The Good Thief

Print through MLR Press
eBook through Torquere Press

(c) 2008

“I think you’re just what we need for this project.”

Caesar looked over the lip of his beer can to stare at one of those Hollywood earnest faces. Two of them in fact. The woman speaking to him was all expensive dental work smiles, collagen lips, breast implants and a body sculpted by equal parts starvation, plastic surgery and some guy named Lars down at the gym.

Caesar expected the aging man at her side to flip him a peace sign and pass over a joint. Just as earnest, her partner jumped in, “Housebreaker is going to be the next big thing in reality TV.” Head shaved to hide the fact that he was balding, earrings and trendy clothes couldn’t hide the fact that he was in his early forties. It wasn’t the years, but the mileage that gave that one away.

A hot night in the Hollywood hills blanketed them. From Caesar’s vantage on a porch slung off the side of the cliff, it was hard to tell whether the sky was overcast or merely smoggy. The only stars visible were the twinkling lights on the freeways of the Los Angeles basin. Well, there were a few minor celebrities roaming about the house. Mostly of the one-shot and has-been variety that tended to gravitate to studio wrap parties. For the most part it was a gathering of regular studio people: working actors, grips, light techs, and camera guys. His brother Angel always managed to con him into tagging along to these things. And he was so pissed that Angel tricked him this time; promising a party, but setting him up for a casting session instead.

“Don’t they already have a show like that on daytime?”
The woman sipped her chardonnay as her cohort leaned into Caesar’s personal space. “Not like this one, baby.”

Unlike the pair he was talking with, Caesar had dressed in a low-key, not-meant-to-be-noticed fashion. Well, noticed, but not the Studio type of noticed. New, but somewhat faded and loose jeans contrasted with the tight white T-shirt. A thick, black belt pulled the pants in at the waist enough to illustrate that he had one. His boots were the steel-toed construction variety.

Caesar attempted to set his can on the rail he was leaning against. Misjudging the distance, his beer went spiraling down into the canyon behind them. Damn, that meant fighting the crowd inside for another drink. Trying to remember how many beers that made for the night, Caesar pushed his thick, black hair behind his ear. One of the few vanity points he allowed himself, letting it grow down to his shoulders. “Maybe.” He stalled. “It might work.”

“Oh no man, you’re perfect.” Cigarette stains flashed when he smiled, and Caesar wondered why his partner hadn’t introduced him to her dentist. “Trust me, you are one-hundred-and-fifty percent of what we need. You’re good looking,” and his slow once over clued Caesar into the fact it wasn’t a mere professional appraisal, “Hispanic, ethnicity is so big right now. And,” he drew out the word like a sales pitch, “your brother Angel says you used to be really good,” voice dropped to a near whisper he finished the thought, “at, you know, breaking into peoples’ homes.”

Angel was so dead when they got back to his place. “Yeah, I used to be.”

“Well, as long as it’s in the past. The bonding company for Housebreaker,” bald man cooed, “requires that you can’t have had any convictions for that kind of thing in the five years previous.”

Behind the bald man, framed between the sliding door and his shorn head, an argument caught Caesar’s attention. The female half of it he couldn’t give a damn about. Now the guy… whole ‘nother story there. Too bad he was with a girl. The one good thing about these studio parties Angel tended to drag him to, was the chance to meet a guy or two. And that one was so worth meeting. Not much taller than Caesar but with nice, broad shoulders and an ass that made his mouth water. Either light brown or blond hair--dim light made it hard to pin down--was cut military fashion. It set off his square-jawed profile just perfect. Maybe a stunt man; he had that kind of look about him. Rough and tumble and used to playing hard.

Absently, Caesar answered. “Nope, no arrests, no convictions.” He’d been pulled in for questioning a few times in the past five years but no arrests.

The argument was quiet, but hot, if the guy’s grim face gave any indication. They split in a huff, the girl heading towards the rail where Caesar stood being hounded, the guy heading back into the house. Shit!

“Well, good then. See, it’s just perfect.” It was the woman’s turn to over-stress her vowels. “You have my card, call me. We’ll bring you in for a screen test.”

“You simply must do it.” Bald man’s hand hammered his shoulder like they were old friends. “We had our doubts when Angel mentioned you. But just meeting you, it feels like it was meant to be.”

That brought him back from the rapidly-disappearing eye candy. “I’ll think about it. Really, I will.”

“Do that.” Twin, not quite skin contact, kisses to each cheek from the plastic surgery queen, and the pair was off. Caesar slumped, relieved, against the rail. He couldn’t believe there were people who sought out those kinds of conversations. Any more of that and he would have jumped into the canyon to escape.

Caesar turned to his left when a warm laugh sounded. The female half of the argument studied him, her wine glass held loosely over the edge. “Making your big break, huh?” Emerald eyes appraised him with critical curiosity. Eyes that clear a green were rare. This was Hollywood central casting, they could be contacts, but somehow this woman didn’t seem the type. Hell, she didn’t even dye her hair. And while she was partied up, with tight jeans and one of those gauzy shirts that were all the rage, it didn’t scream notice me. The fake girls all screamed that.

“Them?” He shook his head. “They’re pimping for some kind of reality show. My little brother works camera on one of their shows. He’s just trying to get me,” Caesar racked his brain for a moment coming up with an innocuous enough dodge, “steady work.”

“Really,” she said, flipping her longish, natural blond hair behind one ear, “sick of waiting tables?”

“Actually, I don’t act.” He always felt a little embarrassed saying that. Everyone in Los Angeles wanted to act. It was almost a city ordinance. “I’m in construction.”

“Oh. Thank God.” Knocking back the wine she let out an exaggerated groan. “I’m so sick of talking with actors and wannabe actors. I manage talent, mostly voice-over talent right now, but the agency is starting to groom me to go up the ladder.”

“That’s good.” What people do for a living and why it sucks, Caesar chuckled. In Southern California that type of conversation was often odd, but much more human, than just industry talk. “Nice to move up.”

“So much better then baby-wrangling, where I started.” She mimicked his laugh and took another large gulp of her Zinfandel. “Our agency has a good relationship with Jeff and Millie. They produce a bunch of those daytime TV how-to shows. They treat their people well: all of them, not just the talent.” Another swig. “If they’re offering you a job you should jump. I guess you’re talking about one of their home improvement gigs?”

“Something like that.” He really didn’t want to get involved, but this woman was hitting it pretty hard. Getting too drunk at these types of parties could be hazardous to your career. Say the wrong thing, to the wrong person, and you’d end up on a studio black list. “You okay? Looked like you and your boyfriend had kinda a nasty fight.”

The woman offered a long suffering sigh as she waved towards the sliding glass door. “Oh, the goon?” Then she laughed and wobbled slightly. Not overly steady either, Caesar stepped in to catch her arm before she could topple off her heels. “He’s not my boyfriend. He’s my brother.”

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