James Buchanan - The Good Thief, mm
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The Good Thief
by James Buchanan
Torquere Press
Copyright ©2007 by James Buchanan
First published in www.torquerepress.com, 2008
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2
The Good Thief
by James Buchanan
Chapter 1
"I think you're just what we need for this project."
Caesar looked over the lip of his beer can to stare at one
of those earnest Hollywood faces. Two of them in fact. The
woman speaking to him was all expensive dental work smiles,
collagen lips, breast implants and a body sculpted by equal
parts starvation, plastic surgery and some guy named Lars
down at the gym.
Caesar expected the aging man at her side to flip him a
peace sign and pass over a joint. Just as earnest, her partner
jumped in, "Housebreaker is going to be the next big thing in
reality TV." Head shaved to hide the fact that he was balding,
earrings and trendy clothes couldn't hide the fact that he was
in his early forties. It wasn't the years, but the mileage that
gave that one away.
A hot night in the Hollywood hills blanketed them. From
Caesar's vantage on a porch slung off the side of the cliff, it
was hard to tell whether the sky was overcast or merely
smoggy. The only stars visible were the twinkling lights on
the freeways of the Los Angeles basin. Well, there were a few
minor celebrities roaming about the house. Mostly of the one-
shot and has-been variety that tended to gravitate to studio
wrap parties. For the most part it was a gathering of regular
studio people: working actors, grips, light techs and camera
guys. His brother Angel always managed to con him into
tagging along to these things. And he was so pissed that
Angel had tricked him this time; promising a party, but
setting him up for a casting session instead.
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The Good Thief
by James Buchanan
"Don't they already have a show like that on daytime?"
The woman sipped her chardonnay as her cohort leaned
into Caesar's personal space. "Not like this one, baby."
Unlike the pair he was talking with, Caesar had dressed in
a low-key, not-meant-to-be-noticed fashion. Well, noticed,
but not the
Studio
type of noticed. New, but somewhat faded
and loose jeans contrasted with the tight, white T-shirt. A
thick, black belt pulled the pants in at the waist enough to
illustrate that he had one. His boots were of the steel-toed
construction variety.
Caesar attempted to set his can on the rail he was leaning
against. Misjudging the distance, his beer went spiraling down
into the canyon behind them. Damn, that meant fighting the
crowd inside for another drink. Trying to remember how many
beers that made for the night, Caesar pushed his thick, black
hair behind his ear. It was one of the few vanity points he
allowed himself, letting it grow down to his shoulders.
"Maybe." He stalled. "It might work."
"Oh no, man, you're perfect." Cigarette stains flashed
when he smiled, and Caesar wondered why his partner hadn't
introduced him to her dentist. "Trust me, you are one-
hundred-and-fifty percent of what we need. You're good
looking." His slow once over clued Caesar into the fact it
wasn't a merely professional appraisal. "Hispanic—ethnicity is
so big right now. And," he drew out the word like a sales
pitch, "your brother Angel says you used to be really good,"
the guy's voice dropped to a near whisper as he finished the
thought, "at, you know, breaking into peoples' homes."
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The Good Thief
by James Buchanan
Angel was so dead when they got back to his place. "Yeah,
I used to be."
"Well, as long as it's in the past. The bonding company for
Housebreaker," bald man cooed, "requires that you don't
have any convictions for that kind of thing in the past five
years."
Behind the bald man, framed between the sliding door and
his shorn head, an argument caught Caesar's attention. The
female half of it he couldn't give a damn about. Now, the guy
... whole 'nother story there. Too bad he was with a girl. The
one good thing about these studio parties Angel tended to
drag him to was the chance to meet a guy or two. And that
one was so worth meeting. Not much taller than Caesar, but
with nice, broad shoulders and an ass that made his mouth
water. Either light brown or blond hair—dim light made it
hard to pin down—was cut military fashion. It set off his
square-jawed profile just perfect. Maybe a stunt man, he had
that kind of look about him: rough and tumble and used to
playing hard.
Absently, Caesar answered. "Nope, no arrests, no
convictions." He'd been pulled in for questioning a few times
in the past five years, but no arrests.
The argument was quiet, but hot, if the guy's grim face
gave any indication. They split in a huff, the girl heading
toward the rail where Caesar stood being hounded, the guy
heading back into the house. Shit!
"Well, good then. See, it's just perfect." It was the
woman's turn to over-stress her vowels. "You have my card,
call me. We'll bring you in for a screen test."
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