask you.” I came around to his side of the table and lowered my voice. “You did the paperwork for Felicity Fox?”
He nodded, inclining his head toward mine. The great thing about us both being short was that we could easily whisper out of earshot of the taller people.
“That’s her legal name, right? I mean, she’s not using a stage name or anything?”
He shook his head. “No. I’d remember that. Why?”
“Nothing.” I waved it off, not wanting to set off any alarm bells if she was in fact who she said she was. “She just looks like someone else. Can you forward me her paperwork?”
“Sure.”
I noticed the sweat rings beginning beneath his arms. “Why don’t you work out of the office in the hotel lobby today? Or wherever you want.”
“Oh my God, that would be amazing. You sure you don’t mind?”
“Not at all.” I smiled. “It would be a travesty to ruin that shirt, and the Wi-Fi over here is spotty at best.”
“Thank you, thank you! I’ll keep you posted.” He snapped his laptop shut and scurried away before I could change my mind.
My walkie crackled to life with the Irish brogue of our assistant director. “Two minutes for camera.”
Price was a scrawny, ginger-haired Dubliner who was only in his late twenties but was probably the most mature person on the set. He had a wife and three kids back in Ireland and a head that remained cool as ice while the flames of hell raged all around him. I’d worked with him on a music video in the UK a few years ago and hired him every chance I got since. He made me feel calm. Calmer. No matter how I fronted, no part of me was actually calm.
Balancing my plate in one hand, I unhooked the walkie from my buckle. “How many minutes on Cole?”
“Five. Stella’s double flying in.”
We didn’t have the budget for actual stand-ins, opting instead to use production assistants with vaguely similar build and coloring to the actors for lighting purposes, but after the snafu this morning, I graciously accepted Stella’s offer of Felicity as her proxy while she was in makeup. Stella did not do her own stand-in work, she’d informed me in no uncertain terms. Irksome, but Felicity was game. I still wasn’t exactly thrilled by her presence, but she was here now, and I could use all the help I could get. Also, I knew makeup would probably take a while, as Stella and Cole both needed to look fifteen years younger in the scene, so I welcomed the unpaid labor.
I stuffed a last bite of bagel in my mouth and dumped my plate in the trash, sneezing. The empty shipping warehouse we were filming in had briefly been used as a makeshift soundstage for the fourth Gentleman Gangster movie, and Cole had bought it when he purchased the Genesius Resort. But the stage was dustier than advertised, and the air-conditioning we’d paid premium for the benefit of using was so loud that we couldn’t turn it on when we were rolling sound; nor could we run it at the same time as the lights because of the power pull, so we had to take AC breaks to cool the space down. At least the building was big enough to double as our de facto home base and storage for equipment, props, and wardrobe. Anyway, we’d be shooting out of here and on location most of the time, in the beach house meant to belong to Stella’s and Cole’s characters, Marguerite and Peyton.
I skated around a grip taping down electrical wires and threaded my way through a forest of light stands to join Jackson and Price at video village. Jackson sat in a director’s chair staring at the set while Brian worked with the gaffers to light what was supposed to be a photo studio in New York for the flashback sequence. None of the three monitors were live.
“Where’s the feed?” I asked.
“Communication problem,” Jackson answered, tucking a wisp of dark hair behind his ear. His hair had grown out while he’d been down here the past month and was now nearly chin-length. “They’re working on it.”
A voice erupted from the walkie in Price’s hand. “Makeup for Price.”
“Go for Price.” Price headed off in the direction of the makeup room.
I pulled up a director’s chair next to Jackson. “How ya feeling?”
He’d become almost skeletal during the stress of preproduction. But now he looked healthier after a month on the island away from his father, who, I couldn’t help but notice, treated him more like an employee he didn’t particularly trust than his only son. One evening a few weeks ago, after they’d nearly come to blows over Cole’s insistence on rushing to production despite it being hurricane season, I’d suggested to Cole that perhaps
