Fun and Games

idiot.

But by then it was too late, because she had already shoved the palm of her free hand up into his jaw.

Lane always thought it was funny that she became known for the action movies. It had all started with that stupid remake Dead by Dawn. A woman-on-the-run story, and that summer, she’d been the face du jour. EW and Vanity Fair and everybody else had made a big deal about her first shoot-’em-up, having previously dismissed her as the sweet-but-dippy friend of the hero’s girlfriend in a trilogy of vapid preteen comedies. But after Dead, the only scripts she saw were actioners, and she found herself in what seemed like an endless succession of grueling mixed- martial-arts sessions. It felt like she spent more time being thrown around onto vinyl mats than on a stage actually acting. She used to run lines in her sleep; now boyfriends complained about being kicked and rabbit-punched in their sleep. Enrico used to work her hard.

The move she pulled on this asshole now came from a heist thriller called Your Kiss Might Kill Me, where she’d had to (believably) overpower a former Navy SEAL/bank guard who had at least two hundred pounds on her.

Funny how it came back to her so easily.

Hardie’s head snapped back, his teeth smashing together so hard it sent jagged bolts of pain through his skull. She’d gotten him good. He staggered back on his heels, instantly aware of the mic stand she’d dropped on the floor. If she stooped down, picked it up, and rammed it through his guts, well, then he’d die a ridiculously stupid death.

Fortunately she opted for kicking the living shit out of him instead, throwing a rapid succession of punches, chops, and kicks at his face, torso, balls. She clearly had training, but the coke and whatever else buzzing around in her bloodstream made her hits sloppy and unfocused.

Hardie absorbed the blows, waited for his moment, and then lunged, wrapped his thick arms around her, and squeezed. The girl struggled and opened her mouth to scream—which was the moment Hardie flipped her to the floor, blasting the air out of her lungs. While she was still stunned, he straddled her, pinning her arms under his thighs.

“You finished?” Hardie asked.

“G-Get off me!”

“Shhhh. I’m two hundred forty pounds. You’re not going anywhere.”

The girl struggled a bit more, as if she could summon the adrenaline to prove him wrong. But then she stopped and looked up at Hardie defiantly.

“So, what now?” she said.

“What now? Well, for starters, how about you tell me where your boyfriend took my rental car? It’s not that I give a damn about the car. But I’ve got a bag inside that means a lot to me, and if I don’t get it back, I’m going to track him down and beat the living fuck out of him.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Beat who?”

“Your boyfriend.”

She huffed.

“Boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend, husband, accomplice, whatever… whoever took my fucking car.”

“Don’t you get it? They took your car… your own people… so whatever this is, what are you waiting for? Just do it already. Do it!”

Hardie could feel her body start to shiver. Her lips trembled, too, and her eyes slid to the corners.

“Hey.”

Hardie gently touched her chin and moved it slightly. Her eyes found his again. He’d seen plenty of overdoses back in the job. She wasn’t quite there, but whatever she’d shot herself up with, she’d flirted with the edge.

“Let’s cut the bullshit, okay? I’m not Them, there is no Them.” Now she focused on him again. Narrowed her eyes.

“You really don’t know who I am, do you?”

“I have no idea. You kind of look like this actress, what the hell’s her name…?”

“Lane Madden.”

That was it. Now Hardie understood why she’d looked familiar. Over the past decades he’d studied faces, coaxing unwilling witnesses through countless descriptions, running his eyes over an endless stream of black-and- white photos in mugshot binders. He’d come to the conclusion that God was a shameless self-plagiarist, because he had no problem using the same molds over and over again. A lot of people resembled a lot of other people.

“That’s her. I guess you’ve been told that before.”

“All of my life.”

“So what’s your name?”

“Lane Madden.”

Hardie started to laugh, but the sound died in his throat, because now that he looked at her and saw the stone sincerity in her eyes, he knew she was telling the truth. Holy shit. He’d been stabbed and beaten by Lane Madden. In any other circumstance, it’d be an amusing little story to share with the world. Hey, guess who rear-ended me on Beverly Boulevard! Winona Ryder! Now, though… not so much.

Lane—Lane Madden?—looked up at him.

“Can you please get off me?”

Hardie was already shifting his weight off her body, embarrassed. Confused, but embarrassed. He’d been straddling a celebrity, not subduing a drugged-out teenager. Every cell in his body wanted to apologize. He felt her tense up beneath his thighs. Hardie tried to lighten things up.

“You’re not going to try to stab me or punch me in the jaw again, are you?”

“I’m going to assume for the moment,” Lane Madden said, “that you’re not one of Them. But let me say for the record, that if you are one of Them, and this is you playing dumb just so you can kill me later, then you’re a big fucking asshole.”

“I promise I’m not going to kill you.”

Hardie lifted one knee off the floor and eased himself off her body. Lane rolled over, coughed, then worked herself up into a sitting position, resting her back against a wall. They were near the media room—the oversize plasma screen, the DVDs, and leather couches. Hardie had this theory, two years running, that he was living in a kind of purgatory. This was further proof. All he wanted to do was watch a movie, crash on the couch, get his booze on.

Now he was sitting on the floor of a house in the Hollywood Hills with a coked-up actress who thought people were trying to kill her.

Hardie rubbed his head.

“Did I walk into a movie set or something? Because that’s what it feels like all of a sudden.”

“I wish. Believe me. Just promise me you won’t open that door, okay?”

“There are no hidden cameras anywhere, right? This isn’t some reality show, is it? Because if it is, I’d really like to leave the set now.”

“No. It’s not. This is all totally real.”

“So, I’m guessing you know Lowenbruck?” Hardie asked.

Lane took a moment to think about it. “Who?”

“The composer. Guy who owns this house. You know him, right?”

She looked around now, as if she just tuned in to the fact that, oh yeah, she was squatting in someone else’s home.

“No. I found the keys in the mailbox, just like I said.”

“How did you turn off the security system?”

“I didn’t. I wasn’t on when I got here.”

Nice one, Lowenbruck. Why not just prop the front door open a few inches, tape a note to it saying, NOBODY HERE. BURGLARS, HELP YOURSELVES.