Chapter 62: Bossa Nova

Chapter 62: Bossa Nova

Brentwood, LA. March 2011.

Being the boss was terribly hard work. Yes, I know, boohoo. Only the narcissistic and sarcastic were thick-skinned enough to lament the fortunate few of us sitting pretty at our dizzying strata. 

We had our own fair share of problems too, though. It was a common misconception that at my echelon, life was all about pounding tables, shots, and secretaries in equally distasteful pleasure and measure. More often than not, however, it’s someone like me who ultimately has to make and break the tough decisions. 

There was a weight on my shoulders as I took heavy steps towards Idris Elba. Who, as I watched sweat through his shirt, was laboriously playing his part this evening. 

Yet, all I came to offer in recompense for his rigorous toil was the news that the party was over. 

Idris quirked his eyebrow at me upon noticing my arrival, I slashed my neck to signal him to stop what he was doing, and I swear I heard a record scratch as all eyes suddenly whipped towards us. 

The larger crew and cast were all here. I wish I could have done this in private, but I needed everyone to bear witness to my first executive edict. Under our audience’s unblinking gaze, I strolled forward and hailed for everyone’s attention. Expectation about my tenure had to be set.

“I hate to interrupt, but I fear I must. I’m just not satisfied with the performance I’m seeing.” Pin-drop silence rippled across the previously jovial room. “I specifically requested you all have a good time! The insurance on this place wasn’t cheap.” Another cost incurred as my responsibility. “We all very well know I’m never seeing that cash returned. Which means the only way I’m getting any value out of that expenditure is if you lot tear this place apart.” At my announcement, nervous gulps transformed into amused sips of mid-morning mimosas. “That’s my piece said. Now let’s turn this mansion into a war zone!”

Right on cue, Idris swiped at something on his complicated looking turntables. Static speakers clanged awake in a barrage of digital drums, and the crowd roared their response with raised flutes.  

“You’re lucky, mate. Been DJing since the eighties - I care more about that than my acting some days. If you’d spouted any twaddle ‘bout either of ‘em, I’d have to drop you instead of the beat.” He slid his headphones back on and shunted me away with a jerk of his neck before he returned to bobbing it. “Now, the both of you need to jog on out of my booth, yeah?”

Zoë, who’d been riding me piggyback during this entire spectacle, erupted into peals of laughter as I scuttled away at the warning. “You really enjoy keeping people on their toes, don’t you, Bas?”

“Is that your roundabout way of telling me to stop carrying you?” I challenged by releasing the soft grip I had behind her knees. 

She rose to it by locking her ankles around my waist, digging her claws into my collar, somehow moulding herself even deeper into me, “eep-!” and squealed. “God, you’re such an ass! How can you treat a cute girl like me so rough?”

With how desperately she was wrapped around my ribs, it was very little wonder when my lungs betrayed me. I snorted involuntarily in disbelief. “Yeah, right. Don’t pretend that’s not exactly how you like it.” 

“Rude.” She tried to play it cool as she leaned over and pressed her lips to my ear. “Play too hard, and you won’t get me.” Zoë might’ve assumed the plentiful percussion served as a disguise for the thumping in her chest, but our siamese proximity meant her aroused arrhythmia reverberated within me as well. 

In simpler terms: I didn’t need to peek at her face to confirm if she was bluffing, blushing, or both. 

Stereotypical though it may be, people always want more of what they think they can’t have. That went double for those like Zoë who’ve had silver spoons feeding their every whim their whole lives. 

Nothing, to someone who has everything, is more alluring than unattainability.

And regardless of who or what you were, I refused to be owned by anyone. “Nah.” My palms wound back to the original position and hefted her up again. “Something tells me I’ve got things well in hand.”

I flinched when I felt the sharp, unexpected sting of her teeth nip at my earlobe. “Trust me, I can be more than a mere handful.” 

If I said I was enticed at all, I would be lying. 

I sniffed - which was a mistake. This invitation was one I was compelled to ignore. “Need I remind you, your mother’s number is logged in my phone now?” I’d successfully achieved my good first impression. “Behave yourself, or I’ll be contacting her for a pickup drop-off trade.” I let her down easy instead of plonking her flat on her ass. My sense of chivalry barely hoisting itself over my shrivelling nose hairs.

I had fond memories of certain scents - Gemma and chlorine, Emma and her green face goop. The cocktail on Zoë’s stale breath was a curious concoction of champagne, orange juice, and a caffeine fueled sleepless night. 

Neither were the raised arms pumping fists to the music helping with that olfactory assault while we meandered past the dancefloor. 

Really not their fault. The blame was mine for making them work overtime. 

Our latest scene had involved me as Eddie taking advantage of that little black book he’d pilfered off his dealer’s corpse and using his NZT powered high to ingratiate himself with a high-powered crowd. 

What better avenue for that than attending a party with their spoiled brats dining on designer drugs? 

George insisted on filming every shot on location for added authenticity - which, for the most part, I agreed with. There were a lot of parameters we could control, unfortunately the sun wasn’t one of them. Which meant for every take of the scene we had to wait until the sun was fully down. As such, the only way to maintain our nine-to-five schedule was by inverting the a.m. and p.m.

We’d all spent the last few nights blitzing through take after midnight take until we finally finished just a scant couple hours ago. 

I’d taken Shinpachi’s lessons to heart; a hard day’s slog deserved some grog, which was why I’d organised my version of an office pizza party. 

Conveniently, the sprawling mansion rented out as a set was still appropriately dressed for the occasion. 

Not everyone, however, was keen on partaking. 

George Miller nestled his forehead and the crook between his index and thumb, nursing a headache instead of a drink. 

Patting Zoë’s leg to get her to clamber off, we approached my morose director as he sat on the sidelines, gingerly blowing a steaming cup of tea. As we got closer, I spotted an opened creamer pod, but no torn packets of sugar or artificial sweetener. Although, the crew may have used all that as fake cocaine during filming. 

“Hungover, already? If the drink’s too sweet, I can ask the bartender to make a bloody Mary instead, if you’d prefer.” He lifted his head as my greeting dragged him out from the brown swamp he was contemplating drowning himself in. 

“Ah… Bas - and Ms Kravitz, of course.” George tried smiling at us, but it fell quickly as he waved us away. “No, no, that’s alright. I’m just feeling bitter, so decided to wet my tongue with the same flavour.”

“Like, oh my God, did we do something? Was the scene not to your liking?” Zoë’s professional priorities immediately knocked her out of her flirtatious fugue. 

“Nothing of the sort, sweet girl. You’re doing well. This old man’s got other crap floating around his noggin - don’t mind me.” George attempted to assuage Zoë’s concerns, but alternatively raised my hackles. 

“Whatever’s wrong, tell me, I’ll fix it.” My tone brokered no nonsense. 

Exasperation and a hint of relief infused George’s accompanying sigh. “Fine, if you’re going to bully me into it, I’ll tell you. Received word recently that a major line of funding for Mad Max has been pulled.”

An overwhelming stench of corporate cunt-ism wafted up my nostrils. “I’m guessing WB is making themselves in nuisance. Can’t you get money anywhere else?” My hand twitched as I resisted the pull of my fat wallet begging to be opened. “So, that’s the official line - which, by the way, sounds bogus, if you ask me.”

“Right-o, Bas. I own the Mad Max IP, sure. But I sold the distribution rights to Warner bloody ages ago. It won’t matter how much cash or effort I flush down the drain, if there’re no screens to show the fucking thing on! As far as I know, a lot of money swapping hands to negotiate some digital media deal in the background. Damn the apocalypse, my baby’s getting frozen in the ice age.” George buried his anguished expression between his entwined fingers. “Please don’t make me make another happy feet…”

“Can’t imagine that the cast is too happy about this news, either.” Zoë zoned in on the backstage drama this would inevitably cause - which I totally hadn’t considered. 

I surreptitiously tugged George’s scalding cup of tea away from him and fear that he may try to scull it in his misery. “Gonna to be a tough few calls. While I’m confident that many will stick on, I doubt I’ll retain everyone. Couple of them were skittish enough quotes as it is, they’ll be trotting off at the first sign of trouble.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, consider me an understudy.” I comforted. 

“Ooh! Sound like fun, count me in too!” 

“Sure, sure, I’ll take whatever offer I can get in my current circumstance. Just don’t renege later, you hear?” George chuckled unseriously, but I had full intention of capitalising on WB’s lost investment. 

–

South Broadway, Downtown LA. March 2011.

“You know what you are, Bas? An overreaching swine.” Idris Elba casually insulted me as he carefully adjusted his cubic zirconia cufflinks.

I reeled back in my plush leather chair, almost falling and making a mess of the posh presidential office suite set. “you looking for a fight? Don’t think those fake diamonds will stop me from rolling up your sleeves.”

“You’d try.” He smirked and scoffed. “Trust me; American gangster, the wire, I’ve had loads of practise playing a bad guy butting heads against worse. Or, at least, if you want our characters to have any level of tension between them, that’s how you’re going to have to play your role.”

Ah, I see, it’s lesson time. Tripods, cameras, and other paraphernalia had yet to be completely stationed, so I sat up, straightened my striped tie, and listened to my senior’s advice. “Formidable on equal footing, I get it. But how do we show that?”

Done fiddling, Idris rested his rump on the desk and addressed me directly. “It’s all in the subtext, Bas. My character’s daughter has foisted you on me, but let’s be honest, neither of us cares about you - only what you can accomplish for us.” 

“Right,” I clarified. “She wants to give you an aneurysm buy parading around alongside me. While you want to use my newly discovered drug-addled brilliance to make yourself another million. And if in the process drives my focus away from her - hey, win-win. Eddie is a disposable tool in your mutual conflict.”

“Mm.” He nodded. “Like NZT is secretly your obsession, Joe Castor and his daughter Roxy are each others. Both of them are willing to suffer short-term loss for long-term gain. Your attitude has to be similarly cavalier, you get me? In the end, the script tells us we all end up paying the price, obviously. But unless you want to look as if you’ve been left holding the bag from the start, you’ve got to stoop down to their lofty levels. Otherwise, my portrayal is liable to run roughshod over yours, mate.” 

Crossing my arms, I looked down and caught my warped reflection in my rigorously shined shoes. “Fight fire with fire, huh?” There was a slight smudge. I better make sure to rub it off. 

“Pretty much. Or risk getting the baby thrown out with the bath water.”