Big Gin studied the business card, as though it held a doorway to a long-held desire.
‘So who’s calling on the phone?’ she said.
‘One of the talent scouts,’ Evan said. ‘He’ll pretend to be the suburban contestant you have to help. But I want to film you from back over here, near this side of the lot. Just talk off the top of your head, show me how you can improvise. I’ve got a mike built into the phone already, but I want a distance shot of you. Here, young man, I’m sorry, what’s your name?’
‘Raymond.’ The boy examined the business card but with a critical glare.
‘You come over here and stand by me, out of the shot.’
Raymond frowned but not at the business card. ‘Why can’t I be in the shot?’
‘It’s my shot,’ Big Gin said.
‘Well, Raymond, frankly, you didn’t act interested,’ Evan said. ‘You didn’t think I was legit.’
‘Sure he did,’ Big Gin said. ‘That’s just the way he talks. He’s cool now, he’s not disrespecting.’
‘Raymond, you know, we have to win over the young audience as well,’ Evan said. ‘Our target demographic includes teenage girls.’
Raymond, holding the bag with the ammunition, tented his cheek with his tongue, gave Evan another frown, but went and stood by the phone, calculated a pose, stood his best side.
‘Excellent. But I don’t like the bag being in your shot. You look like you’re shopping.’ Evan took five steps back.
Big Gin picked up the bag of ammo clips, brought them over to Evan, put them at his feet. ‘We ought to be compensated for our time if you ain’t buying.’
‘Oh, absolutely. Of course this is basically your private audition, and you didn’t have to stand in line, and’ – he put the camcorder up to his eye – ‘I go down to the community center, I got folks lining up around the lot to try out.’
Big Gin gave him a look in the lens. ‘What do I do?’
‘Let your natural personality shine through.’ Evan was fifteen paces from them now, worried about the boy, whose suspicions had not flagged for one moment. The duffel and the bag of ammo sat between Evan’s feet. The stolen cell phone lay wedged in his back pocket.
‘Act natural. Don’t look at me.’ Evan reached behind him, pressed the dial button of his pocketed phone. It was already keyed to the pay phone’s number.
One ring. ‘Look at the pay phone, let it ring three times, let me get the film rolling.’ But Evan was the one rolling, grabbing the duffel and the ammo, running backward toward his truck. Two rings. Raymond still stared at the phone, but Big Gin couldn’t resist the lure of the camera’s eye. She spun as Evan jumped into the truck. He’d left the key in the ignition. He wrenched the car into reverse, saw Big Gin shout and run after him. He tore out into the street, into a hail of horns of oncoming traffic.
Raymond, now sold on the idea of TV stardom, answered the phone. ‘Is this part of the audition?’ he asked.
‘I’ve taped you dealing for a week,’ Evan lied into the phone. ‘You show up at that phone again, I give the cops the tape.’ In the rearview mirror Big Gin stormed out into traffic, shooting him the finger, winded in a short run.
‘That’s illegal!’ Raymond hollered. ‘You nothing but a chump-ass thief.’
‘Complain to the cops. Thanks for the ammo. We’ve made a fair trade, I’ll be quiet and I’ll keep your bullets.’
Raymond’s reply got cut off when Evan thumbed off the phone. Evan floored the accelerator in case Big Gin came after him in their shiny new Explorer. He hoped Big Gin and Raymond had been more honest than he had. He opened the bag. Four magazines. He tried to fit one into the Beretta. It smacked in clean and true.
Now he could go find Shadey.
20
E van drove the pickup truck past the gated community’s wall. The condos stood behind wrought iron and imported stone. The building lay at the edge of the Galleria district, Houston’s Uptown, crammed full of high-end shops and eateries and condominiums catering to both the aged oil money and the young high-tech rollers. This particular enclave was called Tuscan Pines, but tall Gulf Coast loblollies, less romantically named than European evergreens, shaded the lot. Across the street stood high-end office space and a small, boutique hotel. Evan parked in the office lot.
He waited. He expected to see police cars. But instead a parade of Mercedes and BMWs and Lexuses came and went out of the gate. After another hour Shadey walked out of the security guard’s box, headed toward a beat-up Toyota, got in, and puttered out of the complex. Evan followed him as he headed down Westheimer, toward River Oaks and the heart of Houston.
He stopped next to Shadey at the first light. Waited for Shadey to look over at him. Shadey was a typical Houston driver who didn’t mess with glancing into other lanes.
Evan risked a honk.
Shadey looked over. Stared as Evan smiled, as he recognized him under the black hair.
I need to talk to you, Evan mouthed.
Hell no, Shadey mouthed back. He shook his head. Blasted through the red in a sudden sharp left turn.
Evan followed. He flashed his lights. Once. Twice. Shadey made two more turns and drove behind a small barbecue restaurant. Evan followed him.
Shadey was at his window before Evan had shifted into park. ‘You stay the hell away from me.’
‘It’s nice to see you, too,’ Evan said.
Shadey shook his head. ‘It’s not nice to see you. No fucking way nice to see you. I got an FBI agent I’m supposed to call if I see your smiling face.’
‘Well, I’m not smiling, so you don’t have to call.’
‘Just go, man. Please.’
‘I’m not a suspect, I’m not a fugitive. I’m just missing.’
‘I don’t care about what you calling yourself. I don’t need trouble in my life.’
‘You complained on national TV that I didn’t set you up in movies, or as a pro poker player.’
Shadey glared at him. ‘Hey, man, I was just making myself available to interested parties. You never know who’s watching the news.’
‘Well, since you told a couple of lies about me, you can help me and wipe the slate clean. I need cash.’
‘Do I look like an ATM?’ Shadey lowered his sunglasses so Evan could see his eyes. ‘I’m a security guard, I don’t got cash.’
‘I know you can get cash, Shadey. You have connections.’
‘No more. Get your unconnected ass on its way.’
‘It’s funny how being cleared of a crime creates this wave of gratitude,’ Evan said. ‘Considering you didn’t even have a good lawyer when I met you.’
‘I don’t owe you forever, Evan.’
‘Yes, you actually do. Without Ounce of Trouble your ass is still in jail, Shadey, and, yes, you owe me forever.’
Shadey closed his eyes. ‘You’re in trouble. I don’t do trouble anymore. I help you, I’m a felon.’
‘No. You’re a friend.’
‘Spare me, man.’
‘I pissed off the wrong people, just like you did years ago, and they’re trying to kill my ass to make a problem go away. I need cash, I need a computer.’
‘Make yourself a movie. Explain it to the world.’ Shadey shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, no way, no how.’
‘You know what, you didn’t deserve me, as an advocate or a friend. I’m sorry I bothered. You live your life of freedom. Free to complain and bitch. Thank me when you think of it.’
Shadey stared at him. Pushed his sunglasses back into place.
Evan started the pickup’s engine. ‘If people come around looking for me, tell them you haven’t seen me. But don’t be surprised if they kill you just to cover their trail.’ He started to put the car into reverse and Shadey put his hand on the door. Evan stopped.
‘I already got a call. After I was on CNN. A lady. Said her name was Galadriel Jones. She said she worked for Film Today magazine. Said if I heard from you or could tell her where you was, exclusive-like, I’d get fifty thousand in cash. Under the table.’
Evan knew Film Today. It was a small, influential trade-press publication, and he didn’t believe for a second a reporter would pay fifty thousand dollars to a tipster; an industry magazine couldn’t afford it.