Stu said, “Scott!” sharply, and the kid's eyes opened on a junkie's worst possible scenario. Yanking out the needle, Wembley tossed it to the ground, where it plunked and spotted the concrete with milky liquid.

“Oh man,” said Stu.

Wembley burst into tears.

Moral conundrum.

In the end, Stu chose not to bust the kid, even though that was a clear violation of departmental regulations: “Upon witnessing a felony…”

Pretended to believe Wembley when the kid insisted it was his first time, he was just experimenting. Two other puncture marks on Wembley's arms proved otherwise, but both had the sooty look of old tracks, so at least the kid wasn't mainlining regularly- yet. Stu confiscated the dope kit he found in the pocket of Wembley's bomber jacket and tossed the works in a Dumpster on the lot- putting him in greater legal jeopardy than Wembley, but thank God the kid wasn't smart enough to know that.

He drove Wembley to Go-Ji's coffee shop on Hollywood Boulevard, plunked him down in a rear booth, and filled him full of strong, black coffee- technically, as much of a drug to Stu- then let the stupid kid glance around the putrid restaurant and see what advanced junkies looked like.

The load in the syringe must have been light, because Wembley was rattled and clear-eyed. Or maybe fear had out-adrenalized the opiate.

He ordered the kid a hamburger, forced him to eat while he delivered the requisite stern lecture. Soon, Wembley was mumbling sad biography- the horrors of growing up with affluent, multimarried Marin County parents who refused to set limits, post-college loneliness and alienation and fear of the future. Stu pretended to take it seriously, wondering if his own kids would be like that when they reached that age. By the end of an hour, Wembley was taking solemn vows of chastity, charity, and loyalty to the flag.

Stu drove him back to the studio. The kid looked ready to kiss him, almost girlishly grateful, and Stu wondered if he was gay, on top of everything else.

After that, Wembley avoided him on the set. It didn't matter. Wembley was in his debt big-time, and if the kid didn't drop out and move back home, he was someone Stu might be able to use one day.

And now the day had arrived. Ta dum!

“Good to see you, Scott.”

“You too.” The kid lied miserably. His mouth trembled and he sniffed. Red nose. Those eyes. Stupid little idiot.

“How've you been?”

“Great. What can I do for you, Detective?”

Stu put his arm around Wembley's bony shoulder. “Actually, quite a bit, Scott. Let's find somewhere to talk.”

He ushered Wembley to a bench and said, “I need information on Cart Ramsey. Discreet information.”

“All I know is what's been on the news.”

“No rumors around the lot?”

“Why would there be?”

“Because no one gossips more than industry folk.”

“Well, if there is gossip, I haven't heard it.”

“You're telling me no one's said anything about Ramsey?”

Wembley chewed his cheeks. “Just… whatever everyone else is saying.”

“Which is?”

“He did her.”

“Why do they say that, Scott?”

“He beat her up, right? Maybe he wanted to get back together and she said no.”

“That your theory or someone else's?”

“Everyone's. Isn't it yours?” said Wembley. “Otherwise, why would you be here?”

“Does Ramsey have any sort of reputation?”

Wembley snickered. “Not as an actor- no. I don't know shit about him. The whole thing doesn't interest me.”

“Well,” said Stu. “Now it does, Scott. It interests you a lot.”

19

I had a pretty good time today, getting that corn and being left alone. I'll go back to Five, make some plans.

I head back toward the open fence, see someone waving.

The geeky grandparents. Standing right where the road curves off.

The old guy holds up his camera. They're both waving, and the woman calls out, “Young man? Could you help us for a second?”

I don't want to attract attention by running away or acting weird, so I go over to them.

“Hey, big fella,” says the guy. What a dork. He's wearing a Dodgers T-shirt and shorts and socks and shoes and a light blue hat. His skin's pink and he has a big lumpy nose, like the guys at the Sunnyside.

His camera is huge, in a big black case full of buckles and snaps, and his wife's got one just like it.

“Sorry to bother you, my friend, but you seem like a nice guy,” he says, giving me a smile full of yellow teeth.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Polite,” she says, smiling. “Not everyone we've met is polite. I'm sure he can do it, honey.”

He clears his throat and taps his camera case. “This is a Nikon camera from Japan. My wife and I were wondering if you could do us a favor and take a picture of us, so we could have one together.”

“Sure.”

“Thanks a lot, son.” He reaches into his shorts and takes out a dollar bill.

“You don't have to pay me,” I say.

“No, dear, we insist,” says the wife, and even though her eyes are hidden behind sunglasses, something changes on her face- just for a second, her mouth turns down. Like she's sad. Full of pity. Like she knows I need the money.

I'm thinking, maybe if I look poor enough, she'll give me more, and I hunch over a little but all she does is pat my hand.

“Take it. Please.”

I pocket the dollar.

“All righty,” he says. “So now we've got a business deal.” More teeth. “Okay, hon, where's the best spot?”

“Right where we were, the sun's perfect.” She points and walks up the hill a bit, stamps her foot, and touches her own camera. Why they need two cameras is a good question, but I guess some people don't trust machines. Or their memory. They probably want to make sure they capture everything they see, maybe to show the grandkids.

She says, “Okay!” Kind of sings it out. She's short, skinny, wears a man's jacket over her Dodgers T-shirt and green pants.

He takes his camera out of his case and gives it to me and goes up next to her. It looks expensive, and I'm nervous holding it.

“Don't worry,” she says. “It's simple, and you look like a smart young man.”

I look at them through the viewfinder. They're too far away, so I come closer.

“It's preset, son,” he says. “Just push the button.”

I push. Nothing happens. I try again. Still nothing.

“What's the matter?” he says.

I shrug. “I pushed it.”

She says, “Oh no, did it jam again?”

“Let me take a look,” he says, coming down again. I give him the camera and he turns it around. “Uh-oh. Same problem.”

“Oh, for Pete's sake,” she says, stomping her foot. “I told you it was a good idea to bring mine along. When we get back home, first thing I'm doing is going straight back to that dealer and tell him to fix it right this time!”

He gives me an embarrassed smile, like he doesn't like her bossing him around.

She joins us, smelling of some kind of soap. He smells of onions.

“Sorry, sweetie, this will just take a minute,” she says, opening her camera case and taking out… something big and black but not a camera- it's a gun. I can't believe it, and all of a sudden she's jabbing it really hard into my belly button, and I can't breathe and she's pushing it there, like she's trying to force it right through me, and her other hand's around my neck squeezing hard. She didn't look that strong, but she's really strong, and he's holding me, too, pinning my arms to my sides.

They're on both sides of me, like they're my parents and the three of us are a family, only I can't breathe and they're hurting me and she's saying, “Now, just come with us, street trash, and don't make the wrong move or we'll kill you, we really will.”

Smiling again. Not pity, something else- the same look that was all over Moron's face before he went for the tools.