Hollywood Dirt
Page 5
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There was a last moment of hesitation before he spoke, his words suddenly quick on their tumble out, the feminine lilt masked by a briskness that spoke of a big city. “I’m from Envision Entertainment. I’m a location scout. I need to procure spots for—”
“The movie,” I finished, setting aside the chicken and filling a large pot, proud of myself for having at least one piece of information.
“Yes.” He looked surprised. “How’d you—”
“We’ve all known since the day the mayor was called,” I said dryly. “You might as well have put up a billboard on 301.”
“So then there shouldn’t be a problem,” he said eagerly. “If everyone knows a movie’s coming, then I’ll just approach the plantations—”
I cut off his enthusiastic response with a quick shake of my head. “No one’s gonna let you film at their home.”
That stopped him, his face turning an interesting shade of gray that clashed with his blond highlights. “Why not?”
“Why would they?”
“Money? Fame? Bragging rights?”
I laughed. “First, no one in Quincy needs money—present company excluded, of course. And even if they did need money—which they don’t—they aren’t going to broadcast it by allowing your film crews to take over their plantation.” I ticked off the first point on my fingers.
“Second, this is the old South. Fame isn’t a good thing. Neither are bragging rights. The more you brag, the more flash you show—that’s a sign of weakness, of insecurity. You can tell the truly wealthy from their confidence, their grace. People here don’t show their wealth, they hide it. They covet it.”
The man stared at me as if I spoke Greek. “But all the mansions,” he sputtered. “The big gates, the diamonds…” His eyes darted around my humble abode as if my threadbare space would hold some proof as to his point.
“All old wealth,” I said, waving a hand dismissively. “Purchases made back when they were cotton farmers with new money. Back when Coke went big and the whole town celebrated their wealth together. That was almost a hundred years ago. Two generations back. Have you seen any new construction in town? Rolls Royces with air conditioning and satellite radio?” I waited, turning off the water and setting the pot on the stove.
“So what do I do? I need a mansion. Preferably two. Fifteen other locations to shoot at!” His voice squeaking, he dug a shaky hand in his pocket and pulled out a bottle of medication, his panic attack occurring without a single wrinkle in his forehead. I looked in fascination and fought the urge to poke it and see if it moved.
“It would seem…” I said slowly, snagging a glass and filling it with water, “that you need a local source. Someone who Quincy knows and trusts. Someone who can target the landholders who would be amendable. Someone to handle negotiations with the local vendors, hotels, and city officials.”
“But that’s my job,” he protested weakly, accepting the glass of water, his throat bulging as he gulped it down.
“And what are they paying you for that?” I leaned back and crossed my arms, staring down Ben in hopes he’d break. I hadn’t really expected him to break. I’d expected him to brush off his girly suit and ignore the question. But I was wrong and I fought to keep the surprise from my face when he answered.
“A hundred and twenty,” he said primly, crossing his legs and straightening the fabric of his pleats, as if he were regaining some semblance of composure by spilling his guts.
“Thousand?” I shouldn’t have even asked; it was a stupid question with an obvious answer. He wasn’t sitting at my scratched table for the price of a vacuum cleaner.
“Yes. But that’s for five months of my time. Negotiations, red tape management, the—”
“I’ll do it for twenty-five, cash.” I stepped forward and held out my hand, my face set, poker-stare in full force.
“Fifteen,” he countered, already rising to his feet and eyeing my outstretched palm.
“Twenty.” I glared. “Remember, I’m the only hope you have.”
He reached out with a smile and shook my hand, his grip firmer than I expected. “Deal.”
I squeezed his hand and flashed my own smile back at him. But, between me and you? I’d have done it for five hundred bucks.
CHAPTER 7
Ben was staying at the Wilson Inn, a mistake, but one I didn’t blame him for making. Quincy has two major lodging options: the Wilson Inn, a three-star motel, and the Budget Inn, a place my cockroaches would turn their noses up at. What lies below the internet’s radar are our bed-and-breakfasts, seven of them in the square-mile radius of Quincy proper. I told him to pack up and booked him a room at the Raine House, the nicest of our B&Bs. We set a date for eight the next morning at the coffee shop on Myrtle Way. I told him to bring cash and I’d bring names.
The next morning, over a cracked linoleum table, I added a little Southern into Ben in the form of grits and gravy. And he added five thousand dollars’ worth of Hollywood into me with crisp green bills. We worked for four hours, ending the meeting with a clear game plan and a schedule for the next week. He drove off in his rental car, and I started calling names on our list.
It wasn’t an easy sell. Say my name in Quincy and a typical upper-crust face will curl in distaste. Try to then wrangle a favor out of them and you might as well be digging into rock with a plastic fork. But I knew my place. I rolled over and played weak. I groveled and kissed wrinkled buttocks and made sure they felt superior. And I got Ben four appointments out of twenty calls made. I hung up the phone a few hours later with a tired smile, happy with the outcome. It was more than I had hoped for out of Quincy. Maybe three years has been long enough, maybe the mud on my face was starting to wear off.
“The movie,” I finished, setting aside the chicken and filling a large pot, proud of myself for having at least one piece of information.
“Yes.” He looked surprised. “How’d you—”
“We’ve all known since the day the mayor was called,” I said dryly. “You might as well have put up a billboard on 301.”
“So then there shouldn’t be a problem,” he said eagerly. “If everyone knows a movie’s coming, then I’ll just approach the plantations—”
I cut off his enthusiastic response with a quick shake of my head. “No one’s gonna let you film at their home.”
That stopped him, his face turning an interesting shade of gray that clashed with his blond highlights. “Why not?”
“Why would they?”
“Money? Fame? Bragging rights?”
I laughed. “First, no one in Quincy needs money—present company excluded, of course. And even if they did need money—which they don’t—they aren’t going to broadcast it by allowing your film crews to take over their plantation.” I ticked off the first point on my fingers.
“Second, this is the old South. Fame isn’t a good thing. Neither are bragging rights. The more you brag, the more flash you show—that’s a sign of weakness, of insecurity. You can tell the truly wealthy from their confidence, their grace. People here don’t show their wealth, they hide it. They covet it.”
The man stared at me as if I spoke Greek. “But all the mansions,” he sputtered. “The big gates, the diamonds…” His eyes darted around my humble abode as if my threadbare space would hold some proof as to his point.
“All old wealth,” I said, waving a hand dismissively. “Purchases made back when they were cotton farmers with new money. Back when Coke went big and the whole town celebrated their wealth together. That was almost a hundred years ago. Two generations back. Have you seen any new construction in town? Rolls Royces with air conditioning and satellite radio?” I waited, turning off the water and setting the pot on the stove.
“So what do I do? I need a mansion. Preferably two. Fifteen other locations to shoot at!” His voice squeaking, he dug a shaky hand in his pocket and pulled out a bottle of medication, his panic attack occurring without a single wrinkle in his forehead. I looked in fascination and fought the urge to poke it and see if it moved.
“It would seem…” I said slowly, snagging a glass and filling it with water, “that you need a local source. Someone who Quincy knows and trusts. Someone who can target the landholders who would be amendable. Someone to handle negotiations with the local vendors, hotels, and city officials.”
“But that’s my job,” he protested weakly, accepting the glass of water, his throat bulging as he gulped it down.
“And what are they paying you for that?” I leaned back and crossed my arms, staring down Ben in hopes he’d break. I hadn’t really expected him to break. I’d expected him to brush off his girly suit and ignore the question. But I was wrong and I fought to keep the surprise from my face when he answered.
“A hundred and twenty,” he said primly, crossing his legs and straightening the fabric of his pleats, as if he were regaining some semblance of composure by spilling his guts.
“Thousand?” I shouldn’t have even asked; it was a stupid question with an obvious answer. He wasn’t sitting at my scratched table for the price of a vacuum cleaner.
“Yes. But that’s for five months of my time. Negotiations, red tape management, the—”
“I’ll do it for twenty-five, cash.” I stepped forward and held out my hand, my face set, poker-stare in full force.
“Fifteen,” he countered, already rising to his feet and eyeing my outstretched palm.
“Twenty.” I glared. “Remember, I’m the only hope you have.”
He reached out with a smile and shook my hand, his grip firmer than I expected. “Deal.”
I squeezed his hand and flashed my own smile back at him. But, between me and you? I’d have done it for five hundred bucks.
CHAPTER 7
Ben was staying at the Wilson Inn, a mistake, but one I didn’t blame him for making. Quincy has two major lodging options: the Wilson Inn, a three-star motel, and the Budget Inn, a place my cockroaches would turn their noses up at. What lies below the internet’s radar are our bed-and-breakfasts, seven of them in the square-mile radius of Quincy proper. I told him to pack up and booked him a room at the Raine House, the nicest of our B&Bs. We set a date for eight the next morning at the coffee shop on Myrtle Way. I told him to bring cash and I’d bring names.
The next morning, over a cracked linoleum table, I added a little Southern into Ben in the form of grits and gravy. And he added five thousand dollars’ worth of Hollywood into me with crisp green bills. We worked for four hours, ending the meeting with a clear game plan and a schedule for the next week. He drove off in his rental car, and I started calling names on our list.
It wasn’t an easy sell. Say my name in Quincy and a typical upper-crust face will curl in distaste. Try to then wrangle a favor out of them and you might as well be digging into rock with a plastic fork. But I knew my place. I rolled over and played weak. I groveled and kissed wrinkled buttocks and made sure they felt superior. And I got Ben four appointments out of twenty calls made. I hung up the phone a few hours later with a tired smile, happy with the outcome. It was more than I had hoped for out of Quincy. Maybe three years has been long enough, maybe the mud on my face was starting to wear off.
