Page 74 of All That Glitters
The raw honesty of Carrie’s confession hung in the air, and Tony felt a whole new level of respect for her. “Hey. This is gonna sound selfish, but I’m glad those other guys didn’t want to hear your movie ideas, because now I get to do them with you. And I think we’re gonna crush it. And for the record, this real Carrie Thompson is way cooler than Barbie.”
A small, grateful smile touched her lips. “Thanks, Tony.” She took another drink. “I wonder if those Rif Raf guys have had a chance to talk to Preston yet.”
“You mean ‘negotiate’?” he said.
“Yeah,” she laughed. “It would break my heart if their movie got sunk because of that scumbag. I even called Eli to see if he could pull some strings, but Preston won’t take his calls.”
“It would break my heart too.”
“You know, between us, I’ve actually grown really fond of those weirdos.” A small laugh escaped her. “They’re actually kind of funny when they’re not blowing me up or shooting ketchup-filled condoms at my butt.”
Tony laughed with her. “They’re a special kind of... special.”
“They are,” she laughed. “And they really came through for me with my psycho ex-boyfriend.”
“What happened?”
Carrie took a breath. “He was stalking me, wouldn’t leave me alone, texting, calling, showing up at my yoga class. I had to have the landlord install a security system in the apartment because I was afraid he’d break in. The guys overheard me talking to Eli about it and paid the ex a visit that night to ‘have a talk’ with him.” She made the air-quotes with her fingers.
“I take it their ‘talk’ worked,” Tony said, making the same air-quotes.
“Spectacularly,” she said. “The psycho ex moved to Seattle the next day. Didn’t even pack all his stuff.”
Tony smiled. “I suddenly have a good feeling about the ‘talk’ they’re gonna have tonight with Preston Jordan.”
Preston Jordan was on his office couch, aimlessly flipping through channels on his giant TV, when the door burst open. Craig stalked in, looking like he owned the place.
“Your name Preston Jordan?” he demanded.
Preston sat up, a bolt of fear shooting through him. He swallowed hard. “Yes?”
Craig turned his head and hollered back out the open door. “Hey, boys! This here’s the place! Bring in them props!”
A moment later, Roy entered, leading a very confused-looking sheep by a leash. It bleated pathetically, leaving small pellets of evidence on Preston’s expensive carpet. The sheep was followed by Carl, who was carrying an inflatable sex doll under one arm. Then came two heavily tattooed biker chicks, dressed head-to-toe in black leather, who looked like they could bench-press Preston’s desk. Craig did a quick headcount and frowned.
“Hey!” he yelled back toward the hallway. “Where’s them dudes dressed like chicks?”
From the hallway, faint but unmistakable, came the gentle “moo” of a cow.
Preston stood up, his heart racing, sweat beading on his forehead. “What the hell is this? How did you get past security?”
“Oh, you mean Bert?” Craig asked, picking up an expensive-looking crystal paperweight from Preston’s desk and tossing it from hand to hand. “Nice fella. We told him we was here for the shoot. He seemed excited to see the sheep.”
Preston lunged for his desk phone. “I’m calling the police.”
Craig didn’t even flinch. “Go ahead. I’m sure they’d love to hear about your little tax situation.” He set down the paperweight and pulled a manila folder from inside his jacket. “Or maybe they’d be interested in how you’ve been skimmin’ money off production budgets for the past five years?”
Preston froze, his hand hovering over the phone. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talkin’ about the shell company you set up in the Cayman Islands,” Craig said, flipping open the folder. “LightHouse Productions? Ring a bell? You’ve been sendin’ inflated invoicesthrough it and pocketin’ the difference. The IRS gets real interested in that kind of thing.”
Preston’s face went white. “How did you... Who are you people?”
“We’re Rif Raf Produkshuns,” Craig said with a wolfish grin. “And we want our equipment back.”
Just then, there was a commotion in the hallway. The sound of scuffling, then a loud crash, followed by more urgent mooing.
“For the love of God, somebody control that cow!” shouted a voice.
