Chapter One

I am in my office on Yucca, down the street from where Ed Wood used to live, in the slums of Hollywood. The phone rings until my voice on the machine answers.
"I need help," says the voice of a woman I can tell is used to getting anything she wants. We all need help, I think. But so far we've got nothing else in common.
She leaves a name and number. Yvonne Archer. No mention of money. My ardor is not enflamed.

Chapter Two

A variety of magnetic plates fit on the sides of the van I use for surveillance work. Today I go with pest control.
The house is trying hard for admission to Brentwood. The guy shows up and I catch him on video. I can run his plate number later. The client doesn't need any X-rated shots. He just wants to know whom to name in the divorce proceedings.

Chapter Three

I see yellow arches on the corner, find a parking spot, then dash across the street to a rival fast-food joint where I order a burger and decaf. A man six and a half feet tall and loaded with muscle looms over me. "You're not my type," I tell him.
He grimaces, aggrieved. He squeezes into the seat across from me. He tosses a C-note onto my plate. I'm starting to like him better.
"That's to compensate for interrupting your repast," he says in a delicate tone of voice. "You get four more like it for five minutes of your time." He nods his head toward the street where a steel-gray limo is blocking traffic. "Someone wants to talk to you."
I get up, picking up the money. I pull a paper napkin from a dispenser to wipe the drool off my chin.

Chapter Four

A man with ruddy complexion and wavy white hair is waiting in the back of the limo to shake my hand and tell me that he is glad to make my acquaintance.
I say, "Uh-huh."
"My name is Cordwainer," he says. "I represent a consortium of interests who anticipate needing the services of a very private investigator, a maverick, a paladin, a freelance fer-de-lance, a knight-errant with an unerring instinct for doing his damnedest against all odds come hell or high water.
I blink. I nod. I say, "Uh-huh," again.
"The job will involve foreign travel. Do you have a valid passport?"
I tell him that I do.
"I'm hoping that you will hold yourself available for the next couple of days," he says. "If things develop as expected, it will be necessary for you to spend a week or more in England. You will be paid a thousand dollars a day plus expenses."
We shake hands again. "Graham will take care of you," he says and opens the door. "It was good talking to you."
"If you didn't wear your collar so tight," I say, "your face wouldn't flush like you're verging on apoplexy."

Chapter 5

Five hundred dollars richer I stride purposefully across the street to my van. A gangly man wearing black trousers, white shirt, black tie and a distressed expression tells me to move the vehicle because it's hurting his business. Feeling mellow, I cruise.
I call Detweiler. I want him to run the plate number, but he says he's too busy, he's got to liaise with the sheriff's department. He says there's been another mutilation murder in Malibu. Is that four or five? Six?
On Sunset near Fountain, I look up at the Hollywood sign. It used to say Hollywoodland. An actress killed herself by jumping off the H. I guess it earned her fame, but I can't recall her name.

Chapter 6

I pull into the driveway of the Burdette house. I ring the bell. I enter. I explain. I offer to show the tape. Mrs. Burdette says that won't be necessary. I explain some more. Options are explored. We visit the scene of the crime.
Pleasure before business, I figure.
I tell her to strip the bed, then strip.
It feels like a long time since lunch.

Chapter 7

At my apartment, which has the same address as my office, the message light is glowing.
"This is Harry Tanner speaking. I'm president of the Investigators Association local. If you're working as a P.I. in this town, you're going to have to pay dues. Our office address is in the book. See you soon."
Beep.
"This is Mel Lustig, State Bureau of Registry for Inquiry Agents. A license is required for private investigative work. You can obtain a permit application--"
Click.
Sue me, assholes.

Chapter 8

I watch a Bruce Lee movie on TV. I sleep for eight hours. I wake with the sun--or with what light from it manages to filter through the smog. I exercise--stretching, weights, speed bag, kata. For lunch I eat rice and beans and drink two cups of strong Assam tea.
I call Yvonne Archer, arrange a meeting.
I call Mr. Burdette at his office, tell him that I have determined his suspicions are unfounded.
"I'm so relieved," he says. "I love her so much, I had to know that it's not just a dream, that I can trust her. How much do I owe you?"
"The advance covers it."
"Thank you."
"It was my pleasure," I say.
In the words of Aerosmith, I think, dream on.

Chapter 9

At a tony snack shack near UCLA, I meet Yvonne Archer. She is five feet, nine inches tall, weighs 120 pounds, wears faded blue jeans and a navy sweater, and her blond hair is tied in a French braid. Her eyes are blue.
She has a croissant and cappuccino. I have papaya juice.
"When I saw your advertisement in the grocery store, I realized a detective could be what I need," Yvonne says. "Are you familiar with the work of Clifton Riordan?"
"He made some good Westerns and some strange horror movies in the Fifties."
"The last movie he made in Hollywood was never released, perhaps never completed," Yvonne says. "I was doing my master's thesis on Riordan, but I've shifted focus. All Riordan's films were edited by the same person. Leslie Montague. I'm developing a theory that Riordan's reputation as a director is due to his cutter. Unfortunately, I can't find out much about Leslie Montague. There doesn't seem to be anyone in this town who can remember Montague working in this town."
"So," I say, "this is a missing person case."
"Then you'll see what you can dig up for me?"
"One question. Which grocery store? I owe the owner ten dollars."

Chapter 10

I am being followed. A black Honda motorcycle and a blue Ford sedan. For a wild moment, I think the enemy have found me.