know that?”
He kept grinning and working on his puzzles.
To divert myself from my own worst imaginings, I feigned interest in the passing scenery, and listened in to my fellow CTs’ conversations.
Jim and Cliff chatted, falling quickly into a discussion of business matters. Cliff complained to Jim about one of his bevy of ex-wives bleeding him dry. Jim promised that he had things under control and soon they’d be able to legally outwrangle her.
From time to time, both Jim and Cliff cast glances at unsociable, cell phone engrossed Peewee. They were obviously acquainted with him and viewed him as an intruding tagalong on the vacation. A barnacle that attaches himself to the action and can’t be shaken loose without a whole lot of prying.
Steve sat in the seat in front of Cliff, waiting for his chance to insert himself into Cliff and Jim’s conversation. Obviously, he was a big fan of Cliff’s. When Cliff hazarded to mention his current film, Steve belly flopped right in, drenching any remnants of their old conversation with his own fawning opinions about movies, Cliff’s in particular.
Listening to them for just a short while, I was able to determine that Cliff had directed a slew of successful action/adventure flicks. Nothing I’d seen or was likely even to rent.
Eventually, I couldn’t contain my curiosity about Cliff’s choice of vacation. I interrupted, with feigned admiration. “Cliff, your life sounds far from mundane. What brings you on a vacation like this?”
“Sacrifice for the craft.” Cliff winked at Steve, as if the girl is hot for my bod.
Feigned admiration was not the same thing as flirtation. With Van handy, although admittedly busy putting numbers one through nine into little squares, which would have been horribly dweebish if he so obviously wasn’t, would I really resort to flirting with the roly-poly dough spy?
“Experimenting,” Cliff added. “Putting myself in a scenario where I feel what the characters will feel. So that I can then convey those emotions to my actors.”
“You’re filming a hostage movie?” I guessed.
“Begin shooting on Monday. Right after I get back from Seattle.”
“Wonderful,” I said. “When will your new flick be released?”
“Next year about this time.”
“Oh.” I sighed. “It’ll be a long year waiting for it to come out.”
“I’ll send you tickets to the premier,” Cliff said.
“Can’t wait.”
I turned to Steve wondering aloud at his reasons for attending FSC Urban spy training.
“My ex-wife is back at court asking for more child support and alimony. If I don’t blow my cash on fun, that bitch gets it.” Then he shrugged.
The trip from the hotel to the FSC facility took roughly half an hour. Conversation came to a standstill as the bus pulled to a stop in front of a warehouse. The camp brochure said the training facility was thirty thousand square feet, complete with a firing range and mock city scenes. From the outside, it looked like a big, ugly box.
We all piled out and filed into the building. Inside, the warehouse was like a miniature Universal Studios, a great big playhouse for adults.
“It is just like a movie set,” I said with a bit of a gush. “Main Street meets Rambo .” I turned to Cliff for verification.
“It’s good,” he said as War walked over to greet us.
“Welcome to FSC City,” War said, encompassing the facility with a sweep of his arms. “You like?”
“I think I speak for all of us,” I said, “when I say, gee, it’s big and huge and…look it has cars and streets and everything. What’s not to like? Really.”
Next to me, Van rolled his eyes. “Laying it on a little thick, aren’t we?” he whispered as War extolled the site’s features.
“When was the last time you saw cars and streets inside a building?” I asked him. “Not to mention an indoor firing range capable of withstanding submachine gunfire?”
“Point taken.”
“You could have fought a little
He kept grinning and working on his puzzles.
To divert myself from my own worst imaginings, I feigned interest in the passing scenery, and listened in to my fellow CTs’ conversations.
Jim and Cliff chatted, falling quickly into a discussion of business matters. Cliff complained to Jim about one of his bevy of ex-wives bleeding him dry. Jim promised that he had things under control and soon they’d be able to legally outwrangle her.
From time to time, both Jim and Cliff cast glances at unsociable, cell phone engrossed Peewee. They were obviously acquainted with him and viewed him as an intruding tagalong on the vacation. A barnacle that attaches himself to the action and can’t be shaken loose without a whole lot of prying.
Steve sat in the seat in front of Cliff, waiting for his chance to insert himself into Cliff and Jim’s conversation. Obviously, he was a big fan of Cliff’s. When Cliff hazarded to mention his current film, Steve belly flopped right in, drenching any remnants of their old conversation with his own fawning opinions about movies, Cliff’s in particular.
Listening to them for just a short while, I was able to determine that Cliff had directed a slew of successful action/adventure flicks. Nothing I’d seen or was likely even to rent.
Eventually, I couldn’t contain my curiosity about Cliff’s choice of vacation. I interrupted, with feigned admiration. “Cliff, your life sounds far from mundane. What brings you on a vacation like this?”
“Sacrifice for the craft.” Cliff winked at Steve, as if the girl is hot for my bod.
Feigned admiration was not the same thing as flirtation. With Van handy, although admittedly busy putting numbers one through nine into little squares, which would have been horribly dweebish if he so obviously wasn’t, would I really resort to flirting with the roly-poly dough spy?
“Experimenting,” Cliff added. “Putting myself in a scenario where I feel what the characters will feel. So that I can then convey those emotions to my actors.”
“You’re filming a hostage movie?” I guessed.
“Begin shooting on Monday. Right after I get back from Seattle.”
“Wonderful,” I said. “When will your new flick be released?”
“Next year about this time.”
“Oh.” I sighed. “It’ll be a long year waiting for it to come out.”
“I’ll send you tickets to the premier,” Cliff said.
“Can’t wait.”
I turned to Steve wondering aloud at his reasons for attending FSC Urban spy training.
“My ex-wife is back at court asking for more child support and alimony. If I don’t blow my cash on fun, that bitch gets it.” Then he shrugged.
The trip from the hotel to the FSC facility took roughly half an hour. Conversation came to a standstill as the bus pulled to a stop in front of a warehouse. The camp brochure said the training facility was thirty thousand square feet, complete with a firing range and mock city scenes. From the outside, it looked like a big, ugly box.
We all piled out and filed into the building. Inside, the warehouse was like a miniature Universal Studios, a great big playhouse for adults.
“It is just like a movie set,” I said with a bit of a gush. “Main Street meets Rambo .” I turned to Cliff for verification.
“It’s good,” he said as War walked over to greet us.
“Welcome to FSC City,” War said, encompassing the facility with a sweep of his arms. “You like?”
“I think I speak for all of us,” I said, “when I say, gee, it’s big and huge and…look it has cars and streets and everything. What’s not to like? Really.”
Next to me, Van rolled his eyes. “Laying it on a little thick, aren’t we?” he whispered as War extolled the site’s features.
“When was the last time you saw cars and streets inside a building?” I asked him. “Not to mention an indoor firing range capable of withstanding submachine gunfire?”
“Point taken.”
“You could have fought a little
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