52

Gigabot Productions

The guy at the counter was tall, middle-aged, and handsome in a daytime soap opera kind of way. On his face, he wore a thick brown goatee and glasses with rims to match (thick and brown). The sleeves of his shiny gray suit were rolled up, showing off forearms roped with muscle. He was using his fingers to drum a beat on the edge of the counter, upon which was lumped a pile of clothes. All suits.

“Can I help you?”

His bright blue eyes flashed toward the entrance. “Says there you’re still open. Are you?”

“We close at ten.”

“You do dry cleaning, yeah?”

“What do you need?”

He separated the pile on the counter. “These are all suits, tops and bottoms. I need them dry cleaned and pressed.” His voice was light and smooth and calm, but confident. You could tell he was used to getting what he wanted. “No huge rush, but I need them by Thursday morning. Got it?”

I told him it wouldn’t be a problem.

“Great, we’re shooting all day Friday and then over the weekend.”

“Shooting?”

“Just a pilot.”

“Pilot? Like a TV show?”

He wrinkled his nose like somebody farted. “We haven’t been picked up yet, but it seems like we got legs. The thing could really run.”

“Cool.” No wonder he was so confident, so out of place next to the usual people who came into the Sit ’n’ Spin. “So are you, like, an actor?”

He chuckled and shook his head. “Producer. I’m the guy who signs the checks. And occasionally drops off the dry cleaning, apparently.” He sighed and patted the heap of suits.

I asked him if he was shooting around here, in Evandale. He explained that his crew had rented one of the old houses down at the bottom of Emerson and they were using it as the set.

“This neighborhood has a nice feel to it. Urban, gritty, right? Everybody’s looking for that, so it’s good when you find it. My second unit DOP says the light’s good, too, ’specially round sunset.” He smiled. “I wouldn’t know.”

I smiled back, mostly because his grin was contagious, not because I understood what he was talking about. Second unit DOP meant nothing to me.

“It’s a great neighborhood,” he went on, gazing out the window. “And cheap. If we get picked up, we’ll definitely shoot a few episodes around here.”

I felt a little stab of jealousy. How nice would it be if the only reason you came to Evandale was to make a TV show?

“The next couple of days, it’s just pickups and cutaways. All second unit stuff, but I like to be here to get the details right. Sets the mood. Principle photography won’t start for another week, but there’s still a shitload to do. Pardon my French.”

“Who’s in it?” I asked. “Anybody famous?”

“Sorry, kid, that’s classified. But stick around. I might let something slip.” He smiled again, this time with a mischievous glint.

I liked the way his eyes were so bright and self-assured. I liked the way he called me “kid,” like I was his sidekick.

“Wait,” I said, just as he turned to leave. Then I realized I didn’t have anything to say. “Uh ... you want us to call you if we get the suits done early?”

“Doubt I’ll have time to come get ’em. Too busy with prep.”

“Oh, sure,” I said, like I knew everything in the world about preparing to shoot a pilot.

“But you never know.” He reached into his pocket and took out a silver card case. “You can get me here.”

His business card featured a blocky, crayon doodle of a robot—square head, metallic pincers, light bulbs for ears. It said:

Andrew Myers
Gigabot Productions

After that, he jogged across the street to where he’d parked, right in front of Mizra’s Fire & Ice. His car was a glittering red convertible. In a neighborhood like Evandale, a ride like that was even more conspicuous than one of Dave Mizra’s suits.