Call the Shots (Swim the Fly #3)(23)

I want to look over at my friends again, but I force myself to focus on my uncle. “Yes,” I say. “I think we can do it.”

“Wrong!” Uncle Doug roars, slapping the table, which causes a thin cloud of tobacco-scented dust to rise in the air. “You want to think you can do it. But you don’t really believe it. Not deep down in your scrotum, where it counts. I can read you like a hockey stats chart, Seanie.”

“So . . .” My stomach winces. “You won’t help us out, then?”

“I didn’t say that.” Uncle Doug grabs the extinguished joint from his ashtray, straightens it out, and relights it. He takes an epically long toke, then blows the smoke in my face. “Yet. I’d like to see your business plan before I make my decision.”

“Business plan?” I blink, my eyes dry and stinging from the smoke. I use it as an excuse to cup my palm over my nose and take a reassuring whiff.

“No business plan, huh?” Uncle Doug says. “How about a list of expenditures?”

“A what?” I ask, sinking down in my chair.

“A budget, dummkopf.” Uncle Doug reaches over and swats the side of my head. “The spreadsheet that lays out exactly how you intend to spend my money.”

“Oh. Um.” I look at Matt and Coop, who just stare back at me. “We . . . We know we need at least two hundred dollars for the film festival entrance fee. And then any extra will be used —”

“Right. No budget. Okay, then, what do you have for me? Some comparative box-office analysis? A marketing strategy? A film trailer? A script, perchance? Anything?”

“Yes, we have the idea,” I say, sitting up. “It’s the story of this guy —”

“All right, just so I’m clear on this.” Uncle Doug hoists himself off the chair and starts to pace the room. “Am I to understand that you would like me to be an investor in your film project? One that has no budget? No business plan? No marketing strategy? No script? To be produced by people who have absolutely no moviemaking experience?” He bobs his head in the affirmative. “Is that the general gist of things here?”

“Yeah.” I pull my cupped hand away from my nose, the smoky stench of the kitchen having permeated my skin. “I guess so.”

“You guess so?” Uncle Doug roars with laughter. “Okay, well, notch a point for stupid honesty.” He makes an imaginary check mark in the air with his smoldering roach. “Right, so. Here we go.” Uncle Doug clears his throat and starts pacing again. “Obviously, investing in your film would be an idiotic colossal gamble. I suppose it could be likened to shoving a fistful of cash up your * and expecting you to shit out gold coins.”

“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “I never should have ask —”

“Uhp.” Uncle Doug cuts me off with a traffic cop hand. “Let me finish. You did ask the question, Seanie boy, and now you’re getting your answer. So sit back and take this like a man.”

I do as I’m told, crossing my arms over my chest to avoid the urge to sniff my palm — unlike a man.

“All right, now,” Uncle Doug continues, “let me just say this right off the bat. There’s no way in hell I’m giving you kids five thousand dollars to piss away on a movie.”

My shoulders slump. My head drops. “Okay, well, I guess we better —”

“As I was saying. Five grand is out of the question. But. Uncle Doug happens to be a gambler. And he bets on cards. He bet on horses. He once even bet that his tongue was longer than every other guy’s at his Monday night poker game. Which it was. By around half an inch, in case you were wondering.” He brushes this out of the air. “Anyway, back to the terms of our deal.”

I shake my head, not sure if I’ve heard him correctly. “Our deal? Does that mean —?”

“Yes, that does mean.” His eyes bug out as he grins. “Crazy Uncle Doug is going to help you out with your movie. With one thousand dollars. Are you surprised? Well, you should be. Because it’s one of the stupidest things I think I’ve ever done. But hey, could the odds of me getting rich off your movie be much worse than Powerball? At two hundred million to one, I doubt it. And if I can lay a hundred bucks on that every week, why not bet a cool grand on my bozo nephew?”

“A thousand dollars?” I glance at Coop, who shrugs like it’s better than nothing. “That’s . . . great.”

“You bet your sweet ass it’s great.” Uncle Doug throws back his head, cackling insanely.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Don’t go slickin’ your slacks just yet, mister.” He plops himself back down into his chair and taps out another cigarette. “You boys are going to want to hear the conditions before you agree to the contract.” Uncle Doug grabs his Zippo and lights up his American Spirit.

“Conditions?” Matt asks. “What kind of conditions?”

“First and foremost.” He holds up one chubby tobacco-tanned finger. “If you actually do manage a miracle and win this contest, Uncle Doug wants twenty-five percent of the prize money plus fifty percent of any subsequent profits thereafter.”

Coop leans forward. “Okay, wait a second —”

“Condition numero dos.” Doug holds up his fingers in a pudgy peace sign. “If you do not win the contest, you are going to return my initial investment. Somehow. Someway. We can work out the details later, but that cash will end up back in my pocket when this is all over.”