Dog Beach by John Fusco

a condemned fire trap,” said Malone. “A lot of L.A. ’hoods are eager to have a film company take one down for free.”
    â€œIt’s The Cage , man,” said Troy, growing near feverish. “It’s the metaphor. Nowhere left to run.”
    â€œCan you score those kind of fireworks?” Durbin asked Malone.
    â€œI don’t know, man. I can rig charges and shit, but I don’t know where to get the big loads.”
    â€œI do,” Dutch said. They all looked at her. She was standing there, contemplating the ice cubes in her empty glass, mumbling something about an effects guy over in Irvine. Then she said, “You know your movies, Troy. You know your stunt drivers?”
    â€œA few.”
    â€œEver hear of Dutch Dupree? Drove a lot for Mickey Gilbert in the nineties.”
    â€œPrecision?”
    â€œYeah. Only chick in the club. Dutch the Clutch.”
    â€œNo, don’t think I know that name. But I’m not that up on my stunt drivers.”
    â€œThat’s her,” Louie said, cocking his head in the girl’s direction. “Driver. Very good.”
    â€œMostly out of Santa Fe,” Dutch said. “I’m in between gags.”
    â€œGood,” Louie underscored. “Good control. Fast.”
    â€œNice,” Troy said. “We could use that.”
    â€œRoll another five grand into Louie’s fee, and you’ve got my wheel.”
    When Troy looked back to Louie, the legend was gone. Then he appeared again, coming out of one bedroom, looking into another; he was casing the place like a prospective buyer.
    â€œI stay here?” Louie said. “While we make the Cage movie.”
    Troy looked at Durbin. “You guys have any issues with High Flying Louie Mo, Hong Kong stunt king, staying at Dog House?”
    â€œShit no,” Durbin said. “That’d be sick.”
    The others shrugged or nodded, but no one contested.
    â€œFriggin’ Louie Mo, living with the Dogs,” said Troy.
    â€œWhy you say Dogs?”
    Louie was looking at Troy, suspicious, his eyes darting to his driver for some help.
    â€œThat’s what we call our crew,” Troy said. “The Dogs.”
    â€œThe Dogs of Entropy,” Malone explained. “It’s kind of a loose production company, co-op, think-tank, garage-band kind of enterprise.”
    â€œLouie,” Dutch said, the way one might speak to the hard of hearing. “They’re not having you sleep with the dogs. They call themselves the Dogs.”
    When Troy laughed, Louie did too, even slapped his leg, but he still didn’t get it, “dog” being a serious slur in China. Didn’t really matter now. He felt a great opportunity here. Big money, big house. On the beach. Funny boys. Light hearts, cold beer. With lime wedges. Louie leaned back in the white shabby-chic chair, relaxing. But somewhere inside, he still felt unsettled as hell from the rooftop donnybrook.
    Dutch said she had to go; Louie said he’d call her. As she headed out, both Troy and Durbin took note of her tattoo and ankle bracelet. And her well-made bottom. If she drove stunts in the ’90s, she must’ve been a mere kid back then. At the door, she turned, tapped a cigarette loose and set it on her lip.
    â€œTake good care of Louie Mo.”
    â€œHe’s the man,” said Troy.
    Louie liked that. He sank deeper into the overstuffed chair and looked out at blue sky and ocean. Troy caught a look from Dutch then, saw her taking in the full view of the nice house. There was something in her demeanor that unsettled him. Something dubious, maybe—what Malone would call “sketch.” But Louie Mo’s body of work spoke for itself, and when Troy turned back, he lowered his Corona to Louie’s and clinked. “Old school,” he said.
    â€œOld school,” Louie echoed back, but he didn’t have a clue what it meant.
    He was soon outside on the back