“My mother gave me that nickname,” he says and everyone at the table laughs like it’s a joke they’ve heard a million times but they’re too afraid not to pretend to think it’s still funny.
“All right, Mr. Pussyfingers. I don’t have that kind of cash on me. I’ll need to go to an ATM, unless you take checks?”
“There’s a machine around the corner. We can wait. I’ll keep Mr. Cowan here entertained.”
“They’re delightful company, really,” Cowan says with a sight. “Now run along, little suit.”
I give him a sharp look. This bastard is making me pay his drug and gambling debts and pulling me into what looks like an extremely dangerous situation, not to mention he’s exposing my unborn child to a cubic ton of secondhand smoke, and I am more than a little unhappy about this.
But I leave the shitty dive and find the ATM in question. It’s plastered with graffiti and stickers, but it works, and even has enough money inside to cover me even though it charges me five bucks per transaction and only releases five hundred at a time. When I’m done, I head back inside and hand the cash to the lovely Mr. Pussyfingers.
“Thank you very much,” Pussyfingers says, running a thumb over the stack. “Tony here’s lucky to have a lovely friend like you, miss.”
“Tony here is lucky he’s not dead.” I gesture with my head. “Come on.”
Cowan gets to his feet, grinning huge. “Gentlemen. It was truly an honor and a pleasure. For you all, at least. For me, it was nothing but a long nuisance.”
“Looking forward to your next movie, Mr. Cowan,” Pussyfingers says as Cowan hurries past me toward the door. “Give me a consulting credit, you fucking bastard!” The table laughs for real at that one, and I follow Cowan out onto the street.
“You are truly a good producer, suit,” he says, striding away from the bar. “One of the best I’ve ever had. I recall this one trip to Buenos Aires—”
“Cowan.” I snap his name like a leather belt on flesh. “Stop.”
He looks surprised and I bet he’s not used to having people talk to him like that. But a smile comes across his face. “You have spine. I like it.”
“Get in the car, you stupid asshole.” I get behind the wheel and he slips into the back. I want to tell him to get up front but I don’t bother. I pull out, happy to be far away from that bar and that terrifying Pussyfingers. I get the sense that the only reason they didn’t try to take more from me—in both money and other things—is their respect for Cowan’s films.
“I can tell you’re upset, and you have every reason to be.”
“Crack? Poker with gangsters? Are you absolutely insane?” I grimace and shake my head. “Don’t answer that, I already know you’re a nightmare. Why the hell would you call me down there?”
“You’re the suit,” he says calmly, his eyes narrowed now, his charming smile gone. “You’re the producer. You want to make this movie? You’re going to have to do much more than pay off a few unruly gentlemen to make it happen.”
I grind my jaw and want to scream in his face.I’m pregnant, you stupid prick. But that would only be counterproductive, and anyway, I’m not sure he’d care. I’m not sure how I feel about it yet, and I’m fairly certain that Tony Cowan is too much of a narcissist to think about anything beyond his own immediate needs.
“That isnotmy job. I’m the producer of your damn film. You need equipment, actors, soundstages, special effects, you come to me and I give you money. That’s it. I don’t bail you out of your drug debts. And seriously, crack cocaine?”
He laughs softly, but there’s no real mirth behind the sound. I glare at him in the rearview mirror and he looks back at me. His eyes are red-rimmed and he seems tired and older than he had the first time we met, and I wonder how long he was with Pussyfingers before Cowan finally called.
“Do you want to know what my movie is about, suit?”
I grip the steering wheel tighter. “Stop calling me that. And yes, I do.”
“My movie is about a man that wants things.”
I expect him to elaborate, and when he doesn’t, I finally break the silence. “That’s not enough.”
“Isn’t it? That’s what all stories are about. Someone wants something and there are obstacles in the way of them getting it. The story is how they get past the things in their way and how far they’re willing to go to achieve their goals. That’s a story.”
“It’s not only that.”
“Oh, yes, suit, it is. Wanting is everything. Sometimes what the characters really want isn’t clear to the audience, and sometimes it isn’t clear to the characters themselves. Sometimes what they want changes. But it’s always aboutwanting, and not some superficial, socially programmed form of want. It’s not about playing nice and getting rewarded. No, we want to read about people willing to break rules, willing to bend morality, willing to hurt themselves and others to get what they want.”
I let that sink in. He’s striking a chord, but it doesn’t help me understand his movie, and right now I’m too pissed off about having to pay over $2,500 to a bunch of gangsters to ensure my director didn’t get his face blown to pieces.
I’m not feeling too generous at the moment and don’t want to hear his artistic bullshit.
“Fine, maybe that’s true, but you’re not telling me what your story is about. You said a man that wants things. Who’s the man? What are the things? All that matters.”