The Spawn of Lilith Page 7

  He took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “Okay. There are some female roles that’ll need stunt doubling, and the budget only allows for one stuntwoman.” He gave a sheepish smile. “Actually the budget only allows for me and one other stunt person. The director’s already hired a bunch of actors who say they can fight.”

  Better and better.

  “So you want me to choreograph the fights, help train these actors who may or may not know a hilt from a blade, and double an as-yet-unknown number of actresses for—” I raised an eyebrow. “How much are they paying?”

  Randy mumbled something, his gaze flickering off to some point beyond my left ear. I waited until he finally looked straight at me, focusing on my eyes instead of my boobs for once. Then I leaned forward.

  “Come on, Randy. How much?”

  He gave a heavy sigh and ripped off the Band-Aid. “A hundred bucks a day. Flat rate. No adjustments for stunts.”

  Six months ago I would have either laughed in his face or punched him for what, under normal circumstances, was an insulting offer. A hundred a day was, plainly speaking, shit for pay. Hell, SAG minimum daily rate was around nine-hundred dollars, last time I checked, and something like thirty-five hundred a week. Those numbers didn’t even include the adjustments for individual stunts, which varied by the complexity and the risk involved.

  Now? A hundred bucks a day was more than I’d seen since the accident. Three weeks to shoot meant at least fifteen hundred bucks, maybe more if it was six days per week instead of five. So instead of laughing, punching, walking out, or any combination of the three, I asked another question.

  “What are you getting for the job?”

  “I’m getting three hundred a day,” Randy confessed.

  Which was shit for pay, as well, especially for a stunt coordinator, and made me slightly less outraged over the amount I’d make if I took the job.

  “I can totally slide you an extra fifty for any stunts you do that involve more than fight choreography. I know you’re worth a lot more.” He hesitated and then plunged ahead. “I just figured… I mean, I heard you wanted to work and… well, I could really use the help. Bottom line.”

  If anyone had told me a week ago that I’d be grateful to Randy for anything, I’d have laughed in his or her face. But unless he was lying about his own pay—and it would be easy enough for me to check—he was playing straight with me. And dammit, I really did want to work.

  “I appreciate that,” I said. “Anything else?”

  He brightened. “I think they’re paying twenty-five a day for extras to fill out some of the scenes, like the audience watching the gladiatorial games. Stuff like that.”

  I shuddered and shook my head. “No thanks. Twenty-five bucks a day isn’t worth the boredom. Are there any female fighting roles?”

  Randy’s face scrunched up in thought. It looked like it hurt. Then he shook his head.

  “I don’t think any of the gladiators are women. There are lots of female concubines, though.”

  “Swell.”

  Not.

  “But I can talk to Rocky—that’s the director—and see if he’d be open to having a girl fighter. Seems stupid not to when we’re gonna have the best of the best on set, y’know?”

  Irritation at the word “girl” warred with gratification at “the best of the best.” I decided to take the ego boost for the moment, and worry about educating Randy at a later date. His intentions were good, and I could work with that.

  “So, what do you think?” Randy eyed me hopefully.

  “Three weeks, huh?”

  “Well, more or less. Shooting starts a week from tomorrow, and they’ll pay for a few days of training so we can work with the actors, choreograph the fights and stuff.”

  I blinked in surprise.

  “Not a lot of pre-production time.”

  “Low budget,” he said, shrugging as if that explained everything.

  Not all films with shoestring budgets did things in a slipshod way. Some student filmmakers, for instance, spent months doing storyboards—planning out every move, every angle, every shot before shooting one frame of film or minute of video. The rush here didn’t bode well for the finished product.

  Still… it was work.

  “So, you in?”

  I nodded before I could change my mind. “I’m in.”

  Randy’s face lit up, his enthusiasm lending some genuine personality and charm to those generic good looks. “Great! I’ll tell Sean about it tomorrow morning.”

  “If he’s in a good mood, he may even give you some tips.”

  “You think he’ll mind you doing non-union work?”

  I shrugged. “I doubt it, but he won’t hold it against you no matter what. Sean’s fair.”

  I spoke with an assurance I didn’t actually feel. I had no idea how Sean would feel about me taking a job outside of the family. Frankly, though, I didn’t care. If Sean wouldn’t put me to work, I had every right to find it on my own. And I’d make sure he didn’t hold anything against Randy, no matter how he felt.

  “Cool,” Randy said. “I’ll let you know as soon as I lock down rehearsal space and a time.”

  Neither of us suggested the Ranch. My guess was Randy didn’t want anyone around to spill the beans about which one of us was actually the expert. I didn’t mind. I wanted to work and money was money, so eating a little humble pie would be worth it. Besides, last thing I needed was Seth trying to make me look bad in front of the actors.

  Hell, getting paid for time away from Seth?

  Priceless.

  “What’s the name of the movie?”

  “Uh, Steel Legions.”

  I snickered. I couldn’t help it.

  Randy gave a sheepish grin. “Yeah, I know. Cheesy, huh?”

  I downed the last of my mocha java and pushed my chair back. “I’d better get going. Let me know when we start rehearsals.”

  “Will do!”

  I stood up, retrieving my oversized hobo bag off the back of my chair, and turned to leave.

  “Hey, Lee?”

  I turned back warily, really hoping he wasn’t going to ask me out.

  “Yeah?” I asked.

  “Thanks.”

  Oh.

  “You’re welcome.”

  I started to leave again, then stopped. Time to act like a gracious adult, instead of a bitchy teen.

  “Thanks for asking me.”

  There. That didn’t hurt, did it?

  Randy beamed. “This is gonna be great!”

  * * *

  Sean was more than gracious to Randy, full of advice and encouragement. I got a different response.

  “So,” Seth sneered at me from across the kitchen table. “You’re doubling a bunch of eye-candy, choreographing the fights, and letting someone else take the credit for the work.”

  Sean gave him a warning glance. Seth ignored him.

  “Seriously, Lee?” he persisted. “You’re getting paid a hundred bucks a day for shit.”

  I shrugged. “It might be fun—and it’s paid. Which is more than I can say for anything else I’ve done since the accident.”

  Sean winced. So did I when I realized how tactless I’d just been.

  “Sean, I’m sorry.” I reached out and put my hand on top of his. “But you know I need to do something, right?”

  “I know, hon.”

  Seth gave a disgusted snort, pushed away from the table and left the room. Sean and I both ignored him.

  “And honestly,” I added, “Randy really needs the help. So it’s good for both of us, y’know?”

  Sean nodded, but still looked unhappy. “I just hate to see you waste your talents on something this low budget. You won’t even get a chance to show what you can do.”

  I shrugged, unwilling to argue with him.

  “Small steps, right?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  When I agreed to work on Steel Legions, the title screamed bad eighties exploitation and the budget didn’t add any con
fidence. What I didn’t realize was the degree to which I underestimated the level of craptitude.

  We’re talking a depth of suck that, with a bigger budget, would be a contender for a Razzie award. MST3K terrible. The type of awful that requires drinking games in order to make it bearable. Except when you ended up with alcohol poisoning, it still wasn’t worth it.

  Where to start?

  Randy and I held four training sessions the week before the shoot officially began. For lack of better location, we held them at Griffith Park. The production company—Chieftain Productions, henceforth known as Cheapo Productions—wouldn’t pay for rehearsal space, so our options were limited.

  Those actors who said they “knew how to fight”?

  They didn’t.

  “I wouldn’t bet on these guys in a slap fight against a five-year-old,” I’d muttered to Randy as we’d watched them go through basic sword drills. He’d nodded glumly.

  “If we can’t whip them into shape, we’re gonna end up beating out Deathstalker III for worst sword fight.”

  I just stared at him. “Not on my watch, Squid.”

  I’m not sure when it happened, but “Squid” had become my affectionate nickname for Randy, who no longer minded the term—as long as it came from me.

  “I’m gonna try and bring in another stuntman,” he said. “At least then we’ll have one more who won’t totally suck.”

  “Or you could talk the director into having one of the gladiators be a woman,” I suggested sweetly. “Unless you’ve already done that.” He got that “don’t beat me, I’m just a puppy” look again, which meant he hadn’t yet broached the subject.

  Nevertheless, Randy and I had ironed out a decent working relationship. I did my best to pretend to defer to him in front of people, and he did his best to pretend to be in charge. In reality I handled most of the drills and gave most of the directions. I was mostly okay with it and Randy—to give him credit—treated me like a partner instead of an assistant.

  By the end of the third day, the actors had actually improved to the point where maybe—just maybe—they’d be able to convince audiences they were gladiators. It would help if the audience was on something, mind you, but at least we could see progress.

  Then primary shooting began in a now defunct YMCA gym in the industrial part of Santa Monica. The gym had closed in the late nineties and had since been used as a location for a number of film and television productions. Bits and pieces of old sets still littered the place—some fake rocks here, some scaffolding there, and piles of full trash bags no one had bothered to remove.

  The concrete interior was cold, damp, and smelled like a cross between mildew and disinfectant. Didn’t matter that the outside temperature was in the mid- to high-seventies. Inside it was sixty degrees, tops. Which was great for the actors doing fight scenes, but I wasn’t doing enough actual fighting to keep warm. The poor concubines had to be freezing in their skimpy costumes. After the first day, most of the actors and crew took to wearing warm coats and sweaters.

  Then there was the script.

  The title Steel Legions conjured visions of robot armies, but the movie was about illegal gladiatorial games held in a secret compound, all for the amusement of the decadent rich. The production designer turned an Olympic-sized pool into a gladiatorial arena, with ancient wooden bleachers standing in for VIP seating.

  The hero, a budding all American basketball star named Johnny, had been kidnapped along with his girlfriend, Betty, who would be killed if he didn’t fight. Johnny juggled a busy schedule of boffing Vixenia—the evil genius behind the games—while fomenting rebellion among the fighters and saving his virginal girlfriend from the sweaty clutches of Axegard, undefeated gladiator and all-around bad guy.

  Wacky hijinks ensued.

  EXT – DAY – GLADIATORIAL ARENA

  JOHNNY

  I’ll kill you, you scum!

  AXEGARD

  Hahahahah! You don’t have the guts to kill me. But soon I will have your guts skewered on the end of my sword, while your pretty girlfriend watches. And then I will skewer her with my other sword! Hahahahah!

  BETTY

  Noooooooo!

  The actor playing Axegard actually said “Hahahahah” when he was supposed to be laughing. His real name was Axel, and I’m pretty sure he’d insisted that his character’s name be changed so he could remember it without writing it on his hand. To say that he wasn’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier would be an understatement.

  On top of that, he was a sadistic asshole without any concern for his fellow actors—he needed to come with a warning label.

  Axel attended only one rehearsal, the last one before filming started. He actually looked pretty good when he fought, probably because his intent was real. See, he had no idea how to make a fake fight safe, nor did he seem to care. This, in turn, improved everyone else’s timing—if only in the name of self-preservation.

  Meanwhile, I was doubling not only Vixenia and Betty, but the concubines as well. Never mind that I was at least six inches taller than Heather—the actress playing Betty—and twenty pounds heavier than Vixenia. I ended up getting stuffed into facsimiles of their various costumes whenever any of them had to be tossed around, slapped, or punched.

  At first I wondered why they even bothered. Reacting to a slap or a punch wasn’t exactly rocket science, and honestly, the finished product was going to look goofy as hell with me doubling all the females in the film. Then I did a quick scene with Axel. His job was to grab one of the concubines and throw her to the floor.

  Two moves.

  Simple, right?

  Not so with Axel. When he grabbed me, his fingers dug into my shoulders like pincers. He threw me to the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of me for a few minutes. And that was just rehearsal.

  To give Randy his due, he tried to intervene.

  “Uh, Axel, you don’t need to use that kind of force. Lee’s a stuntwoman. She can make it look real.”

  Axel’s reply?

  “It will not look good if it is not real.” Axel didn’t use contractions. Kind of like an alien on Star Trek, the original series.

  “Uh, yeah, but—”

  “Axel is correct,” the director chimed in, cutting Randy off. “Lee, you are a professional, yes? You can handle this?” He didn’t use contractions either.

  I bit my tongue before I answered.

  “Sure.”

  I did my best to ignore Axel’s look of triumph. Then, when the next break came, Randy took me aside.

  “You don’t have to put up with that kind of abuse, Lee.” I could tell he was genuinely upset on my behalf. “I mean, look at your arms.” There were bruises where Axel’s fingers had dug in. I just shrugged.

  “These’ll fade by tomorrow. I heal quickly. Just ask my doctors.”

  He cringed at that. “Sean would hand me my ass in a sling if he knew I’d let you get hurt on set.”

  “Sean would expect me to be responsible for myself in this situation,” I said, becoming exasperated. “Now that I know what to expect, I’ll be ready for whatever Axel throws at me.”

  Randy frowned, shaking his head. “It isn’t right.”

  “No, it’s not, but it’s not your fault. If the director won’t back us up, we either make the best of the situation or we walk.” I gave him a look. “We both need the work.”

  Randy muttered something under his breath, but dropped it.

  Then the director—a skinny Colombian with the improbable name of Rock Navida—added to the rich broth of bad. “Sweeetie,” he said to each girl, in an accent as indefinable as Christopher Lambert’s in Highlander, “I’ll give you an extra twenty-five today if you show your teets in dis scene.”

  Since all of the concubines placed a higher price tag on their naked breasts than twenty-five bucks, the answer was always no. This didn’t stop Navida from making the rounds again the next day, but he never thought to raise the price.

  See, Navida was cheap. Tak
e the size of the crew, for instance. Where most films had between five to ten minutes of end credits, Steel Legions might end up with thirty seconds to a minute. One production assistant, a director of photography, a first AD who also doubled as second AD, a makeup supervisor with no one to supervise, a wardrobe mistress, a set designer handling the props, as well, two stunt people, and an on-set caterer, Star Catering.

  Normally craft service is the social hub on a film in between takes, kind of like the kitchen is the most popular room at most parties. On Steel Legions, however, craft service was the equivalent of a hot zone. Gayleen Star, owner of the company and its sole cook, only charged a dollar fifty per head. Considering the quality of the meals, she was overcharging by at least a buck forty-nine.

  Rumblings of unrest among cast and crew became louder with each meal, although some of the noise may have been our digestive tracts. Luckily there was a Taco Bell a block away. The money we spent was more than worth the time we didn’t spend in the bathrooms.

  * * *

  At the beginning of the third week of shooting, Randy came to me at the end of the day and asked if I’d consider playing one of the concubines.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” I laughed, setting out broadswords, axes, and a couple of spears and shields in the locker room we used as a staging area, making sure they were cleaned and ready for the next morning’s shoot. “I’m already doubling the heroine, the villainess, and a half-dozen slave girls.”

  “Concubines,” Randy corrected me.

  “Whatever,” I snapped. “The point is, I really don’t have time to play an extra on top of everything else. Besides which, I already told you I hate doing extra work.”

  “I know, I know,” Randy said, his hands out in a “please don’t punch me” gesture. “But it’s not really extra work. You’ll get a credit.”

  “Be still my heart,” I muttered.

  “Rock says if you’ll be one of the concubines, he’ll give you a fight in the arena.”

  I set the halberd down with a thump and turned to face him.

  “Seriously?”

  Randy nodded. “You’d be fighting Axel.” He scratched his head, an embarrassed look on his face. “Rock thinks it would be good if one of the concubines refuses to have sex with him and has to fight him instead.”