Your ebook will be delivered by email after checkout.

You’ll receive messages from both Evan Graver and BookFunnel with download links. You can read your books in the free BookFunnel app or send them to your preferred e-reader.

Please log in to https://my.bookfunnel.com/ using the email address you used at checkout. All your books will be there!

This product is a premium EBOOK compatible with any modern digital app and device: 

• Kindle or Kindle App for phones/tablets
• Apple Books
• Google Play Books
• Nook
• Kobo
• Native e-readers on Apple and Android devices
• Microsoft Surface and Tablets of all kinds
• iPads, iPods, iPhones
• Android phones and devices

THIS EBOOK WILL BE DELIVERED INSTANTLY BY EMAIL FROM BOOKFUNNEL.

“A director doesn’t have to talk stuntmen into doing things that were dangerous. His job is to talk them out of doing things that are dangerous and somehow keep them alive because they’re all fucking crazy.” Director Richard Rush, Oscar Nominee for the movie The Stunt Man

1
One of the most common myths about stunt work is that it’s glamorous.
It’s not.
Trust me.
I think it stems from people seeing stunt performers as daredevils and risk-takers who rub elbows with celebrities while making movie magic. In reality, it’s hard, grueling work. It’s training every day. It’s networking, learning new skills, and recouping from injury.
Since returning to L.A. from being held hostage for ransom and subsequently tracking down the people who had taken me, I’d found myself back where I’d started when I’d first arrived in the City of Angels almost fourteen years ago—I was hustling.
Which brings us to the most important stunt lesson: Humble up.
I was eating humble pie. And big fucking slices of it. Do I like it? Absolutely not. Nobody does, but sometimes you just gotta eat the shit sandwich.
I’d tried to go from stunt work to acting. It worked, too. I’d made a name for myself as being able to perform in both roles and had finally landed a big-budget part, but as the buddy, not the leading man. After two box office flops, Wetsuit Productions pulled the plug on our movie series.
Instead of a six-film deal, we got two. But the films were seeing a resurgence on streaming services, and I was cashing those residual checks, so it wasn’t like I was living on ramen and hot dogs. I never wanted to go back to those days.
Another thing contributing to my lack of work was that people still saw me as a liability for two reasons: I had been all over the news when my wife had been brutally murdered, and I’d helped break up my abduction ring in New Mexico. Stigma can be as bad as karma.
I don’t know how many times I’ve met someone, and they’d say, “Oh, you’re the guy who killed his wife and got away with it,” or “We don’t want that kind of publicity around here.”
It’s no use arguing with them because their mind is already made up. Despite my being exonerated and the true killer, Jordan Reese, locked behind bars, I still had the stink of murder about me.
My fall from grace was a true reflection of Hollywood culture. Another actor or stunt performer would gladly step over my smoldering corpse to get themselves one rung higher on the ladder. Not everyone is like that, but this is “show business,” not “show friends.”
Even though my resume speaks for itself, my agent, Dixie Carter, the chain-smoking, leather-skinned, blue-haired ancient who’d been around the industry since the mid-seventies, was having trouble getting me a gig.
So, there I was hustling and whistling.
Back in the old days, that meant driving all over L.A. just to show up at some set at the ass crack of dawn on the off chance that I might get a job. The key was to stand a respectful distance from the stunt coordinator and pray he had a few precious seconds of free time for you to hand over your headshot with a resume stapled to it and pitch yourself in a quick, professional manner with just the right dose of humility and politeness.
One of three things usually happened: the coordinator would throw my headshot straight into a garbage can; some might look it over while sipping coffee from a leaking cardboard cup, hand the glossy back, and say no thanks; or my favorite, I’d get hired on the spot.
In those days, I was so broken that I wasn’t above fishing those expensive glossies out of the trash to use again.
Nowadays, I don’t have to drive all over creation. There are websites, social media, email, and a host of other ways to hustle. It’s all about letting people know who you are and what you can do. What really pays dividends is having stunt friends who will take you along for the ride when they get a job. That’s what we call networking.
And when you’re not hustling for that next gag, you’re training your ass off.
Why am I telling you this? Surely not to write a book about how to become a stunt performer, or even to tell you my sob story.
In truth, my career was at a low point that was absolutely miserable for me. Despite having been one of the biggest names in the stunt industry, having worked successfully for over a decade on multiple television series and on massive blockbusters, I couldn’t buy a freaking job.
So, I spent my time at a training center to brush up on rusty skills and maybe, cross my fingers and send good vibes into the universe, that just maybe, someone would hook me up with a gag.
Even my best friend Tony Brennan, a guy who’d made the jump from stuntman to stunt coordinator to second unit director—he’s the guy in charge of the special effects and B-roll footage—had trouble getting me onto a set.
Fucking stigmas.

2
Walking into the small warehouse where Hammerhead Stunt School had its facilities, I felt at home. Like any good training center, there were tumbling mats, pads, a sparring ring, ropes to climb, tires to flip, and free weights to toss around. What separated this place from the typical box were the stunt rigging tools like trampolines, ratchets, springboards, air rams, and a host of other gear.
When I was a young stunt pup, I’d learned the ropes from Hammerhead and any other professional I could learn from. I tried to keep an open mind, tried to be teachable, and never turned down a gag unless it was something I didn’t know how to do, and if that happened, I immediately went out and learned how to do it. This was the same mindset I tried to place myself in during these dark days of professional uncertainty.
“Hey, Luke! Good to see you. How’s everything?” Rudolf “Hammerhead” Carrington asked as I came out of the locker room.
“Hustling, Rudy. What’s up with you?”
“You know, same shit as always. Running this place keeps me busy,” the veteran stuntman patted me on the shoulder with fatherly affection and added, “Just keep at it. You’re a great stuntman. The work will come.”
I appreciated the kind words of my stunt pappy. “Thanks. I know it’s just a slump.”
Long ago, Rudy had worked closely with Martin Short on Three Amigos and Captain Ron. The two men could have been twins with similar facial features and builds. Hammerhead now had a layer of visceral fat just behind his stomach muscles, giving him the appearance of a six-pack over his slight belly paunch. Other than that, the man was in remarkable shape for almost seventy.
Rudy had gotten his nickname during an especially brutal gag in which he was testing what we call the “jerk-off” ratchet shortly after veteran stuntman and director Hal Needham had invented it. The ratchet is connected to a long cable that is hooked to a vest beneath a stunt performer’s clothing. When activated, the ratchet jerks the stunt performer backward, giving the spectacular appearance of a leaping man or of being blown backward when shot in the chest or punched in the mouth.
Anyhow, old Hammerhead was getting “jerked off.” He took a squib load of shotgun pellets to the chest, and then the ratchet yanked him off his feet, slammed him to the ground, and dragged him backward into a brick wall. Legend has it that his head knocked several bricks loose, and despite the staggering concussion he’d just sustained, Rudy got up and did the gag again. I think getting his bell rung like that affected him in more ways than one, but then again, we all have a screw loose to be working in this industry.
Rudy turned me toward the air ram. “I don’t know what you’re into today, but there’re some kids here who need some instruction on the air ram. They’ve never used one before and could use a professional like you to teach them. Remember, put out into the universe what you want to receive.”
Part of being a good stunt performer was giving back and teaching the new pups a thing or two. I’ve got no problem sharing trade secrets with up-and-comers. Some of those kids would even teach me a thing or two in return. And it’s networking. Come across as an asshole who doesn’t care or is unapproachable, and people remember that. Put out what you want to receive. Yeah, sure.
Rudy introduced me to Paul, Stevie, and Zack, three guys in their early twenties with college degrees, black belts in Tae Kwon Do, and a desire to become stuntmen. They had all heard of me, so I told them a few stories before getting down to business. We set up the ram and a stack of pads to land on, then I gave them some basic instructions. Zack was the first man off the ram, launching into the air, doing a front flip, and landing on his feet.
Damn, I wish I was that graceful on my feet. Stevie was next, followed by Paul, who landed flat on his back with a loud thwack. Yeah, you and me, brother—not so graceful.
The stunt pups took multiple turns in the ram, getting launched into the air. The air ram is a basic stunt device. When a performer steps on the ram’s pedal, the compressed air will launch the performer into the air. The height and distance of the jump can be fine-tuned by adjusting the amount of air in the cylinder.
I had a few goes at the ram as well, even though it wasn’t my favorite thing. I’ve seen guys step short of the mark on the ram and break a shin bone. And overstepping the mark can blow out a knee. Compressed air is no joke.
I walked over to chat with another excellent stuntman, Kyle Sklar. He’s been around the industry for the better part of three decades and has more stories than an encyclopedia. We’d worked on a lot of jobs together and spent a lot of time on a bar stool, hoisting frosty beverages.
Kyle and I were laughing about the time I’d rolled a brand-new rental car that the second unit director had loaned us to perform a stunt. Kyle was the first person there to help pull me out of the wreck. The stricken director had put his hands on his head and blubbered like a baby because he hadn’t bothered to get the extra insurance. Kyle had shot back, “Sucks to be you. You’re an idiot for letting us borrow it.”
Still laughing, I heard a sickening crunch followed by a scream and spun to see Zack lying on the ground, holding his shattered leg.
“Call an ambulance,” I told Kyle, and ran toward the injury scene.
Zack’s tibia bone had shot up through the top of his knee, shattering the kneecap and stabbing through the skin. Paul’s and Stevie’s faces were ashen.
I knew how it had gone down. They’d gotten cocky and hadn’t respected the equipment. Sometimes shit just happens.
“You’re going to be okay,” I said to Zack amid his blubbering and tears. Turning to Paul, I shouted for him to get a towel.
Rudy came running over with a medical kit, but I saw his stomach lurch and throat contract at the grisly sight of bone projecting from flesh. It wasn’t doing me any wonders either.
“Fuck! It hurts,” Zack screamed.
“Hey, Rudy, get these kids out of here!” I shouted as Stevie and Paul crowded in.
The gym owner stood and put an arm over the shoulders of Zack’s buddies, steering them away from the accident scene. Zack was trying to roll onto his side, reaching for his injured leg. I put my hand on his shoulder and pushed him back flat. “You gotta lie still, buddy. Help is on the way.”
At that moment, Kyle came over and knelt beside me, cell phone to his ear. I assumed he was talking to 9-1-1. “How’s he doing?” he asked me.
“He’s stable, but he’s got a helluva busted leg,” I said.
The wound wasn’t bleeding much, but if the bone shifted, it could do more damage and possibly nick an artery. I rummaged through the med kit, finding a roll of white gauze.
As I was about to wrap the leg with it, a redheaded woman came running over with a towel. Together, we wrapped it around Zack’s leg as a makeshift tourniquet to prevent further bleeding and stabilize the bone.
When we had the leg wrapped, the woman held Zack’s hand and whispered words of comfort to him.
Zack’s leg would be fucked up for the rest of his life. I wondered if this was my fault for walking away from the air ram and allowing the kids to do their thing while I joked with Kyle. These things happened every day to stunt performers. Training is often harder than the gag itself.
I glanced at the woman holding Zack’s hand. Her green eyes filled with tears as she talked to him. I saw one slip down her cheek. Yeah, I felt bad for the guy, too, but no one was shedding tears over my career. I gritted my teeth and listened to Kyle Sklar give updates to the 9-1-1 operator.
About ten minutes later, the paramedics arrived. They further stabilized Zack’s leg, got him on a gurney, and wheeled him out. Paul and Stevie rolled with their friend to the hospital.
I sat down on some bleachers Ruddy had set up, so his students had a place to sit during instruction. I’d sat in them numerous times, learning about fight choreography, how to use fall pads, and various other equipment. Sometimes there were even karate or jiu-jitsu tournaments in the sparring ring.
The woman who’d helped wrap Zack’s leg came over and sat beside me. She said, “That was brutal.”
“Yep,” was all I could reply. There was no witty comment about nasty leg injuries like that. Give me a few days, and I’ll start making light of it, but right then, it was a reality check of how dangerous my chosen profession could be.

4
“I’m Addison Miller,” she said.
She was two inches shorter than my five-ten. Her long red hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Addison looked to be in pretty good shape. It wasn’t hard to judge her physique in her steel-blue running shorts and matching sports bra under a white tank top.
“Luke Wesson,” I replied, shaking her hand. I could feel her appraising me as well. I’m not the biggest guy on the block, but most actors aren’t giants either, so it helps when it comes to doubling them. I maintained a steady workout regimen with weightlifting and running, as well as practicing Krav Maga and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, both of which I had learned at Hammerhead’s. Normally, I style my black hair up in the front with some gel, but lately, I’d said, “fuck it” and gone without it.
When her emerald-green eyes met my blues, I asked her, “What brings you to the gym?”
“I’m taking Krav Maga lessons.”
“Increasing your choreography repertoire?” I asked, figuring she was a stuntwoman.
“Oh, gosh, no,” she said. “I’m boning up for self-defense. I’m a private investigator.”
I snorted in surprise. “Really?” I wanted to make a comment about boning her, but I kept it to myself.
“Yes, I’m a P.I.,” Addison seemed unfazed by my disbelief at her chosen profession. “I’d give you a card, but I don’t have a place to carry them in this outfit.”
“Cool. So, do you have your own office or work for someone?” I asked hastily to move past my self-conscious blundering.
“I work with my grandfather at his company, Miller Investigations. I come in here to train and to blow off some steam.”
“It must be rough chasing all those cheating husbands,” I joked.
“It can be.” Addison shrugged. “What about you? What brings you here?”
“I’m trying to stay sharp while I’m between jobs. I’m a stuntman by trade.”
She cocked her head. “And an actor, if I remember correctly.”
“Oh, so, you’ve seen one of my shitty pictures?”
“I wouldn’t call Deep Blue a shitty picture,” she replied. “More like a ‘cop classic’.”
Her sarcasm made me chuckle. “Well, Addison, thanks for the laugh, but I need a drink. Seeing that kid’s injury has turned me off from training for the day. You care to join me?”
“Nah. I’m going to stay here. My class is about to start. Maybe you should stick around. Blow off some steam with me.”
I wanted to blow off some steam with her, but not on the mat. There I go again. Maybe she was pressing the innuendo button herself. “Have fun, Addison. I’ll see you around.”
“Nice to meet you, Luke.”
I changed clothes and walked out of the stunt school into the warm California sunshine. L.A. in the summer. Fantastic. Life doesn’t get much better. I wore blue jeans, black Alpinestars motorcycle riding boots, and a T-shirt bearing the logo of some movie I’d worked on years ago. Shrugging into my riding jacket and gloves, I walked over to my Honda CB1000R Black Edition motorcycle and started it up. I let her idle as I pulled on my helmet and adjusted my backpack on the rear seat under the cargo netting.
“Glad I caught you,” Addison said, startling me. “I wanted to give you one of my cards. You know, in case you ever need a P.I., or you know, you wanna call me sometime about getting that drink.”
I raised my eyebrows. Maybe it wasn’t innuendo but genuine interest. I pocketed the card and said thank you.
She hooked a thumb over her shoulder at the gym door. “I gotta get back inside—class and all.”
I watched her go, my mind reeling. It had been a while since a woman had told me to call her. When the door to the stunt gym slammed shut, it seemed to shake me from some kinda reverie.
I swung a leg over the Honda’s saddle. Having a drink wasn’t going to clear my head, but riding a motorcycle always did the trick. It was about being in the moment. Total clarity. Total focus. I kicked the transmission into gear and pulled away, easing the throttle open to get rolling, then wicking it hard to lift the front wheel in a long power wheelie.
My second gag—that’s what we call a stunt in the industry—was as a motorcycle rider. Being excellent on two wheels had earned me a reputation. Doing that one stunt well had translated into numerous other bike and car gags.
I made my way across L.A. and onto the PCH—that’s Pacific Coast Highway for those of you who don’t live in the great liberal mecca of California. I liked riding along the ocean. This road was special to me. Not because it was technical in its difficulty to ride, but because it had easy sweeping turns and spectacular views. I’ve ridden or driven this road too many times to count, especially when my wife, Candice, had been alive. Her parents still lived in Santa Barbara, and Candice had been buried there. I hadn’t been to the cemetery since the day she’d been laid to rest.
In Malibu, I turned onto Kanan Dume Road and followed it to Mulholland Highway.
Just to the east of this intersection is a portion of Mulholland called “The Snake.” It starts at the scenic pullout where sports car drivers and motorcycle riders congregate to watch others make their way in and out of curves. From the steep overlook, you can see the Seminole Springs Mobile Home Park some two miles distant. Spreading out between the overlook and the mobile home park is a rugged valley with the road curving upward, culminating in a switchback just before the overlook.
Instead of stopping at the overlook, I slipped right past the pack of cars and bikes gathered there and powered into the curves, throwing the bike around with extra aplomb just to show off. I had to remember that I didn’t have any knee pucks on as I stuck my leg out in a turn, almost grinding off my jeans and skin when I bumped against the rough pavement.
Just down the road from The Snake is a local gathering spot called the Rock Store. It’s a popular place for motorcyclists, or anyone really, to grab a bite to eat, bench race, swap lies, and tell stories. Memorabilia decorated every wall with plenty of photographs of famous people who had passed through Ed and Veronika Savko’s store. Originally built in the 1910s as a stagecoach stop—back when horsepower was measured by actual horses and not by cubic centimeters—Rock Store was probably one of SoCal’s most famous motorcycle hangouts. They’d called it the Rock Store because when they purchased it, the building was made entirely of volcanic rock.
As I walked in, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I didn’t bother to pull it out. It was probably someone trying to reach me about upgrading my car warranty. Sitting down at the café bar, I ordered an egg salad sandwich with fries and a soda. After seeing Zack’s leg bone, I needed a cheat day. The place wasn’t busy by weekend standards, but there were still quite a few riders coming and going. After the Woolsey Fire in 2018, parts of Mulholland Drive had been shut down for repairs and the road was finally open again, meaning people were coming out of the woodwork to ride The Snake.
Once I finished my sandwich, I wandered around the store, looking at the photos and sipping my drink. Arnold Schwarzenegger, Jay Leno, Steve McQueen, famous bike builder Roland Sands, and photos of many others graced the wall. Included among those photos was a shot of one of my best friends, Richie Rudic, a custom bike builder, stuntman, and proud owner of Rudic Motorsports.
And my own portrait was beside his. I had signed it the day Rich Savko, Ed’s son and current owner of the Rock Store, had hung it. I smiled at the memory and the irony. Me and Steve McQueen on the same wall. I may have been famous and proud that day, but I was feeling humble today.
My phone buzzed again. This time I dug it out and saw Dixie Carter’s number on the Caller ID. I grabbed my helmet and made my way out of the store as I put the phone to my ear.
“What’s up, Dixie?”
“For fuck’s sake, Lucas, you gotta answer your phone the first time I call you, so I don’t have to keep dialing your fucking number.” She coughed, and I imagined her puffing away on a Camel Wide with a cloud of blue smoke around her head.
“Sorry, Dixie, I was eating lunch. What’s so urgent?”
“I’m trying to put the paddles on that flatline you call a fucking career. I just got a call from Alex Ford. He’s a director looking for a stunt coordinator. Guess who I recommended? The client who doesn’t answer his fucking phone.”
“What’s he directed so far? I’ve never heard of him.”
“Who gives a shit what he’s directed or for whom, Lucas? All that matters is that he’s willing to give you a job. I’ll have Sylvia text his number to you.”
And just like that, I had a job—and a step up the career ladder to coordinator.
If I’d known how things were going to turn out, I would have said no and run away screaming.

5
Standing in the Rock Store’s parking lot, I wanted to click my heels.
The drought was over.
I was back in the game.
But I didn’t have a clue about being a stunt coordinator. I was used to being in front of the camera, not behind it. My next call would be to Tony Brennan to ask for his advice, but before I did that, I wanted to check out Alex Ford.
A simple Google search on my phone produced enough information for me to be dangerous. Alex was a member of the Directors Guild of America and the Writers Guild of America West, which meant I had a union job.
Alex had ten films to his credit. Six as an independent and four union. Almost all of them were low-budget action flicks made for streaming services. I was digging through one of the guild websites when I came across a comment by Kyle Sklar about his experience on Alex’s last picture. It basically said that Alex Ford didn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground and that anyone crazy enough to work for Alex would get seriously injured.
Instead of calling Tony, I got on the bike and rode back to Hammerhead’s Stunt School. I didn’t have Kyle’s number in my contacts and wanted to give him a call. I knew Rudy would have it.
“Back again?” Rudy asked when I walked into his office.
“Yeah. You don’t happen to have Kyle Sklar’s number, do you?”
“I assume you’re calling for professional reasons.”
“I want to talk to him about a director named Alex Ford.”
Rudy cocked his gray head and raised his eyebrows. “He’s not someone I’ve heard of.”
“Me either, until Dixie called, but Kyle worked for him. Alex offered me a job as stunt coordinator, so I’m trying to check him out before I say yes.”
Rudy gave me Kyle’s number, and I called him from the phone in Rudy’s office. When I got Kyle on the line, I asked him about Alex.
“You’re risking your life and the lives of your stunt team, Luke,” Kyle replied.
“Are working conditions that unsafe?”
“He presses. He’s in a hurry. Safety isn’t always priority one and things get overlooked.”
“He offered me a job as stunt coordinator.”
“It’s your funeral,” Kyle said. “Look, I know you’re desperate for a job, but I don’t think this is it. Run away. Run far, far away.”
“So, no chance you want to work with me on this?” I asked.
“Not on your life.”
“Thanks, Kyle.” I hung up. His words meant a lot to me. Kyle had mentored me over the years and when he said a job was fucked up, it generally was. I looked up at Rudy, who was leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets. He’d eavesdropped on my conversation. “What do you think, old timer?”
“It’s a job, Luke, despite what Kyle said.”
I drummed my fingers on the desk. “Yeah, it is.”
I decided not to bring in Tony until I talked to Alex Ford, so I called the director. He asked me to meet him out in the Valley and gave me an address in Woodland Hills. After looking at it on Google Maps, I told Alex I would see him in an hour. I got off the phone, shook Rudy’s hand, and glanced around the gym for Addison. But she’d already left for the day.
Jumping back on the bike, I headed north past my buddy Rudic’s place, LAX, Marina del Ray, and the Santa Monica Pier, then zoomed up the PCH to South Topanga Canyon Blvd, a twisting road through the mountains that dropped me onto the San Fernando Valley.
I found Alex’s place in the suburbs on Flamingo Street.
The house was a two-story affair with blue siding, a three-car garage facing the street, and solar panels on the roof. High hedges separated Alex Ford’s house from the neighbors and the miniscule yard was freshly mowed. I rang the doorbell and waited for six beats before pressing the button again.
A few minutes later, a woman in a yellow bikini strutted over to the door and opened it. She introduced herself as Erika. In her bare feet, she was an inch taller than my five-ten. Her dirty blonde hair fell past her bra line. The plastic surgeon had done a wonderful job of keeping her natural shape, adding just enough silicone to make her boobs larger and firmer. I had seen her somewhere before but couldn’t place her. I tried to keep my gaze fixed on her blue eyes and not look at her “assets.”
I followed Erika through the recently renovated home to a glistening pool centered in a concrete-covered yard surrounded by big pines on the other side of a redwood fence.
Propped up in a chaise lounge, was a man in his late twenties. He had short brown hair and pale green eyes set into an oval face. He wore a pair of blue trunks to showcase the fact that he was tan and fit. Alex Ford belonged in front of the camera and not behind it. When he stood to shake my hand, he was taller than the blonde. He slipped his arm around her waist and smiled at her before they lightly touched their lips together.
“Erika is my wife, and associate producer,” he said proudly.
Huh. I hadn’t noticed the ring. I guess my focus had been elsewhere.
“Nice to meet you both,” I said.
“Glad to have you aboard,” Alex said. “I’ve followed your career since before Jordan Reese killed your wife. It seems you’ve had a run of bad luck since then.”
“I’m here to talk about the job,” I said, not wanting to rehash my personal or professional history.
“Care for a beer, or something else cold to drink?” Alex asked.
“I’ll take a glass of water,” I said. I had one hard and fast rule in life—never drink and ride.
Erika disappeared into the house and returned with a glass of ice water. She placed it on the table beside a lounge chair.
“I have the script here,” Alex said, grabbing a thick binder from the pool deck beside the chair he’d been sitting in. He handed it to me as I sat down by my glass of water.
Printed on a little card inserted in the pocket on the folder’s cover was the movie’s title: Gun and Run.
I flipped open the front page and started to scan the manuscript. “What is this?” I asked, holding up the binder and tapping my finger against a scene that simply read: “They fight.”
“I figured I’d leave it to your discretion,” Alex replied.
After taking a sip of water, I dried the condensation off my fingertips by wiping them on my jeans. I didn’t want to get the script wet. Carefully, I flipped more pages, looking at the blanks Alex had left for the stunts. I closed the binder and put it on the table before I was halfway through.
Leaning forward, I looked Alex Ford in the eye. “Look, Alex, you’ve got a reputation as someone who’s difficult to work with. If this script is any indication, I can see why. There are a lot of holes.”
“I agree,” Alex said. “Erika and I have discussed this problem in depth. As we move forward, we want to increase our standing, so we’ll be considered for films with larger budgets, and if that means changing how I do things, then so be it. I know my reputation amongst the stunt community is keeping that from happening, so we want to hire the best.”
I chewed on that for a moment. Alex’s answer seemed about as fake as his wife’s tits. I mean, it was hard not to look at them almost fully displayed behind the tiny yellow triangles that barely covered her nipples.
But I felt there was something he wasn’t telling me.
Finally, I said, “Okay. Do you have a second unit director?”
“No. Do you have one in mind?” Alex asked.
“Tony Brennan. He and I will work together to coordinate the stunt work you need.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Erika said. “He worked for Lance Jefferies, didn’t he?”
“Yeah. He did,” I said. “We both worked for Lance on quite a few of his projects. When Wetsuit Productions axed their Deep Blue series, Lance decided he needed a vacation. I haven’t spoken to him in a couple of months.”
Alex removed his sunglasses and tapped the temple tip against his teeth. He stared thoughtfully off into the distance before saying, “This could work. How soon can you assemble a stunt team? I have the actors lined up and the budget set.”
“A couple of days,” I said. “If Tony goes for it. If not, then we’ll have to find another second unit director.”
“Can you get him on the phone now?” Erika asked.
“I’d rather go talk to him in person. Given your reputation and mine, I think he deserves that.”
Alex shrugged. “I hope I can count on you, at least.”
I didn’t give him an answer as I stood. I thanked the two of them for seeing me, then headed around the house on a stone path to the front gate. I let myself out, donned my riding gear, and headed toward Tony’s house in Hollywood.
As I cruised west on the 101 toward my exit at Laurel Canyon, I tried to think of the best way to pitch this deal to Tony. The simplest way is the most direct. We both needed a job.
I took Laurel Canyon over the Santa Monica Mountains and parked in front of Tony’s house. It was a simple two story with a view of the mountains from the backyard. Turning off the bike, I felt my stomach growl. A glance at the clock on the bike’s digital dash told me it was dinner time. Tony liked his family dinners with his wife and kids, so I hoped he had time to talk.
He greeted me at the front door before I could ring the doorbell. “What’s up, brother?”
Tony and I have a similar appearance, although he has a couple of inches on me. On more than one occasion, we’d been asked if we were brothers.
“Just making the rounds,” I said.
“I heard about what happened at Hammerhead’s. Is everything cool?”
“It was gruesome. The kid will never be the same.”
“Those are the risks we take,” he said. “You have anything to eat yet? I can have Andrea set an extra plate.”
“I could eat,” I said.
“Good. Come on in.”
Andrea was already setting a plate for me at the table. Amber and Keith, their two kids, bounced up from their chairs to give me a hug. They were still young enough to be excited about seeing Uncle Luke, but their talk had turned from playing with toys in their rooms to video games and soccer and local sports scores as they’d gotten older.
I gave each of the kids a hug. Not wanting to waste time and have the question about Alex Ford’s picture gnawing in my gut, I disentangled myself from the rug rats and steered Tony to his office.
“This seems ominous,” Tony said. “Do I need a drink?”
“Help yourself. The reason I wanted to talk to you is that I got a call today from my agent today.”
“That’s great news!” Tony exclaimed.
“There’s a caveat,” I said. “Alex Ford wants me to be the stunt coordinator for his next picture, and I may have mentioned your name when he said he needed a second unit director.”
“Ah, shit,” Tony muttered. “I do need a drink.”
“I heard Alex was reckless, so I went to his house to meet with him. He says he wants to do things the right way. Everything is set. He just needs you, me, and a stunt team.”
Tony shook his head as he gripped the back of his office chair. “That guy has a bad reputation for pressuring the production schedule and taking risks.”
“I know, Tony, but I need this job, and you haven’t worked in a while either.”
His hands tightened and released on the back of his office chair as he thought it over.
“This is a chance to put us back on the map,” I pleaded. “We make one picture with Alex and move on.”
“Something doesn’t feel right, Luke. Why hire you as the stunt coordinator? I’m not trying to be disrespectful here, but we always said friends could say what needed to be said without repercussions.”
I nodded, waiting for the bad news.
“The way I see it, Luke, is that we know Alex’s reputation. We know others won’t work with him, and other people in our industry have an aversion to working with you for reasons of their own.” Tony pulled out his chair and sat behind his desk, placing both hands on the blotter as if in supplication. “What I’m trying to say, Luke, is that this whole thing sounds like a freakin’ train wreck waiting to happen.”
“But it doesn’t have to be,” I insisted. “Let’s go talk to Alex tomorrow, you and me, and iron things out. We both need the work. I mean look at this office, I’ve never seen it so clean. Let’s do this, Tony. If not for me, then for Andrea and the kids. They need new soccer cleats and school clothes and groceries. We can’t live on residuals forever.”
Tony just stared at me.
“So, let’s go bust our asses, show them we can run the second unit like the bosses we are and move up the ladder,” I continued. “Let’s figure out how to use Alex Ford as a springboard to do our own thing with you directing and me running the second unit. We’ll make a pile of cash.”
Tony smiled wistfully. “That was always the dream, wasn’t it?”
“Since we were stunt pups, brother.”
Slapping a palm on the desk, Tony said, “Let’s fuckin’ do it.”
“Do what?” Andrea asked from the doorway.
“We’ve got a gig,” Tony said.
“About time,” Andrea replied with relief in her voice. “Now come eat dinner before it gets cold.”
We followed her to the table and sat down to a feast of slow-cooked pot roast with potatoes, carrots, onions, and celery. Andrea had made gravy to pour over the whole deal. It was delicious as her cooking always was.
“Daddy?” Amber asked. “What are you so excited about?”
“Uncle Luke and I have a new movie to work on,” he replied.
I glanced around at Tony’s family gathered at the table. They were my family by extension. In the back of my mind, I wondered if we were doing the right thing by teaming with a director with such a dangerous reputation.

Publisher: Third Reef Publishing, LLC
Publication Date: Forthcoming
ISBN:
Print Length:
File Size: 1MB
Language: English
Series Information: The Stuntman Thrillers
Book: 3
Bisac:
FIC002000 FICTION / Action & Adventure
FIC022090 FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Private Investigators
FIC027260 FICTION / Romance / Action & Adventure
FIC031010 FICTION / Thrillers / Crime
FIC030000 FICTION / Thrillers / Suspense
Fiction > Crime > Domestic
Literature & Fiction > Action & Adventure > Men's Adventure
Literature & Fiction > Genre Fiction > Crime > Noir
Mystery, Thriller & Suspense > Thrillers > Conspiracies
Books > Literature & Fiction > Genre Fiction > Crime > Hard-Boiled
Books > Literature & Fiction > Action & Adventure
Mystery, Thriller & Suspense > Crime Fiction
Literature & Fiction > Action & Adventure > Men's Adventure
Vigilante Thrillers