Jim Butcher - Blood Rites

"Wrist is a little limp," I said. "If you like I can show you an exercise or something, help you out."

His face twisted with abrupt heat. "Son of a bitch," the man swore, and dropped his bag so he could ball his huge hands into huge fists.

"Whoa," Jake said, and stepped between us, facing the big guy. "Hey, come on, Bobby. It's too early for this crap."

Bobby got a lot more aggressive once Jake was there to hold him back, snarling and cussing. I'd faced too many literal ogres to be too terribly impressed by a metaphorical one, but I was just as glad that it hadn't gone any farther. The kid was a hell of a lot stronger than me, and if he knew more than nothing about how to handle himself, he could ruin my whole day.

The kid subsided after a minute, picked up his stuff again, and scowled at me. "I know what you're thinking, and you can forget it."

I lifted my eyebrows. "So you're psychic too?"

"Wiseass stunt double," he snarled. "It happened once. You aren't going to make a name for yourself. You might as well just leave now."

Jake sighed. "Bobby, he's not a stunt double."

"But he said-"

"He was joking ," Jake said. "Christ, he's newer at this than you. Look, just go inside. Get some coffee or springwater or something. You don't need this on a shooting day."

The kid glared at me again and jabbed his index finger at me. "I'm warning you, asshole. Stay out of my way if you don't want to get hurt."

I tried to keep all the panic and terror he'd inspired off of my face. "Okeydoke."

The kid snarled, spat on the ground in my direction, and then stormed inside.

"Someone woke up with his testosterone in a knot today," I said.

Jake watched Bobby go and nodded. "He's under pressure. Try not to take it personal, man."

"That's tough," I said. "What with the insults and violent posturing and such."

Jake grimaced. "Nothing to do with you personally, man. He's worried."

"About being replaced by a stunt double?"

"Yeah."

"Are you serious? What the hell does a stunt double do in a porno flick?"

Jake waved a hand vaguely toward his belt. "Extreme close-ups."

"Uh. What?"

"Historically speaking, it doesn't happen often. Especially what with Viagra now. But it isn't unknown for a director to bring in a double for the close of a scene, if the actor is having trouble finishing."

I blinked. "He thought I was a stunt penis ?"

Jake laughed at my reaction. "Man. You are new."

"You been doing this work long?"

"Awhile," he said.

"Guess it's a dream job, eh? Gorgeous women and all."

He shrugged. "Not as much as you'd think. After a while anyway."

"Then why do you do it?"

"Habit?" he asked with an easy grin. "Plus lack of options. I thought about doing the family thing once, but it didn't work out." He fell silent for a second, his expression touched with faint grief. He shook his head to come out of it and said, "Look, don't worry about Bobby. He'll calm down once he figures out his stage name."

"Stage name?"

"Yeah. I think that's what has got him all nervous. This is only his second shoot. First one is in the can, but it'll be a bit before they do final edits and such. He's got until next week to figure out his performing name."

"Performing name, huh."

"Don't make fun of it," he said, expression serious. "Names have power, man."

"Do they. Really."

Jake nodded. "A good name inspires confidence. It's important for a young guy."

"Like Dumbo's magic feather," I said.

"Right, exactly."

"So what name do you go by?" I asked.

"Jack Rockhardt," Jake replied promptly. He eyed me for a moment, his expression assessing.

"What?" I asked.

"You mean you don't recognize the name? Or me?"

I shrugged. "I don't have a TV. Don't go to those theaters, either."

His eyebrows shot up. "Really? Are you Amish or something?"

"Yeah, that's it. I'm Amish."

He grinned. "Maybe you'd better come inside with me. I'll introduce you around."

"Thanks."

"No problem," Jake said.

We went on into the building, a place with sterile beige walls and invincible medium-brown carpeting. Jake led me to a door with a computer-printed sign that read, GREEN ROOM, and went inside.

A long conference table ran down the center of a comfortably sized room. Doughnuts, drinks, fruits, bagels, and other foods of every description were laid out on trays down its length. The room smelled like fresh coffee, and I promptly homed in on the coffee machine for a cup.

A plain- faced woman in her mid-forties entered, wearing jeans, a black tee, and a red-and-white flannel shut. Her hair was tied back under a red bandanna. She seized a paper plate and dumped food on it at random. "Good morning, Guffie."

"Joan," Jake responded easily. "Have you met Harry?"

"Not yet." She glanced over her shoulder at me and nodded. "Wow. You are very tall."

"I'm actually a midget. The haircut makes me look taller."

Joan laughed and popped a doughnut hole in her mouth. "You're the production assistant, eh?"

"Yes."

She nodded. "So let's produce."

"I thought that was Arturo's bag."

"He's the director and executive producer. I'm the actual producer. Makeup, cameras, lighting, sets, you name it. I handle the crew and the details." She turned to me and offered her hand, shaking off sugary doughnut goodness as she did. "Joan Dallas."

"Pleasure," I said. "Harry Dresden."

Joan nodded. "Come on then. There's still a lot to do before we can shoot. Guffie, get to the dressing room and clean yourself up."

Jake nodded. "Are they here yet?"

Her tone of voice became annoyed. "Giselle and Emma are."

There was a moment of silent, pregnant tension. Jake winced and headed for the door. "Harry, nice to meet you. Joan's okay, but she'll work you to death."

Joan threw an apple at him. Jake caught it when it bounced off his chest, crunched into it with his teeth, and held it in his mouth so that he could wave as he left the room.

"Grab yourself some food, Stilts," Joan said. "You can help me put cameras together."

"I was hoping to talk to Arturo before we got going," I said.

She turned around with two plates loaded with breakfast pastries. She hadn't bothered getting any fruit. "You're a funny guy. He's probably not out of bed yet. Bring that box of cookies. If my blood sugar drops too low I might take your head off."

She led me down a short hallway to a cavernous room-a shooting studio. A slightly raised stage held an unlit set, which looked like a lavishly appointed bedroom. Arrayed in a line in front of it were several black plastic crates and a freestanding shop light. Joan flicked it on and started opening crates, popping a bit of food into her mouth every third or fourth movement.

"Nice place," I said.

"Been a bitch," Joan said between bites. "Last company here was supposed to be some kind of computer production deal, but they had to be lying. They redid all the wiring in here, routed in way heavier than they were supposed to have. Took me a week to get things working, and then I had to turn their old gym into something like a dressing room, but this place still isn't up to code."

"Ye canna change the laws of physics," I said.

She laughed. "Amen."

"Engineer then?" I asked.

"By way of necessity," she answered. "I've done sets, lighting, power. Even some plumbing. And," she said, opening boxes, "cameras. Gather 'round, gofer boy; you can help."

I settled down while she laid out parts from heavy plastic crates. She assembled them, several professional cameras and tripods, with the surety of long practice. She gave me instructions as she did, and I did my best to help her out.

There was a pleasant, quiet rhythm to the work, something that I hadn't really felt since the last time I'd been on a farm in Hog Hollow, Missouri. And it was interesting-technology was unfamiliar territory for me.