"Want a dog?"
She shook her head. "They take too much attention, and I'm gone at all hours."
"Tell me about it. Know anyone who does?"
"Not really."
"Do me a favor. Keep him for a day."
Murphy blinked. "Why me?"
"Because I have to go on a new job this morning and I haven't had time to get him settled with someone. Come on, Murph. He's friendly. He's quiet. You'll never know he's there. Just for the day."
Murphy glowered at me. "I'm not keeping him."
"I know, I know."
"I'm not keeping him."
"You just said that, Murph."
"Just so long as you understand that I'm not keeping him."
"I get it already."
She nodded. "Just this once, then. I'm doing paperwork at my desk today. But you'd better be there to pick him up by five."
"You're an angel, Murph. Thank you."
She rolled her eyes and settled the pup in the curl of her arm. "Yeah, yeah. What's the new job?"
I sighed and told her.
Murphy burst out laughing. "You're a pig, Dresden."
"I didn't know," I protested.
"Oink. Oink, oink."
I glowered at her. "Don't you have some paperwork to do?"
"Get there by five, pig."
"By five." I sighed. I grumbled to myself as I walked out to my car and left for my first day on the set.
Chapter Seven [image]
Chicago is a business town. Entrepreneurs of every stripe duke it out ferociously in pursuit of the American dream, discarding the carcasses of fallen ventures along the way. The town is full of old business headquarters, most of them held by the long-term commercial giants. When a new business sets its sights on Second City, it's cheaper for them to settle in one of the newer industrial parks littered around the city's suburbs. They all look more or less alike-a grid of plain, blocky, readily adaptable buildings two or three stories high with no windows, no landscaping, and gravel parking lots. They look like enormous, ugly concrete bricks, but they're cheap.
Arturo had acquired a short-term lease on such a building in such an industrial complex twenty minutes west of town. There were three other cars parked in its lot by the time I got there. I had a nylon backpack full of various magical tools I might need to ward off malevolent energies: salt, a bunch of white candles, holy water, a ring of keys, a small silver bell, and chocolate.
Yeah, chocolate. Chocolate fends off all kinds of nasty stuff. And if you get hungry while warding off evil, you have a snack. It's multipurpose equipment.
One end of my carved wooden blasting rod protruded from the backpack in case I needed to make a fast draw. I was also wearing my shield bracelet, my mother's pentacle amulet, my force ring, and a new gizmo I'd been working with-a silver belt buckle carved into the shape of a standing bear. Better to have the magical arsenal and not need it, than to not have it and get killed to death.
I got out of the car. I had on a pair of slacks and a polo shirt, since I had no idea of what a production assistant on an adult film set was supposed to wear. The client would have to be happy with business casual. I slung the backpack over one shoulder and locked up the car. A second car pulled up as I did, a shiny green rental number, and parked next to the Blue Beetle.
Two men got out. The driver was a fit-looking man, maybe in his late thirties. He was a little taller than average and had the build of someone who works out in a nonfanatic kind of way. His medium-brown hair was long enough to look a little disheveled. He wore round-rimmed spectacles, a Nike T-shirt, and Levi's, and his cross-trainers probably cost him upwards of a hundred bucks. He nodded at me and said, "Good morning," in a tone of genuine cheer.
"Hi," I responded.
"New guy?" he asked.
"New guy."
"Cameraman?"
"Stunt double."
"Cool." He grinned, pulled a designer-label gym bag out of the back of the rental car, and slung it over his shoulder. He approached, offering his hand. "I'm Jake."
I traded grips with him. His hands had the calluses of someone who worked with them, and he had a confidence that conveyed strength without attempting to crush my fingers. I liked him. "Harry," I responded.
The second man who got out of the rental car looked like a weight-lifting commercial. He was tall and built like a statue of Hercules beneath tight leather pants and a sleeveless workout shirt. He had a high-tech tan, coal-black hair, and wasn't old enough to qualify for decent rates on his auto insurance. His face didn't match the Olympian body. His features rated on the western slope of the bell curve of physical appeal. Though to be fair he was staring at me with a murderous scowl, which probably biased my opinion.
"Who the hell are you?" he growled.
"I the hell am Harry," I said.
He pulled out his own gym bag and slammed the car door closed. "You always a wiseass?"
"No. Sometimes I'm asleep."
He took a pair of hard steps toward me and thrust the heel of one hand at my shoulder in a belligerent push. Classic macho-jitsu. I could have done a bunch of fairly violent things in response, but I try not to get into fights in a gravel parking lot if I can help it. I took the push without yielding and grunted.
"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 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, 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? stunt penis?"
Jake laughed at my reaction. "Man. You are are new." 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 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 shirt. 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?"