Adrian McKinty - Fifty Grand

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.”