Pete nodded to himself. Warming to the idea of having some extra cash.

Humming, he went to take a shower and get dressed. He couldn’t wait to pick up Gina, already fantasizing about her smile when he gave her the computer.

GINA CLIMBED INTO THE BACKSEAT and Pete buckled her in. He sat behind the wheel, pulled out of the school’s congested parking lot. “How was school, baby?”

“Good,” she said, already doodling in one of her pastel notebooks.

“Our baby’s going to be an artist, I think.” Noemi handed him a scotch while they waited for the oven to cook their Thanksgiving turkey. “Her kindergarten teacher says that she is unusually gifted.”

Pete smiled, watched Gina in the rearview mirror. She drew everything: plants, landscapes, faces. Even monsters and superheroes. Whatever took her fancy. “What are you drawing?”

“You, Daddy,” she said, not looking up.

He smiled, feeling warm pride spread through him. “What am I doing in the picture? Is Mommy with me?”

“No. You’re working in the movie,” she said, a stuffy sigh escaping her lips.

“You mean like on a movie set? Am I wearing my uniform?”

“Uh-uh … you’re in the movie, Daddy. Like a movie star.” She giggled, but Pete’s smile disappeared. He didn’t ask to see the picture.

IT WAS COLDER THAT NIGHT, but the parking lot lights had been activated, so it wasn’t as dark, which made Pete’s job a little easier.

The last of the crewmembers had pulled away only minutes after Pete’s arrival. Jerry, one of the day guards, told Pete they’d gone longer than expected because of some issues with the Fire Marshall, who made the director change the way he shot a scene where office workers lit sparklers for a party. “They didn’t have it on the permit, so the asshole made a stink about it. Sparklers, man. Can you imagine? My kid lights those things in the living room.”

Pete had nodded, not caring and distracted. What happened during the shooting day wasn’t really his concern, and he liked it that way. Liked being at the location when nothing was going on. Less hassle. Same paycheck.

And now the day guards had left along with the crew, and Pete was relieved to be alone once more. Silently, he walked the perimeter of the base camp again, adjusted some cones, picked up some trash. He pulled another folding chair from the catering tent, sat heavily, his bones achy, his mind thick.

Under the gentle buzz of the phosphorous lights, he settled in for a long night.

PETE WAS RUNNING DOWN AN alleyway, sweating and hurt. Moonlight soaked the walls. Bricks dripped mercury, but the shadows fought to stay. He prayed he could sneak to a bus stop, get back to the neighborhood. Marty and Israel were still inside the grocery store, trapped by the old man and his fucking shotgun, but he couldn’t go back. Nothing he could do to help them. They’d tripped the alarm and the old man had been sleeping in the office, as if waiting for them. And now there was nothing. No money, no fame with the crew. No respect.

Just escape. 

He turned a corner and saw red and blue light smeared across the alley’s exit. He started to retreat, but another police car pulled into the other end of the alleyway, trapping him. Hi-beam headlights stared at him, wide spectral eyes. The doors of the squad car thumped opened like wings and two shadows jumped out, guns pulled, pointed at his chest. A chopper beat overhead, its spotlight flooding the alley with hard white light. Criminal sunshine. 

He closed his eyes, raised his arms, thinking fuck fuck fuck.

One of the cops shouted, “Gun!”

Pete had forgotten to drop the crowbar they’d used to jimmy through the store window. He started to bring it down, to show them it was just dumb metal. That he was just a stupid kid, sixteen years old, his whole life ahead of him. 

The police guns flashed and popped. Stunned more than hurt, he felt bullets punch into his chest, shoulder. He fell onto his back, cold alley water seeped into his shirt, pants, hair. Still the bullets came, beating his arm and shoulder like a fist.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

“Pete! Jesus, are you dead?”

Pete snapped his head up to the voice. He had been slumped in the chair, zoning out, losing himself. He focused his daydream-riddled eyes on the bearded face of Jimmy, his white hoody wrapped over his head and across his chest like St. Jude. He was tapping Pete’s shoulder with a hard index finger.

Pete pushed Jimmy’s hand away, pushed the memory away. It hadn’t happened like that, he thought, confused and still meandering through the hazy thoughts of his youth. I’d escaped. The other two guys were caught. I was never shot … that wasn’t real ….

Pete stood up, felt something tweak in his lower back. He put a hand on Jimmy’s chest and shoved the man. “ʹFuck away from me,” Pete said, almost slurring his words.

“Yo, take it easy …” Jimmy said, but stayed a few feet back. “You were totally spaced out, man. It was like waking the dead. I could have stolen every truck in your lot if I’d wanted.”

Pete looked at his watch. It was near midnight. 

“Damn.” In a sudden flash of panic, he looked around and behind him. Were the trucks gone? Stupid, he knew, but still. No, everything was there. Everything was quiet. He forced himself to relax, to breathe.

“Look,” Jimmy said, “I can go. It’s … I mean, I got the mug, man. I’m cool. But you said … remember? The love scene?”

Pete, fully alert now, studied Jimmy’s face. Saw he was sweating, nervous. Or excited, he thought knowing that was the truth. Shit. He pulled himself together, let the memories drift away. “You got cash, bro?”

Jimmy nodded, smiled. “Yeah, of course. Have you … you know. Checked?”

“No man, no. Let me see the cash.” Jimmy warily studied Pete as if making sure this wasn’t a ruse, possibly worried that Pete might jump him. Pete smiled. “Relax, bro. I’m gonna hook you up.”

Jimmy pulled out another thick fold of bills. Pete’s eyes widened. “This is five hundred. I …” Even in the dark, Pete could tell the creepy bastard was blushing. Freak show. “I want clothing this time.”

Pete nodded, playing cool, but worried about taking clothes. That was dangerous. He’d be questioned, if not outright suspected, were clothing to be missed. You never knew what was vital to a scene. A hat or a glove could be important for continuity. A key prop.

Still, five hundred bucks would put his total take at eight hundred. And for what? For nothing. A few minutes work and a little harmless theft.

“Yeah, okay,” he said. “Stay here, like last time. I see you past this line of cones, deal is off. Comprende?”

Jimmy nodded, smiling again. Freak. Pete walked toward the row of trailers.

HE COULDN’T BELIEVE HIS LUCK.

The inside of the trailer looked like it truly had been robbed. Ransacked. There were clothes everywhere. Piles of dresses, skirts, blouses. Handbags and wallets covered the bed. The floor was littered with pantyhose, underwear, negligee. They must have had a fitting, he realized, although why everything was left out was a mystery. He figured Pages must have blown a gasket, demanded to look at the stuff again the next day, made the prop and wardrobe guys leave it for her. For Pete, it was a bonanza. Mad spoils. There was so much to choose from it was making him giddy trying to figure out what would get Jimmy off the most, get him wanting more.

Maybe squeeze another five hundred out of him ….

Pete scanned the clothes on the floor, thinking clinically, analyzing what would be easiest to have disappear. Something they’d never notice. Underwear and pantyhose were sexy, and Jimmy would likely pop off in his pants if Pete grabbed something like that, but it made Pete feel queasy. A little dirtier than he was comfortable with.

That said, money was money. And what did Holly Pages care? What did any of them care? Lowly security guard. Dumbass high school dropout with one parent still stuck in Mexico and the other working double-shifts at a laundromat, for even less money than Pete was making, just to get by.

He pointed his phone’s light at the piles of underwear and stockings. He kneeled, dug through the pile until he found a lacy black thong at the bottom. He smelled the fabric. It smelt new. Hating himself, but also getting off a bit at the idea of it, he brought the crotch to his mouth and let a stream of spit drizzle onto the cloth. Just a little. Just enough to give it that human smell. He rubbed the moisture in with his thumb until it was nearly dry. He stood, searched the room, then went into the bathroom. He found a travel-size deodorant stick on the sink and dabbed a little of the scented stick onto the moist crotch of the thong. He replaced the deodorant, sniffed the fabric again, rubbed it more with his fingers, then wadded it into a ball and stuck it into his pocket. Was he going above and beyond? Yeah, probably. But part of him figured he should at least be earning the money. And besides, if Jimmy got amped up, there was no telling how much more he might pay for something really good.