Chapter 50: Guantanamera
Leavesden Studio, UK. October 2009.
The rozzers, the fuzz, the police - call them what you want, had as many famous epithets (and epithets) as they did sayings. 'Freeze!' 'Get on the floor, let me see those hands!' 'Bend and spread.'The list went on.
One, in particular, that struck me at this moment was: 'A culprit always returns to the scene of the crime.' I was neither a culprit nor had I committed any crime. Yet, the world and whispers around me conspired to disabuse me of any notion I held of innocence. The only part of the phrase that rang true, though, was returning. Because I'd be filming here again soon, come hell or high water - both of which were distinct possibilities, given very recent circumstances.
Blue light streamed down from overhead, as red beamed back and forth in my vision. I squinted in discomfort as I tried to stymie the burning white light piercing through the thin, pink layer of skin of my eyelid.
The med tech squatted in front of me was barely visible through the flashing red and blue my world had devolved into. "Try to keep your eyes open, Bas. Follow the torch as best you can. I need to check for signs of impairment or neurological damage."
"Far, far, fartoo late for that! Brain dead as he bloody well is!" Hey… she stole my joke. Is that how it's gonna be? Almost died one measly time and people already tried to fit into my leftover loafers. Emma's seething voice was obvious to me, and the furthest thing from soothing.
In an effort to assuage my soaked self esteem, most of the onlookers who'd watched my masterful performance as a water fountain had kindly dispersed while I got my check-up. Unfortunately, as quickly as the crew fled to unknown parts, they disseminated the hot gossip of my near death experience even quicker. It seemed I just couldn't stop springing leaks.
The spread of this intel meant that my personal space was being invaded by entirely different, and more powerful, jurisdictions. "Follow my finger. Look left." Following the order, I caught Emma at the very edge of my peripheral vision. White-knuckled fists clawed at the fabric of her trousers. Her hands were shaking with effort as she physically held herself back from launching at me. The jury was still out whether she was itching to wring my neck, or pat me down to reassure herself. My very own female body inspector.
She didn't have the uniform on, though. The absolute state of her - clips and foil in her hair, paper bib tucked into the collar of her civvie clothes - suggested that she was mid make-up session before she arrived on scene. "I'm fine." Fedex had left me alone for a moment so that she could pull the car round for us to make our way to the nearest clinic. No point calling the NHS or emergency services, my gravestone would be overrun with weeds by the time they got here. Her absence resulted in a surge of bravery. "Let's not waste anymore time and go again." Dodging around the doc's finger, I stood up, shucked off the towel draped across my shoulder, and bounced on my feet - to the protest of my creaky ribs - to get the blood flowing.
"Ha! So you really have utterly lost your mind!" Her angry scoff wasn't enough to hide the undercurrent of worry.
"Can't lose what you never had in the first place." So, I did what I do best; deflect with humour.
"Oh, shut up!" I guess I have the right to remain silent.
"As admirable as your attitude is, Bas. I'm afraid there's frankly a zero percent chance we risk another incident. We'll be rescheduling any action heavy scenes until we can be certain that we won't experience another blackout. I've already ordered everyone to take some time off; hopefully a long weekend will calm nerves down. Least of all, you, I suspect; given your prior appointments. But some rest is better than none. Regardless, once you return, we'll be postponing the water sequence for something else. Hopefully something to help the two of you kiss and make up." David Heyman brought his supervisor powers to bear.
"Wha-!? The kissing scene?" For Ron's horcrux induced nightmare. "This better be a closed set, David. I don't want anyone except those absolutely necessary there." Emma rounded on Heyman.
"That was alway the plan."
"How's that fair? Everyone was there for all of my smooch scenes!" Some might erroneously assume I was railing against a perceived double standard. "We can't deny them their right to witness the rest either," they'd be wrong.
"Where's Federica? Because you seriously need your head checked." Metaphorical and literal claws came out again. I gently snagged her wrists while she cuffed mine.
My gaze was steady and strong while her's swam all across my face. Both of us reassuring her I hadn't been forgotten at the bottom of that pool.
Her death grip loosened, but she remained tense, so I slid up her arms and unwound the knots she'd tied herself into. Emma's hands finally fell to the side, leaving only the clammy remnants of her nervous grip on my forearms. Her sweaty response reminded me that I just hadto hassle her. "I know the doc stole my first kiss," on account of the CPR, "but that doesn't mean I'll cherish our forthcoming one any less."
She shook me off, shot me a fierce look (far more palatable than her fright), and stomped away. "You're an arsehole, Bas Rhys!"
–
Fedex's Caravan, Leavesden. October 2009.
I was a fool to think my incarceration would stop there.
Not long after my round-trip to the hospital, I was woken up by Anita disembarking her one-way flight from Cali. I'd barely gotten a full night's rest before I was told to rise and shine. Or, relative to the mood Anita was in, rise and brine because there was a niggling suspicion in the back of my head that she wanted to waterboard me.
The day was still coloured dark. If I looked out the window, the sky would be purple. Schwip, schwip.Not that Fedex was letting me. Methodically, she went around her cabin and shut every door, locked each window, and pulled all the curtains closed. Nobody gets in, nobody goes out, nobody sees what's going on.
Anita, meanwhile, had me cornered at one end of my dining booth. "What's the prognosis? Contusions? Concussions?" She didn't even bother looking my way as she flipped through the pages of my medical report. Her presence alone kept me pinned to my seat, twiddling my thumbs in contrition.
"It is as the report says, no? A clear bill of health." And a fat one too. Fedex ensured they put me through every scan that had a three letter abbreviation in front of it.
"Good…" she ruffled through the last few pages, "that's a relief," and then stared deep into my eyes. A little too deep, in all honesty. I'd have thought I was back underwater, if it wasn't for the heat she was projecting. "What exactly do you have to say for yourself?"
Mostly that it wasn't my fault for once. But I knew better than to flap my gob and demand justice. This wasn't an interrogation, it was a forgone conclusion. "I ain't talking. You won't get a word out of me. Not one syllable! Uh-uh. No way, no how. Lawyer! I want a lawyer! Anita, get on that."
"You're talking right now, idiot." She rushed to her feet, snatched the report, and rolled it into a billy club. This did not bode well. "Idiot, idiot, idiot!"
"Help!" Police brutality! I raised one arm to block Anita's rain of blows, while the other stretched out desperately for my partner in crime, Fedex.
Betrayal was all I received. "Signora Specter has you handled. I do not think you would survive il duetto if I joined the fray."
I should've known with these seedy Hollywood types. One turns a blind eye while the other tries to kneecap me. Stabbed in the back, the biceps, and even the butt as I squirmed to get away. Anywhere except the head. Even in the midst of my pummelling, Anita was careful to avoid my face; knowing full well how to hide the evidence of her savagery while maintaining our collective money making potential.
Pretty generous, all things considered.
Taekwondo had prepared me for this; time to apply it judiciously. Taking advantage of her tackle, I grappled, wrapped my arms around her flailing limbs, and locked her in.
"Idiot!"
"I'm fine."
"Idiot!"
"I'm fine."
My groundwork brought Anita back down to earth. Her tantrum transformed into great, big honking tears.
I took a deep breath, letting her hear my heartbeat through the ear she had pressed tightly on my chest. Neither of us continued wriggling. I just rubbed her back until her shuddering calmed down. Sniff."Y-you're creasing my dress. It's Vera Wang - you owe me a new one."
"Sure, but you also owe me a new scruffy shirt." My current fave sleepwear was entirely slathered in snot. "I'll need something to wear this weekend, won't I?"
"Forget all that! I'm cancelling all your appearances and meetings. I'm not letting you go anywhere."
"C'mon, you're well aware we can't do that."
"Ugh,I can't even look at you! I'm never letting you out of my sight!" Get a grip, woman!
She squeezed my torso. "Ngh!" Wrong grip to get. My poor ribs.
As I laid flat on my back with Anita latched on to me, Fedex leaned over and brushed a stray bang away with a single finger. My consigliere needed to ensure she had my full focus - even upside down. "You are not immortal. Simply a man, Bas Rhys."
–
Bas' Caravan, Leavesden. October 2009.
My prison term was ending. Owing to my (temporary) good behaviour, I was even granted visitation rights.
"I'm a big boy now, Mrs Stephens. I can pack my own luggage." Truth be told, her arrival had me about as antsy as I could get. By far, I assumed she'd have the most explosive reaction of them all. Fortunately, however, my dread was misplaced.
From the time I picked her up from the train station, the long drive back to the studio, and the discussion we had detailing my newest adventure back in the RV, Mrs Stephens had been nothing but cool, calm, and composed.
Not a frazzled hair out of place, no spikey decibels peaking through her speech; just a handful of poignant questions and a stiff nod of acceptance.
Now here she was, helping me pack for my brief business jaunt to LA. "Well, we wouldn't want you missing anything, would we, dear?" Like old times.
It'd been years since I'd begun towering over her, so it was slightly uncomfortable to hunch my spine to rest my head by hers. But that warm, cheek-to-cheek comfort made it worth it.
T-shirts, trousers, socks, boxers - no stone left unturned, and no piece of apparel left unfolded. It was… quite a lot, actually. Did she raid my entire cupboard? "Erm, Mrs Stephens… don't you think you're packing a little too much? I'm only going to be gone for a couple of days."
"Gone?" She craned her neck to face me. Her brow furrowed; pure confusion plastered on her face.
"Yeah… I mean, that's what the suitcase is for. There's my premiere and an audition I have to attend."
She huffed and returned to stuffing more clothes into my duffle. "Don't act the duffer," I wasn't acting, "we both know you're not, despite how much you may try to play it up. I haven't come all the way here just to wave you off at the airport. My presence here is for one reason, and one reason alone: to toss you and all your belongings on the next train back to Cardiff."
"Uh-? Buh, ah-! Er…" That's all, folks! My latest stunt had driven my beloved matron loony. "Mrs Stephens, I-"
"You what?" she snapped, cutting me off before I could even stutter out a half coherent response. "You've got a lovely little excuse ready, have you? 'Oh, I'm fine, Mrs Stephens. I've only nearly died this time! Cardiopulmonary resuscitation? No, no, no Mrs Stephens, you're mistaken. CPR stands for continued public relations',"damn - that's a good one."No! You've gone gallivanting as much as I can stand, and more besides. There hasn't been a whim of yours that I haven't allowed. But I've had enough! Year after year, it's one thing after another. Broken limbs, I said nothing. Crashed cars, I said nothing. Starving yourself, I said nothing. You willhear me now, because I refuse to hear about the next bloody disaster!"
Every instinct told me to embrace her, but I resisted. She was already too wrapped up. I didn't need to confine her any further. She needed to let it all out. I clasped her hands between mine instead, stopping them from failing to fold the same crumpled pair of trousers for a third time. "Tan tro nesa. Remember that?"
"How dare you think I would ever forget?" She still kept that bad habit of looking away from me. I didn't mind. Meant I could also retain my bad habit of smiling till my face hurt.
"Since I can't exploit dementia yet, I'll not fib. This won't be the last time I put myself in unreasonable amounts of danger. It's my job - my life, really. And I'm living it exactly as I want to." Her hands shivered, but I held firm in my honesty. "I can't promise that I'll always be safe or unhurt, but I'll always come back to you."
"But one day, you won't be able to make that promise anymore. One day, you won't come back."
My hands squashed her's tighter. "Never goodbye - it's until next time."
"Whatever you do," her wet voice dripped with emotion, "just come home! Please. You are my boy, Bas Rhys."
Chapter 50.5: Defenestration Temptation
The Ritz, LA. October 2009.
Promises, like my bones, were meant to be broken.
My lease had long since been up, so my cosy old apartment was no longer an option. Hence the plebeian affair of hotel accommodations.
What kind of pathetic excuse for a multi-millionaire was I that I didn't have an ocean-side vacation property staffed to the hilt, with maids struggling to stay inside skimpy French uniforms?
A disgrace to poor taste, and poorer morals. Shame on me.
"Ritz? More like the fuckin' shits Carlton. What the hell am I meant to do with only two towels?" Adding that to the tally of my pilfered hotel room laundry, I counted four pillowcases, one bed sheet and duvet cover, and finally the silk runner that draped across the foot of the bed.
Corners over ends, I tied silk, terrycloth, and high-thread-count cotton into knots. Thus fashioning myself a makeshift rope.
The result of my voracious scrounging was that my assigned suite was no longer fit for human habitation. Housekeeping was gonna have a hell of a day, so I left a few bills to absolve myself - but until they arrived, my room was a mess. The only recourse available was to perch on the balcony.
The perfect vantage point to rappel off of.
I wrapped my towel around my waist and peered over the railing to gauge the distance to the swimming pool below.
"What do you think you are doing?"
"A-admiring the view?" Definitely not abseiling.
"So was I from my veranda earlier. At least until I spied you attempting special forces training." There was extra emphasis put on the word special.
My room had to be tapped. Fedex's timing was too perfect. Hands behind her back and face unreadable, she strolled in casually through the adjoining door linking our two rooms. I stilled while she made her approach. Even if the floor wasn't carpeted, I doubt I would've heard a single stealthy step unless she chose to let me.
Breezy as you like, she stopped prowling beside me and glanced down at where I'd been aiming at. "Steep drop. There are far less painful ways of perishing, Mr Rhys. I happen to know several." No doubt there.
Mustering up every last ounce of bravery in my heart, "sure, I may die. But you'll never again take my freedom!" I was prepared to holler that 'til I was blue in the face.
True to her word, Anita had me surveilled and stalked near every moment of existence. Worst part was, I could only blame myself. I'd bled in the water; no chance my pet shark wouldn't be overly chummy. Although I'd found my feet on solid ground, Fedex wasn't any less of a predator, leading to an ambush around every corner I'd attempted to stage an escape through. The singular berth I itched to seek solace in had also been thwarted - the skies weren't safe for me either. So much for being a card-carrying member of the mile high club.
"You have too much pent up energy, no?" Yes.
All it took from her was a single precise tug on my hip, and the towel plus the attached rope fell apart instantly. Not exactly the noose that would've hung me. Fedex's hand that garroted my neck and dragged me back into my room did a better job of it.
"Drastic times call for spastic measures."
"Only to the unimaginative mind." She let go, tweaked my ear, and pointed at the discarded linens strewn about - the implicit command to tidy up. Cadbury wouldn't have stood for this either, so fair enough; I got to it. "There are more suitable ways to spend your efforts," she took the spare bills I'd set out and stuffed them back in my wallet, "and money. We need to find a more… physical way to drain your excess vitality."
Fed caught me off guard for the second time today. I hesitated while straightening out the bedsheet. Did I think for even a moment she was insinuating what it seemed like? No. This wasn't a trip down the gutter, merely a slip of the tongue - how could I resist twisting it? I had to give her a hard time - double entendre, undoubtedly intended. "Are you suggesting that we have sex? That'll give housekeeping something to clean, then." With a satisfying whoosh! I flapped, flung, and dove on top of the duvet; wrapping myself into a cocoon of white cotton to protect my virtue.
"Little rascal." Her words were indignant, but her tone and delivery were flatter than my crushed dreams of liberty and lasciviousness. This has been happening far too often - I need to seriously start considering whether I'm even handsome anymore. "Thatfunction was not part of my job description. You should only be so lucky. We must quell your fires; tell me, Bas, how would you like to learn to shoot a gun?"
Glocks instead of glucks, huh? "Sounds fun." Might come in handy in the future, and keep me out of trouble for now, too.
"Benissimo. I shall begin making the arrangements. In the meantime, feel free to change into better clothes," she gestured at my pupated state while returning to her room. "Ms Specter would not appreciate you attending your important meeting dressed like a burrito, even if we are going to eat Mexican. Put on your big boy pants."
–
Casa Vega Mexican Restaurant, LA. October 2009.
If only the world would let me. "I'm sorry, sir. We cannot serve you alcohol at this establishment." Nobody bats an eye when I'm involved in the nitty of sex or the gritty of guns, but bring up some light boozing and, all of a sudden, it's hushes and whispers. "We have an extensive drinks menu. Maybe you could choose something else except beer?"
"Don't worry, I'm allowed. Nineteen in the UK is the equivalent of twenty-two in the States. No matter, I'll save us both a migraine and just get a mojito, then." It was ninety percent lemonade, so I'm sure the last tenth of rum didn't legally count.
"Bas!" Anita wasn't overly fazed.
"Um…" However, the young waitress taking our order was another story.
"Okay, alright, I'll stop torturing you and get something non-alcoholic." Resting elbows on top of the table was bad manners, but I did it anyway because I'd discovered leaning my cheek on my hands, and smirking with equal parts charm and mischief, was rather a flattering angle of mine. "Your number sounds like it could quench my thirst."
Whap!Came the familiar note of Anita palming her own forehead. It was louder than the bossa nova tunes twanging in the background, a few other rude patrons who'd been muttering none too quietly while looking over, as well as the startled cough of our lunch guest.
My focus, however, was on our hostess - who couldn't hide either her surprised smile or the creeping flush banding over the bridge of her nose. She was about as red and dimpled as the sofa we were sitting on. "I'll h-have to check with my manager…" Any insecurities I had about my smoking hot bod were extinguished when she shyly tucked her hair behind her ear and responded, "though, I'm pretty sure we have that in stock."
"Ignore him." Anita should take her own advice. It would've certainly saved my toes from being stamped under the table. "Just add a pitcher of horchata to the order. Run along, now." But I wanted to speak to a manager!
"Oh, my god. Sorry about the service, it's usually a lot better here, I swear." Jonah Hill proceeded to make a mountain out of nothing. "You'd think they'd be used to us celebs by now. It's LA, for fuck's sake."
"Really? I found her service exemplary, more than worth a generous tip."
"Well, I can say the food's great for sure. Thanks for joining me here, by the way. Working lunches agree with me. You don't mind, do you?"
Definitely a strange place for an audition. "Fair bit more public than I was expecting." My hand itched to hide the lower half of my face under my usual masked disguise, but I needed to eat, so my cap would have to suffice. I still refused to wear sunglasses indoors or in the dark.
"Personally, we tend to prefer leaving shop talk for the offices. Being out and about so blatantly is begging to be recognised, fending off hisadoring fans is a full-time job." Fedex would testify to that from where she was keeping an incognito lookout. "Gets in the way of business." Classic Anita move; trying to get a leg up by putting her foot down.
"What're you talking about? All of Hollywood is our office. Eyes, ears, who cares? Never too early to generate a little buzz when you're tryna make a successful movie. Superbad changed my life, I wanna keep that ball rolling. You're actually the second Potter star I've met this year; Felton made a cameo appearance in my newest film with Russell Brand. I even just signed on to do a sports drama with Brad Pitt, dude, Brad Pitt! Who knows what's next for me? Tarantino? Scorsese?" Clearly, someone had their eyes on the (money) ball.
"Then it appears I'll be finding myself in esteemed company with 21 Jump Street also on your docket. In the most recent draft, I particularly enjoyed the scene where the characters 'trip balls'."
"Oh? You read the script that's cool-" we were poised to dispense with the small talk and finally get to the meat of the matter until an interruption made herself known.
"Like oh-em-gee, are you Bas Rhys?"
My reflexes were normally on a hair trigger. I knew a grin would stretch into place before I gave it conscious thought, "hel-!?" yet my fan proved faster. My voice became suddenly clogged by a mouthful of hair, and something other than a napkin ended up on my lap.
"This is unbelievable! It was all over facebook that you'd died on set! Are you alive? What are you even doing here, don't you live in like England or whatever? Let's ditch these losers, I can show you around town instead." She babbled a mile a minute, overly familiar, inching closer to my face with every syllable. The pungent stench of garlic, onion, and breakfast mimosas on her breath. It was a damn good thing I practised my facial expressions, because it took every last bit of restraint to not crinkle my nose and frown in disgust.
Anita nor Fedex were nearly as willing to withstand her trespass as I was. As much as I wanted Anita to poke her with the fork clenched tightly in my agent's fist, I had an image to maintain.
"K-" Thp, thp. Let me just spit out her hair so I can actually talk. "Very kind of you to worry, but as you can see," not to mention feel with her wandering fingers, "haven't snuffed it yet. While I appreciate your offer, I'm here on business, so if you wouldn't mind…" Reaching behind my head, I pulled off her encircling arms, scooched forward in my seat, and firmly guided her back to unsteady feet. "If you'd like another glimpse of me, be sure to buy a ticket for Black Dynamite. I'm in town for the premier of that, too."
"No, I don't care about anything that isn't Harry Potter. But you, like, totally have totake a picture with me. I won't take no for an answer!" Fedex was now just a few strides away with her hand reaching into her purse. She might've been pulling out my polaroid or a pistol; either way, I subtly shook my head no. This bitch didn't deserve either.
She whipped out her camera phone and tossed it to Jonah. "Make yourself useful and take our photo - it's the button in the middle." She forcibly pressed her cheek on mine, "say cheese!"
"Actually, Jonah, why don't you join us?" I attempted to save his figurative face and my literal one. "I'm sure she'd appreciate having your photo as well."
"Ew. No." But she immediately shot it down. Okay. That was it. She hit the limit of even my patience.
Snatching her phone back, I extended my arm, didn't bother smiling, "queso," and took a selfie. Finally getting rid of her, knowing full well her eyes were probably closed in the photo. "Apologies for that. You know how it is sometimes."
"Nah… not your fault."
"Bas, we should make moves." Anita was already up, hand in the air, miming her signature as she called for the cheque. My interaction had caused enough of a commotion that a scene was successfully made before our order was.
Fedex sped away to get the car as the room full of diners started a suspicious susurrus. "Jonah, c'mon, let's take this meeting somewhere a little more private. I'd love to talk about the movie some more."
He didn't budge. "…It's not super complicated or anything. Mostly I just needed the biggest heartthrob or action star to bounce off of. Someone who's ok playing second fiddle. When I watched Tropic Thunder, I thought you'd be able to pull it off." The 'I'm not so sure anymore' was unsaid but heard, regardless.
"Boys, we can talk about this elsewhere." The waitress returned with our bill, which Anita signed for, as well as the horchata.
Jonah grabbed the pitcher, poured himself a glass, and remained seated. "It's ok, you guys go ahead. No one's gonna be paying attention to me, anyway. Bas is the one they're after. I'll, uh… get the studio to set up another meeting later when I have the time." He took a sip of the beverage, which I knew to be pleasantly sweet.
Too bad his palette preferred something more bitter.