Call the Shots (Swim the Fly #3)(46)

Uncle Doug’s got his left wrist draped over the steering wheel, his joint-holding hand stroking his giant gray-flecked beard. Little wisps of smoke fizzle into the air as the occasional whisker is singed. “Hey, so, I’ve been watching the audition tapes.”

“Oh, yeah?”

He nods. “You’ve got a few winners there, I think. The buzz-cut kid. Harper? Hummer? Hunter? And the girl with the blunt-cut hair.” He chops at his forehead with his hand. “Laney?”

“Leyna,” I say.

“Right. Those two are our stars. No doubt about it.”

“Hunter’s no problem, but we’ve already promised Evelyn the female lead, so —”

“Absolutely not.” Uncle Doug shakes his head. “I don’t care if she’s sleeping with the screenwriter. If she’s anywhere near as bad as her brother, this film’s dead in the water.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t have a choice. It’s her camera we’re using. So, it’s either her in the lead or we have nothing to film with.” I shrug. “Unless . . . you want to up your investment so we can rent something.”

Uncle Doug laughs. “Give ’em a grand and they want two. Sorry, but it’s not gonna happen, Seanie. You use what you’ve got and figure it out. That’s what all good businessmen do. I don’t care what you have to do, but Handler and Lorna are going to be in the film we show at the festival or Uncle Doug’s going to be plenty PO’d. Are we clear about this?”

It’s hard to argue when I actually agree with him. “Sure. Fine. Whatever. I’ll figure something out.”

“Good man. That’s what I like to hear.”

I turn and gaze out the window, watching the industrial landscape go by. I don’t know if it’s the sound of the tires going through puddles or the motion of the van, but suddenly I realize that I have to pee. Bad. “Hey, so, what do I do if I have to go the bathroom?” I ask as casually as I can. “You know, while I’m out here?”

Uncle Doug looks over at me, his eyebrows raised. “Oh. You should have taken care of that back at the store.”

“No, I mean, I’m okay now,” I lie, “but if I’m supposed to be out there for four hours, I might have to go at some point.” Like in the next few minutes. “Is there a Starbucks nearby?”

Uncle Doug snorts. “First of all, there’s no way for you to get out of that costume without help. Remember how I had to zip you up in the back? Secondly, we’re on a major commercial thoroughfare here lined with auto-body shops and self-storage facilities. The nearest public toilet is over a mile away. So, I suggest you just hold on tight and, uh . . . don’t think about waterfalls.”

My horror must be pretty apparent if Uncle Doug can see it through my spandex mask.

“Look, worse comes to worst,” he continues, “just pee in the suit. It sure as shit won’t make it smell any worse. Hell, it might even warm you up. For a little while.” He throws his head back and howls.

A couple of thigh-clenched minutes later, Uncle Doug pulls the van up to the curb at the corner of Newport and Millburn. Cars and trucks whoosh by at top speed on the six-lane road.

“Here we be,” Uncle Doug says as he gets out of the van.

I shove open my door, swing my legs to the side, and slowly slide out of the passenger seat to the curb below. A quick scan of the landscape reveals a whole lot of nothing. The large plot of snow-laden grass slopes pretty dramatically from the sidewalk where I’m standing to the parking lot of a busy lumberyard below. No big trees or bushes in sight. A great spot to do some sledding but certainly not an ideal place to take a whiz.

“All right, then.” Uncle Doug pulls several large signs from the back of his van and drags them over to me. “I’ve got three ads here. I want you to cycle through them periodically.”

He holds up the first board, which reads BE AS SNUG AS A BUG IN DOUG’S RUGS! 30% OFF EVERY DAY! He shifts the front sign to the back so I can read the next one: DON’T BE A THUG: BUY YOUR GAL A NEW RUG AND GET 30% OFF! He flips the signs once more and shows me the last one: 30% OFF EVERYTHING! DOUG’S GONE MAD! COME TAKE ADVANTAGE OF HIS INSANITY!

Uncle Doug hands me the signs and checks his watch again. “All right. I’ll leave you to it. Oh, and, uh, be sure to stay alert and keep your eyes peeled.”

“For what?”

Uncle Doug drags his hand down his face and beard. “I probably should have mentioned this before but . . . the Doug’s Rug mascot has a tendency to . . .” He swirls his hand in the air like he’s trying to grasp the words.

“To what? A tendency to what?”

“To get attacked. Jumped. Roughed up a little. Nothing serious. Just . . . knocked down occasionally. By hoodlums. And . . . sometimes egged. Or shaving creamed. You know. For fun.”

“Wait a second.” I take a wobbly step toward him. “Are you saying I’m going to be ambushed?” I look down at myself. “Dressed like this? With no chance for self-defense?”

“Look.” Uncle Doug starts to walk backward. “It’s probably not going to happen. I mean, they’ve done it already. These guys. Several times. I’m sure, whoever they are, they’ve moved on to something else. You know how it is.”

“No. I don’t.” I take another step forward. “Because I’ve never assaulted a store mascot before. You can’t leave me here.”