Coconut Grove, Miami. February 2007.
My name is Bas Rhys. I used to be a movie star until…
We've got a Burn Notice on you. You're blacklisted.
The first of the two USA Network shows Anita had secured for me was the about-to-launch spy show with surprisingly slick production values.
I don't know what it was with my selection of American productions, but my second arrival in the States meant that I'd once again been shuttled to another abandoned commercial property. Talk about nickels.
Instead of a traditional studio or warehouse, the show had rented out an entire, out of commission convention center, and dressed it up in various sets. It was here where I was meeting Matt Nix, the showrunner for Burn Notice. The first guy I'd met whose name sounded more ridiculous than mine.
"We've got some great roles you can possibly choose from." The show was only set to premiere this summer, so needless to say that a potential boost in ratings as a result of a simple cameo was a coup.
Don't judge me for wanking off at my own reflection. It's the only form of pleasure I was getting these days.
"Why don't you tell me about the episode first?"
"Yeah, of course." He rotated his laptop and showed me the screen with the script. "We're shooting episode nine of the season - Hard Bargain. It's about the crew rescuing a girl from a kidnapping ring, but the catch is, the person who's expected to pay the ransom lied about being rich. He's actually just a house-sitter for the actual millionaire."
I scrolled through the screenplay. It was like driving through road works. Under construction signs were practically plastered everywhere.
Very much the realities of filming a television show versus a feature-length movie. Even on a show as elaborate as the extra explosive spy craft series I'd be on, we only had a little over two weeks to less than a month to write, plan, construct, rehearse, and film.
Hold on, let me catch my breath.
Point is, it's a lot to do in a very short period. "Which role would you like me to play?" No reason to beat around the bush.
"The one that comes to my mind immediately is Nick. He's the young moron who gets his girl kidnapped. Good screen time and it'll let you stretch your comic relief muscles."
Maybe it was the curry I had last week, but my head bobbed from side-to-side. My noggin did what your hand might do when trying to say something was so so. "I'm going to get a lot of funny money over the next few months. I actually would really prefer to do something a little more villainous." Muahahaha!
"Really? Um… ok. I mean, there are plenty of bad guys to go around this episode. The blackmailed double agent would work pretty easily, but if you wanna be the head honcho, we can make it work with a little bit of creative make up and writing."
"Modesty isn't on my list of virtues, but even I'm not deluded enough to even attempt a middle-aged Cuban crime boss." Pulling that off would just be pulling myself off.
I've polished the bishop enough for now. Don't want to go blind. Figuratively, of course.
"Good to know." Yeah, I'll bet you're relieved.
"I'm thinking…" I returned his laptop and pulled the roughly drawn storyboards depicting the action scenes for the ep. "The man in the grey suit." If I can't be the secret agent type, the next best thing is the undercover assassin.
"I hadn't considered it. Huh, it's not a bad idea. Too bad you die at the end, ruins the chances of us getting you back in as a recurring character."
"Then let's make it more memorable." As much as adored the show, I wasn't willing to remain affordable a second time. "How about we extend the fight?" Maybe my taekwondo can get a little practice.
"Done! Just one more favour." Bold to ask, my entire existence here was a favour. It was to myself, but the point still stands. "Would you mind if we used you to surprise the cast? The first time I want them to see you is mid-take."
The inevitable fate of me being turned into a novelty. "Fine, but if I'm going to be a prop, you owe me one in return."
–
Virginia Key Beach, Miami. February 2007.
My name is Jeffrey Donovan. I used to be unemployed until…
You're hired as Michael Westen. Congratulations.
[He and Gabrielle Anwar - or rather her character Fiona - walked hand in hand down the beach to their marker towards the black Dodge Charger.
He kept his eyes trained across the small grass patch to where his target for the scene was waiting, while delivering his lines with Fiona.
He couldn't lie to himself. Sometimes concentration wasn't so easy in the face, or rather the rear, of coeds clad in skimpy bikinis. Even when he had a gorgeous actress draping herself on him. "What's he doing? Your mystery man." Fiona huffed from beneath his chin.
"Getting heatstroke, it looks like." Jeffr- sorry, Michael squinted through his glasses to watch the man dabbing his head with a handkerchief.
The actor playing the fake bureaucrat looked a little younger than anticipated, but the greasy, slicked back hairstyle, coupled with the frumpy suit, sold the government worker look well enough. There was something niggling at the back of his mind, though, when it came to the pair of thick-rimmed glasses balanced on his nose.
Fiona turned to him as well. She paused a second before saying her line. "What's this guy's name, again?"
"Perry Clark, or at least that's the name he gave me on the phone."
As they continued delivering their dialogue, a squadron of police cars pulled up. The sirens would wail in the actual cut, but for now it was just the red and blues flashing as the oddly familiar actor behaved belligerently as the police frisked him down.
"You can't look in that, sir!"
"Get your hands in the air!"
"I work for the CSS!" His accent was American, and his voice sounded a little like the 'I won't fall for the banana in my tailpipe trick!' stereotypical nasal whine of corporate America. But Jeffrey had worked closely enough alongside Gabrielle to just get the sense that there was a Brit under all that. Why in the world would Matt Nix hire a foreigner to play a minor role?]
Cut got called just as he peeled off in the Charger.
He waited for a minute before Matt gave a thumbs up, signaling they'd got the shot. Which was a really good thing because the sun was really beating down and he didn't doubt he was getting as red as the lenses in his sunglasses.
The crew got to packing up the equipment. "Right on time." Gabrielle stepped out of the car, shut the door, and stretched her hands above her head. "The beachgoers are milling about more than usual today."
"Yeah, but just like every other time, they'll look around like a pack of lost meerkats, realize they don't recognize any of us, and then move along." Bruce Campbell sometimes got a few autograph requests from the older crowd, but even those were few and far between.
The both of them made their way over to the little canopy that sheltered the production team under its shade - and more importantly for Jeffrey, also held the catering table. He needed a cold beverage.
As always, Bruce was already there, cerveza in hand instead of popcorn as he watched the take. "Nice job, guys. Here, have a beer."
Hiss, pop, gulp, phew! Yeah, he needed that.
"A little early to be hitting the bottle, don't you think?" Gabrielle commented while sipping an ice cold Fiji through a straw.
"Hey, we're in Florida. Just be happy we're not snorting coke. The eighties were a different time, I tell ya. By the way, you guys notice that crowds aren't scattering that quickly today?"
"And I was so looking forward to having a swim today. Shame." She pointed over to where the suit getting arrested was, so he followed her finger. "Though it appears someone else is having rather a good time." Their hit man was, in fact, a heavy hitter.
Jeffrey, stunned, watched as a group of teens accosted an ancillary character on the show he was heading.
"Well, if that ain't a slap to the old ego, I don't know what is." Their mystery murderer hushed the group as they tried and failed to contain their excitement. Autographs were signed, photos were taken, and hugs were stolen as the surrounding crowd began getting curious. "Anyone have any idea who this guy is?" Jeffrey very much had the same question.
"No. But I think we're about to find out." Mr Famous separated from the reluctant teens.
He watched as one girl hastily wrote something on a piece of paper and slipped it into the blazer's side pocket. The huddled teens waved one last time at the guy as he ran over here before the looky-loos got any braver.
As the shade of the canopy swallowed the young man, a light bulb went off in Jeffrey's head. "I don't mean to cause alarm, but we might want to get a move on, unless you want to get swamped like the Everglades."
"My children are going to be so incredibly jealous when I tell them I got to work with Harry Potter." Gabrielle defaulted back to her proper accent and was the first to greet him.
He took her proffered hand, brought it close to his mouth, but didn't touch his lips to her. "I'll be happy to introduce myself when we announce our pending engagement to them."
"Well, aren't you just a charmer? I'm old enough to be your mother, you know?"
"Never thought I'd be thankful to be an orphan, then." Jesus Christ, kid! He knew Gabrielle was pretty recently divorced. Maybe that's why she laughed so hard.
"You're a real heartbreaker, aren't you?" They all watched as Bas Rhys fished out the paper from his pocket, opened it, and unsurprisingly found a phone number scribbled on it. He crumpled it after making sure the teens weren't looking their way and quickly tossed it into the trash. "Yeah, that settles it. No way I'm telling my daughter I met you."
"That's too bad. I'm getting all my mates back home jealous when I tell them I met Ash! We've seen Evil Dead loads of times." He shook Bruce's hand.
"Woah, kid! Take it easy. You trying to get into my pants, too? …Because it's working." Bruce sloshed the near empty beer bottle he was holding. "I gotta lay off the sauce." No shit.
Jeffrey took off his shades when those green eyes pierced him. Guess it was his turn to be wooed by magic mouth here. "Nice to meet America's new version of James Bond." That'll do it. He bumped fists with the a-lister. "Ready to kill me?"
Jeffrey feared the retaliation he'd suffer from all the people this guy had just made fall in love with him in the last five minutes alone. "No." His career was only just blooming, and something told him they'd be renewed for a second season.
–
["Ssshhhh." Jeffrey as Michael felt the warm breath tickle his ear as Bas the assassin shushed him. "Just let go. You're only prolonging your torture."
Even as they both grunted in effort as they pitted their strength against each other, Bas maintained a soft, almost soothing voice. "I'll be gentle, I promise. It'll hurt so much less than if you actually hung yourself." Jeffrey struggled against his remarkably tough frame as the faux rubber garrote dug into the skin of his palm in front of his throat.
He held his breath as Bas' hitched. He freed one foot from the lock, rocked his head back and contacted Bas' face, "Grah-!" With a heave tossed them both to the floor.
Jeffrey knew he hit the right mark on this take when he heard the plastic crunch of the spectacles break and when he felt the warm liquid dribble down the back of his choking neck as the blood pack hidden inside Bas' nose burst. "Now look at what you did." A steady growl of rage rumbled out of Bas' throat as he delivered his line. "I'm going to have to burn this place to the ground now because of you. Can't leave any of my DNA lying around, can I? Your poor mother. She won't even get to bury you." Jeffrey felt a slight shiver down his spine. That last line definitely wasn't in the script. He sounded so different from the frustrated, bumbling pencil pusher from earlier.
He was meant to quip, but it wouldn't feel organic anymore, so he abandoned it. Jeffrey roared, tore his hand away, and gagged as the wire constricted around his throat. Desperately he punched through the breakaway cupboard door, palmed his gun, rotated, and fired one, two, three times into his assailant's torso.
The squibs popped with every pull of his trigger, spraying blood over both of them.
Bas scrambled away from him. He pressed his hands over the fake wounds as he stumbled on failing legs.
Jeffrey leveled his gun at Bas as he approached his marker in front of the glass pane door. He hacked painfully as he tried to get the air back into his lungs.
Bas bent forward. They made eye contact, and Jeffrey fired one last time. Another squib exploded and Bas tossed himself through shattering glass and splintered wood.
Kid could commit. Jeffrey had to give him that.]
"You okay over there?"
A gurgling groan met Jeffrey's concern. "You owe me a new pair of glasses."