But now I am yours. Totally yours—if you will have me. Take me, Meetchell. Take me. Send in the Neemitz. Now!” “All right, Connie, but no more Mr. Nice Guy.” “Cut.” “Problem?” Dexter said grouchily, dropping the panting Ramona Alvilar onto the satiny sheets of the presidential bed on Air Force One. “Five minutes, everyone,” Jerry the director called out. He and Buddy approached. “Everything okay, Dex?” Jerry said. “Yes. Yes,” Dexter said a touch petulantly. “Everything’s fine. Why? Is it not fine for you?” “No, no,” Buddy said heartily. “It’s fine. Great. I think it’s going totally great.” “Really great,” Jerry echoed. “But I’m—maybe it’s just me—I’m not sensing a lot of heat. Buddy, does that sound fair?” “Yeah,” Buddy said. “I think it sounds fair.” “This is a hot, hot, hot scene here,” Jerry went on. “Ramona’s—Jesus—she’s on fire. We’re going to have to pack her in ice between takes. But when you hit the ‘No more Mr.
