Bobby B – Shangri La

“The hell you two think you’re doing?” Bernie slammed the door on Monterrey Mick’s non-TV office, glanced between Mick and the director, lit up the room.

“I turn on the television Thanksgiving afternoon, what do I see?  Boudreaux and the welcome cake and no sooner does he have on a logo work shirt than you two creative giants are doing cut and paste bullshit in post production that makes me look like an easy piece of fuck-me queenie for a drooling hick! Nowhere was any of that in any shot sheet I saw.”

She slammed both palms down on Mick’s desk. “Punch ins of my ass? I get it, even if the other two are the resident skanks. The kid wearing the season dunce cap scaring me shitless with the fuck ups? Okay. All the candid shit you pulled up? That can’t be contractual, shooting me eating roach coach breakfast with your mark like we’re standing on top of each other. In this shit hole I’m a parts delivery girl with a sweet ass, not half of Mad Mods lovesick Hillbillies.”

Mick pulled out the worn manila envelope the director had dropped a few weeks earlier. “Five grand make you feel any better?”

“Hell, no. You offer me five then you got ten times that.”

Mick tossed the envelope back in his desk. “Technically he’s your mark, too, Bern. Unless you do have feelings for him.” Mick leered, cocked one eyebrow. “And then, well…Let the wedding bells ring, pay off your Uncle Mick for keeping it shut and bye bye love.”

He let Bernie steam over that for a few. “You haven’t had any luck, Bern. Some of the barely legal porn business you’ve thrown at him that should have blown the top of his head off hasn’t stuck. Is there a reason?”

“He’s used to an attractive, normal tomgirl type who can carry on a conversation and spar with him. You can’t hire those girls.”

“We hired you. You’re an opinionated, over educated ball of tomgirlish eye candy.”

“I’m fully dressed, unfuckable tomgirlish eye candy. Eye candy I can hire. Eye candy that can talk and turn his head? What do you want me to do, post an ad at USC, ‘Needed, hot pre-law female to con rube out of two mill with your blowjob and convo skills. Keep the wardrobe’?”

“That would be a good start.”

“Get over that, to-day. He’s too young for what we had planned. Weddings, phony DNA. He’s a gee-whiz teenage shoe-gazer in a big-time hot rod shop. Your idiot phony suspension man isn’t doing any better than I am. He’s blown an easy five, six grand on topless bars and a weekend in Vegas with nothing to show for it. Even the PCP loaded joint backfired. Read my lips, you two assholes. I’m done with your bullshit. Bobby and me as a con and mark game or an ‘item’ on this series are both over. As of now.” She slammed the door again on her way out.

Mick pulled up his logo golf shirt up, shot his pits with a can of aerosol deodorant from a desk drawer, glanced at the director. “Can she do anything about how you apply the cut shots?”

“She gets paid and whatever we shoot of her on-site and in uniform without going into the ladies room is fair game. We post it however you and me and the Louisiana directorial contingent want.”

“I needed some good news. That lawyer bitch from Baton Rouge calls me once, twice a week to make sure we’re with her program, and the season just opened.” Mick leaned back, exhaled, pulled his man girdle around his waist, ran his thumb down the Velcro strip. “Fucking women with standards and dumb fucks who’ll never be anything but guest stars. Losers, all. I knew separating the kid from his money was going to be up to me.”

“Looks like.” The director stood, reached for the doorknob and it fell off in his hand. He checked the top of the door, judged it for clearance. “The other two women find out you offered Bernie five grand to play the kid’s girlfriend and it’s still on the table? You’ll have to give it up twice or go out in the shop and find a real mechanic, have them put a hydraulic damper on this door.”

“Maybe I should turn them and everyone they can bring loose on the damn kid, all at once. He’d cave.”

“Could be. Or they’d all end up like Bernie. Boiling shrimp and working for him instead of you.”

“Perfect. Me gone with his money and no worries, him here with my estrogen and overhead headaches? Sounds like Shangri fucking la to me.” Mick adjusted his girdle, pulled down his shirt, popped a Xanax and a thumb-sized vitamin. “I have to pull this gig off, man. Eating rabbit food and listening to women talk because I can’t afford to rent quiet ones is killing me.”

Published by

Phil Huston

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