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paused for a moment, sizing up the group with beady black eyes and white curled tusks before darting into the jungle behind a prone Umberto.
    There was a moment of stunned silence before Tito ruined it.
    “Why did you let it escape?” he asked Umberto.
    “Che?” Umberto flicked a dirt clod off his golden mustache.
    “We could have chopped it up and used it for set dressing!”
    The old man laughed, looking around at the rest of the crew trying to get them to join in on the joke. Jacque didn’t bother translating it for the English speakers. He just knelt and picked up his bag. Daria agreed that it was too hot for jokes.
    After ten more minutes of walking, they found the village.

Chapter 5
    Denny
    The first time Dennis Roth got high on something other than liquor was in a movie theater on 42nd Street. It wasn’t one of The Deuce’s many porno theaters, but they catered to the same clientele, so it might as well have been. The crowd was comprised of people too poor, drunk or stoned to make a fuss about the smell of the place, or the occasional warm spots you found clinging to your seat.
    That night two years ago, Denny sat in this musty theater and was so broke that he was savoring each individual Jujyfruit, trying to get them to last through the entire double bill.
    When the first feature had ended—a movie called Up from the Depths which was exactly like Jaws, only minus the artistic worth or entertainment value—he got up to stretch his legs and go to the john. Going to the bathroom was a tricky proposition in a place like this, and he was on his guard.
    He tensed up when the girl approached him, bouncing the baggy against her palm. Suspicious, it took Denny a while to make sure she wasn’t packing either a gun or a dick. She was dynamite though, so when she asked him if he wanted to get high there wasn’t much debate. The girl was all legs and spandex and bad ideas.
    The next thing he knew, she was tying him off with her teeth. He was over the moon. They held hands for a bit and then fell asleep during the second movie. It had been a softcore Tito Bronze vampire flick by the name of Blood Delight (the domestic title) and it was the best movie-going experience of Dennis’s young life.
    It was now a couple of years later and the girl from the theater was long gone, but the smack habit had stuck around. Denny wasn’t watching Tito Bronze movies anymore. He was making them.
    He was making them damn well . Denny’s steady hand and ability to stretch a dollar were Tito’s real secret to success. Tito needed him because there were no dollies, cranes or helicopters, not within a hundred miles of a Bronze production. Denny’s skills ensured that even when the plots didn’t make any sense and the scheduling was tight: shit was in focus, framed properly and carried depth-of-field that was fucking deep .
    If anything, the heroin had made him better at his job. The junk turned him skinny, caused him to itch like his forearms were made of mosquito bites, and left a terrible taste in his mouth whenever he nodded off. But the smack also opened up a kind of third eye for the “chin-e-ma,” as Tito would say.
    The hippies dropped acid to create their whacked-out shit, and Denny shot horse to make his blood and beaver pictures.
    All of that was fine and good, but he was also getting less and less time between fixes. This increased need became a problem in situations like this one they had brewing here on the island: close quarters situations where he was forced to be around people for an extended period of time.
    Upon walking out of the dense jungle and entering the village, the urge was ripping through Denny like a hungry earthworm burrowing through the veins in his arm. Sweat dripped between his shoulder blades and his hands shook as he bounded through the jungle, ducking under branches and stopping in his tracks every so often to listen for voices in the distance.
    Earlier, as they walked through the huts and looked for