Call the Shots (Swim the Fly #3)(22)

“It’s a situation I highly recommend.” He taps a cigarette from a blue pack of American Spirits and lights it with a Sabres Zippo. “All right, enough with the niceties. I know you didn’t come all the way out here on the shittiest day of the year to talk to Uncle Doug about what he does for a living. So, what the hell do you want?” He takes a drag on his cigarette and releases the smoke. “Are we changing your amplifier repayment schedule or what? Ten bucks a week for the next two years too much of a burden on your allowance? Come on, spit it out.”

All of sudden, I don’t want to ask him for the money anymore. It feels wrong. Like I’m taking advantage or something.

“Well?” Doug says. “Let’s have it. The cat got your tongue or what?” He flicks the ash off his cigarette, and it tumbles down the mountain of butts piled in the ashtray.

“Nothing,” I say. “We don’t want anything. We just —”

I feel Coop kick my ankle under the table.

I take a deep breath. “Okay, that’s not completely true.” My voice comes out a little squeaky. “I mean, we did want to see you but . . . there’s something else we needed to ask you.”

“I’m all ears.” He takes another drag on his cigarette.

I press my sweaty palms into my thighs. “Okay, so, you know how Mom’s pregnant?”

“What?” Doug reels backward. “My sister’s pregnant? Are you shitting me? When the hell did that happen? And why is Uncle Doug the last one to hear about this?”

Every inch of my skin prickles with heat. “I — I thought,” I stammer. “I just assumed . . . I mean . . . You really didn’t know?”

“Ha!” Doug points at me with the two fingers that hold his cigarette. “Gotcha! You always were a little too easy to screw with, Seanie.” He cocks his head. “Come on, now. You really think your mother wouldn’t tell Uncle Doug that she was having a baby?”

I breathe a supreme sigh of relief. “No. Yeah.” I force a smile. “You got me for sure.”

“That was damn good.” Coop laughs. “Even I was convinced. And that’s from the baron of bull. Forget about rugs — you should have been an actor.”

“Funny you should mention that,” Uncle Doug says. “I did contemplate that once upon a time. Way back in the days of my youth.”

“Well, count me in as being fooled,” Matt adds, shooting me a meaningful look. “That was a brilliant performance.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Doug glances up at the Buffalo Bills clock over the sink. “Consider Uncle Doug sufficiently lubed up. Let’s get on with the reaming.”

I look at my friends, then back at Uncle Doug. Screw it. There’s no subtle way to do this.

“Okay.” I shake my head. “I’m just going to say this because . . . well . . . I sort of feel bad about it, but I’m desperate and there’s no one else I can turn to.”

“Uh-oh, here it comes. The International Bank of Doug.” Uncle Doug leans back in his chair and takes a long pull on his cigarette. He blows the smoke out and smirks. “Come on, already. Let’s have it. How much do you need, and what do you need it for?”





UNCLE DOUG IS DEAD SILENT after I explain the whole situation. He strokes his long bristly beard and regards us with his piercing, bloodshot eyes. His neck is stained an angry red, highlighting every little bump, mole, and broken capillary.

I can’t tell if he’s getting ready to blow his stack or if he’s just thinking really hard. The thick scent of smoke and stale pizza and uncomfortable silence chokes the oxygen out of the kitchen.

Uncle Doug crushes out his cigarette. He sniffs, then clears his throat. “Okay,” he finally says. “Let’s do a little role reversal here. If you were me, and I came to you with this request, what would you do? Be honest, now. Uncle Doug’s got a finely calibrated bullshit meter.”

“He’d give you the five K,” Coop answers. “Because he could see the upside of the whole sitch. The exposure. The advertising. The Doug’s Rugs product placement. The community goodwill. Not to mention the chance to turn a small investment into a mega-fortune.”

Uncle Doug smirks at Coop. “Thanks for the sales pitch, P. T. Barnum.” He turns back to me. “But I want to hear it from Seanie. Would you lend me the money or not?”

“I don’t know.” My gaze drops to the scratched-up wooden kitchen table. “I might.”

“Might? Or would?” He leans to the side. “Come on, now. Meet my eyes like you’ve got some huevos rancheros. I want a firm yes or no. Do you lend me the cash?”

“It would depend, I guess.”

“On what?”

“On if I thought you could pull it off.”

“Fair enough.” Uncle Doug nods. “So, now I need you to look me square in the face and tell me if you honestly think that you’ll be able to produce a motion picture decent enough to generate enough money for you to pay me back.”

My eyes slide over to Coop and Matt, who look like they want to bolt.

“Uh-uh.” Uncle Doug beans me with an empty pack of cigarettes. “The answer’s not over there.” He reaches over and pokes my belly. “What’s your gut say? Can you do it or not?”