envelopes when Overby came up from behind and tapped him on the right shoulder.
The man froze—if only for an instant—then spun around on curiously small feet. He wore the same surprised jolly smile he would wear if encountering his oldest and dearest friend. Much of the smile
stayed in place as he stuck out his right hand and said, “What the fuck d’you want?”
Overby returned the smile, shook the hand, let it go and said, “They send you The Wall Street Journal here, Dickie—and also your monthly Amex bill. That means you’ve been living here awhile. It also means you’ve been back in town long enough to maybe know something I need to know.”
Richard Brackeen, 42, shoved his mail down into the right outside jacket pocket of his beautifully tailored black suit, secured The Wall Street Journal under his left armpit and clasped his hands across a wide expanse of belly. A dove-gray vest, decorated with a gold watch chain that featured a Phi Beta Kappa key, made the mound of belly look even larger than it was.
Hands still clasped, jolly smile still in place, Brackeen rocked back on his heels and inspected Overby with small eyes that had the color and sheen of quicksilver.
“Who the hell’re you supposed to be, Otherguy? Somebody who barely caught the last flight out of Baghdad?”
Overby flashed his hard white smile in answer, then said, “Tell me what I want to know, Dickie, and you get three hundred. For telling me you know fuck-all, one hundred.”
“I heard you were in Mesopotamia—or maybe it was Trans-Jordan.”
“And here I am in L.A. Well?”
The jolly smile went away so the mouth could purse itself into something almost resembling a rosebud. The three chins bobbled up and down in a thoughtful nod and Richard Brackeen said, “Let’s go get some refreshment.”
The Hotel Bridges’s bar was called The Toll Booth. It offered indifferent lighting, low tables and soft fat chairs. At 5:20 P.M. It was three-quarters full and the noise of the drinkers had already risen from a hum into something that approximated a chant.
Seated at a corner table, his back to the wall, Brackeen called the pretty young cocktail waitress “Love” as he ordered a martini, specifying not only the brand of gin but also the vermouth. Overby asked for a bottle of Mexican beer and said any brand would do.
When the waitress came back, she served the drinks, collected from Overby, grinned at her tip, turned to Brackeen and asked, “When d’you start shooting, Dickie?”
“Tuesday.”
“You said you thought there might be a part for me.”
Brackeen looked up at her and frowned, as if running past promises through his mind. The frown vanished when he said, “Only thing not cast is a small role in the third scene. You want it, it’s yours.”
“What do I play?”
Brackeen was losing interest. “Ever been in a real orgy?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I guess.”
“Was it sometimes with guys and sometimes with girls and sometimes with both?”
She nodded.
“Well, the only difference’ll be is that this is a period orgy and you have to wear a costume—for about ten seconds.”
“What d’you mean ‘period orgy’?”
“I mean historical. In this case, Roman.” Brackeen had now lost all interest in the woman and was sipping his martini.
“But it could be a break, couldn’t it?” she said with no trace of conviction.
“Of course,” Brackeen said in exacdy the same tone.
“Okay. I’ll do it.”
“Leave your right name, phone, address and Social Security number in my hotel box.”
“Thanks, Dickie.”
Brackeen nodded, the cocktail waitress left and Overby said, “I thought those guys from back east in Chicago had moved in and moved you out.”
“I let them have the features, that’s all. Who needs the overhead?
Now I go right from videotape into cassettes and sell strictly mail-order. I run ads in the stroke books and I’ve also set up several nice little 900-number dial-a-porns.” The discussion of business cheered Brackeen and his jolly smile reappeared. “And I’ve also become a devout follower of the cardinal business rule, Otherguy: lower the wages and raise the profits.”
“Sounds good.”
Brackeen shrugged. “Sufficient unto my needs.”
“Suppose,” Overby said, “you wanted to get lost for a few days or a week or maybe even a month or two?”
“Who from—the cops?”
