The moment they’re out, I’m behind the GTO’s wheel, knife jammed in the ignition and the V-8 engine growling like a Tyrannosaurus rex. I aim the beast out into traffic and take the corner as white smoke from the dying fire drifts into the street.
I pull onto the Hollywood Freeway, heading north toward Burbank. The time on my phone is 3 P.M. Should I give Brigitte a call? There’s a better-than-even chance that she’ll be at the studio with Ritchie, so I wait.
It’s not a long drive. I’m kind of sorry when I see the exit for the studio. For a second I think about not turning. Just hitting on the accelerator and heading north until there’s nowhere left to go. What would stop me first, a moose, an oil pipeline, or a glacier? I’d sit on the shore of the Arctic Ocean and let the snow pile up around me in my GTO igloo. Curl up in the backseat with a radio, turn on a news station, and listen to the world ending.
There’s a guard station at the studio gate. A tired-looking guy in a blue rent-a-cop uniform leans out of the guardhouse as I drive up.
“Sweet ride. We don’t get many V-8s on the lot anymore. It’s all rice-rocket hybrids.”
“L.A. is going to be under water in twenty years. As an American, I figure I should do my bit to help out.”
He eyes me before deciding I’m joking. He takes a clipboard from the wall inside his hut.
“Name?”
I have no idea what name Ritchie or Lucifer gave the guy.
“Stark.”
The guard scans the list and nods. He hands me a plastic parking permit about the size of a hardback book.
“Keep that on your dashboard in plain view.”
He pulls a white paper map of the lot from the back of the clipboard and hands it to me, pointing to landmarks with his pen.
“Follow the outside road around the edge of the lot. The soundstage you want is all the way on the far side. There are some producers’ bungalows nearby. That’s where you can park.”
“Thanks.”
“Looks like there’s a hell of a production going on out there.”
“That’s the idea.”
I follow the road around the outside of the lot. On my left is the freeway. On the studio side, there are forklifts and sweaty guys putting up scaffolding outside soundstages. Men and women in khakis and button-down shirts cruise by them on golf carts. The stages look like blimp hangars, giant humpback Quonset huts with huge posters of the studio’s new releases. The place is about as glamorous as dental surgery.
I park the car outside the bungalows, take the knife from the ignition, and slip it back inside my coat.
There’s a soundstage across the road. Outside, a hundred people are unloading trucks, telling other people how to unload trucks, or sitting in trucks waiting to be unloaded. Ritchie and Lucifer are at the edge of the chaos, with Ritchie pointing at some papers and then at the stage, where they’re building something huge. Old women in elaborately decorated robes carry incense among the workers. Others walk around the perimeter with bottles in each hand. From one they sprinkle sacred oil on the ground. From the other they sprinkle what smells like animal blood.
Ritchie waves me over. He nods at the car when I get close.
“She’s a beauty. How long have you had her?”
“A half hour, give or take.”
“You know, if you leave the windows down like that, the sun is going to bleach the upholstery.”
“That’s okay. I only drive cars once.”
Ritchie looks from me to the car and back. It takes him a minute, but he finally gets it.
“I see.”
“Keep it, if you want. It drives like a dream. There aren’t any keys, but I’m sure someone around here can change the VIN and slap in a new ignition.”
Lucifer watches the old women make their rounds. Ritchie’s eyes flick down to my waist. He’s spotted the gun and smiles.
“Have you ever been on a movie lot before?”