CHAPTER ONE
I sat at my desk in a tee shirt and shorts, cooling down after a workout at the gym next door and checking the internet for any open casting calls so I could have my ego crushed again. That’s when a Milla Jovovich clone, wearing big diamonds and a criminally short white skirt walked into my office.
“Ronald Baca?” she asked as she sat in the chair across from my desk.
“You’ve got me.”
She looked me over and said, “You don’t look Hispanic.”
“Ancestors were from Bolognia. It’s over near Spain.”
She didn’t blink. “Mr. Baca, my name is Bond Meadows, and I need to hire you.” Bond crossed her legs and I looked at flawless tanned skin on two long legs. Her face and the name were vaguely familiar.
I said, “What would this be about Ms...”
“Mrs.”
“Okay, Mrs. Meadows?”
She said, “I want you to find someone.”
“Someone you’d like to locate or someone missing?”
“Missing.”
“Have you filed a report with the police?”
“No, it’s not like that. Maybe you’ve heard of him, Robert Landman?”
“The actor?” I’d heard of him. So had most of the planet. Landman was in the league of Brad Pitt and George Clooney, where attaching his name to a movie almost guaranteed good box office. I said, “What makes you think he’s missing?”
“My husband is Frank Meadows, head of Americas Studios, and Bob is working there.”
I knew of Meadows. Frank’s unofficial nickname around town was “Fat Man” Meadows, as in the name of the second atomic bomb. It had to do with the record number of box-office mushroom clouds that his studio had sent to the viewing public over the last two years. No one called Frank “Fat Man” to his face, though. Frank had the reputation as a legitimate tough guy who enjoyed the company of ex-cons and not-so-ex-cons.
Frank’s name made me remember where I’d seen this woman. It was in the society columns, with her husband. Something else about her was worming around in my skull, but I couldn’t bring it forward.
She said, “Bob’s not at home, and he’s not on location filming. He left no forwarding information and I haven’t heard from him in three days.”
“Mrs. Meadows, three days for somebody in the entertainment business is not all that long.”
“It is when you’re having an affair with them.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I let it slide.
“Mr. Baca, I’ve talked to him several times a day, every day for the last two months.”
“You still haven’t told me why you think he’s missing.”
“I believe my husband found out about us.”
“Did your husband confront you?”
“No. Look, Mr. Baca, I’m willing to pay you, so is there some sort of problem?”
“I’m not against making money, Mrs. Meadows, but I don’t take advantage of clients, either.”
“Mrs. Meadows sounds so old. Call me Bond, and don’t worry about taking advantage of me. I can take care of myself. When can you start?”
“Don’t you want to discuss fees?”
“You don’t seem like the type to haggle. I’ll give you five thousand dollars up front and you can bill me as you like if you need more.”
I didn’t let her see me swallow. “You’re not worried I’ll drag this out?”
“I talked to several people in the business about you, Mr. Baca-”
“Call me Ronny. Mr. Baca sounds so old.”
She gave me a small smile, “-and they assured me you don’t work that way. Matt and Ben said you might come across as a wise-ass, but you were honest and your work was good.”
I said, “Matt and Ben?”
“They said you helped one of their friends. Others who are outside the entertainment industry said you get things done.”
“Nice to have your own fan club.”
“Oh, they aren’t fans.” She stood up, removed a large stack of hundreds, counted out fifty of them and placed the money on my desk along with a business card and a sheet of paper with information printed on it. “I don’t need a receipt. The paper has information on Bob you might find useful. If you need me, call the number on the card. It’s my business cell phone. I always have it with me. Thank you.” She walked out, closing the door behind her.
I looked at the money. Okay, I thought. How hard can it be to find a famous Hollywood movie star? It’s not as if people won’t recognize him. The guy had been on more magazine covers in the last year than the Olsen twins had in their entire lives. I looked at the typed paper and found Landman’s address in Pacific Palisades, license plates and descriptions for vehicles, an address on a Malibu home, his personal assistant’s phone number and the phone number and location of Landman’s office on the lot at Americas Studios. There were about ten cell phone numbers, all shown as Bob’s, and a description of a customized yellow Colnago Oval Master mountain bike he owned. I wondered if I should call Bond and tell her she’d left off his zodiac sign and biorhythm chart.
I got up from the chair and went into the bathroom to shower and change. No sense in greeting the next clients barefooted and in gym shorts.
I slipped on a dark blue short-sleeved shirt, gray pleated pants and matching gray New Balance tennis shoes. The shoulder holster with my Model 19 Smith and Wesson went on like a lover’s embrace and I covered it with a new, gunmetal gray Patagonia windbreaker I had practically stolen. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Good enough for the cover of GQ...or Guns and Ammo.
I opened the bathroom door and saw my partner, Hondo Wells sitting on the corner of my desk, looking at the scattered hundreds covering the top.
“Hey, I had that in my drawer.”
“I smelled it when I came in.”
“You smelled it? Well shoot, let’s take you up north and look for D.B. Cooper’s money.”