Call the Shots (Swim the Fly #3)(80)
Nick lets out a snort. “You guys obviously don’t know women very well.” He takes the last bite of his first chili dog and talks while he chews. “I have no idea what you did, but I can assure you, you’ll be punished for it for the rest of your lives. Or as long as you’re going out, anyway. Girls sheathe that shit and then pull it out to jab you with at random odd moments.”
Helen laughs. “We have to keep our cavemen in line somehow.”
“Santé.” Valerie raises her glass in a cheers-to-that gesture.
Just then Uncle Doug tromps into the room, carrying a massive plate of food and an NFL souvenir cup filled to the brim with Kool-Aid. “So, what did I miss?” He plops down in his chair, the neon-pink liquid sloshing over the rim of his cup.
“Nothing.” Coop smirks at Helen. “We were waiting for you before we started talking about anything worthwhile.”
“Excelente.” Uncle Doug hefts his loaded chili dog off his plate. “That’s how I like it. When the king arrives, the conversation thrives.”
Matt’s phone buzzes. He checks the screen, and his eyes go wide. “Oh, crap,” he says. “We’ve got a problem.”
It doesn’t take nearly as long as I’d hoped to get into the oversize monkey costumes. In fact, it could have taken the rest of the day and it wouldn’t have been long enough for me.
As it turns out, thirty-four minutes after we find out that Tony and Pete have bailed on us for a pickup basketball game, Nick, Matt, and me are dressed in the ill-fitting humanzee outfits and the whole crew is driving to the Elk Hills Country Club in Uncle Doug’s green rattletrap of a van.
“Everyone okay back there?” My uncle glances in the rearview mirror. He’s smoking his third joint since lunch, and I can’t believe he can still see straight, never mind pilot a car. But he’s driving just fine, which only means he’s probably got the pot tolerance of a Colombian drug lord.
“Sure,” I lie, from the second set of backseats. “It’s all good.”
I actually feel pretty carsick. I don’t know if it’s nerves, or the fact that I’m sitting in the very back of the van and breathing in wafts of smoke through the rubbery stench of this monkey mask, but the chili-cheese sausages are starting to seriously complain to the tropical punch Kool-Aid about their current accommodations.
Not to mention I feel totally claustrophobic in this costume. I try to casually tug at my monkey-crotch, which is riding up and cutting in to my mansack.
“Hey.” Coop swats my furry leg. “Don’t play with your chimp-choad, dawg. Those costumes have to last for the whole shoot. We don’t need your simian semen gumming them up.”
“I’m not playing with anything. The costume’s a little big, okay? I’m adjusting.”
“Yeah, well, don’t adjust too vigorously.” Coop chuckles. “Someone else might have to wear that thing at some point.”
“Be my guest,” I say.
Coop throws up his hands. “Hey, we’ve already discussed this. I need to be behind the scenes to direct. This whole operation has to be perfectly timed or we’re screwed.”
“These costumes are hotter than an oven,” Matt says from the first set of backseats, his voice muffled by the mask.
“Yeah, but they smother your buck snorts pretty good.” Nick lifts his shaggy left butt cheek and rips a meaty rumbler. “Okay, well, maybe not that good.” He doubles over laughing.
The warm-wet-manure stench hijacks the interior of the van almost immediately.
“Oh, man. Come on.” As if I wasn’t feeling nauseous enough already. I shove my ape nose out the minuscule air slit afforded by the latched windows back here and sniff away, trying to replace the poo particles in my nostrils with the clean outside air.
Evelyn smacks Nick’s hairy head. “Real classy.”
“What? I’m just getting into character. Chimps are disgusting creatures. They fart just like truckers and hurl their own dukers. Isn’t that right, guy?” Nick grabs Matt’s neck and shakes him violently.
“Could you not, please?” Matt complains. “I’m hot enough in this thing.”
Valerie leans over and examines the seam between Matt’s mask and body. “Maybe we should have added some ventilation. We’ll have to see about that when we get home later.”
“All right,” Coop says, glancing down at his notebook. “Let’s go over the game plan. The Elk Hills’ website says the Rico Petrelli party is taking place in the Amethyst Room. That’s in the east wing of the club. It’s the only thing going on this afternoon, so it’ll be easy to find.”
“Are you sure this is such a good idea?” I ask. “I mean, it’s the poor guy’s sixtieth birthday celebration. Couldn’t we do this somewhere else?”
Coop cants his head. “Don’t be a schween. This is the perfect opportunity to get some real fear on tape. It’s exactly what we need to make our film stand out. Besides, my dad’s worked on this Rico dude’s Rolls-Royce and he says he’s a royal dingus. Getting mechanics fired for no reason, hitting on the young receptionists, throwing garbage out his window as he drives away. Basically, he’s a pig, so he deserves whatever he gets. But be careful. Apparently dawg’s got a bad temper. So we’re going to want to get in and get out as fast as we can.”