detour.”
Mindy was experienced enough in social exchanges to recognize an attempt at being friendly. Sidestepping talking about herself, she said, “One thing I’ve never seen is a film project from the inside. Like your pilot. Location shots, sure—anyone who lives in L.A. has had to drive around at least one. What’s it like, doing stunt work?”
“It’s basically getting paid to have fun,” Shelley said with a grin.
“How did you get into it?”
“With my size and a bunch of older, sports-crazy brothers, it was hard not to get into what they were into, which was martial arts and motocross. I sort of fell into stunt work at UCLA,” she said. “Discovered I liked it way better than memorizing lines for theater—”
Shelley broke off at the sound of Dennis’s sharp voice, “Fucking asshole.”
Mindy was instantly alert, her poodle quivering inside her. “Dennis?”
He glanced back. “Sorry,” he said instantly. “It’s just this damn phone—I keep trying to deal with the never-ending stream, and there’s this asshole who I guess was buddies with that crook Ellerton I helped bust last year. Seems to think I’m here in L.A. to make trouble for him, when I could give a flying fuck for him and his douche-canoe pals.”
Dennis jammed his phone back into his pocket, and made an obvious effort to lighten up. “So, did L.A. in December lived up to the hype?”
“It’s beautiful,” Mindy said. “But if someone is threatening you, shouldn’t we alert the police?”
“It’s bullshit,” Dennis said. “I think he’s running scared. Assuming that someone is going to be scratching below the surface in his own business. Maybe that needs to happen, maybe he’s as clean as he says he is, but either way, it’s not going to be me. Forget I said anything—I’m not letting some asshole ruin the mood here.”
“We’re making our descent,” Mick pointed out, as they seemed to skim the up-thrusting mountains below which lay the flat Imperial Valley, divided up the middle by the tiny lights of Highway 5.
Dennis said in that determinedly congenial voice, “You know what they’ve got planned for us tonight? I hope it includes dinner. I could eat a horse right about now.”
“Dinner it is,” Mick said. “Promised we’d have a table at the steakhouse.”
“Now, that’s what I want to hear,” Dennis said.
Mindy could see that whatever had irritated Dennis was now regarded as old news. Dennis turned to smile at Shelley. “Sorry—we got caught up in tech talk. Mick probably told you that in high school we were the world’s worst would-be filmmakers, and as camera work was mostly my specialty, I can fall into technical discussions in a heartbeat. Tell me about your new pilot.”
Shelley smiled, lifting a shoulder. “Truth is, it’d be easier to screen the pilot than to yak about it.”
Mick broke in, “Especially as we’re just about to start our landing run. Tell you what. If you really want to see it, we’ll make time to screen it. Day of the premier. My place.”
Dennis turned Mindy’s way. “Would you like that?”
What could she say but yes?
* * *
Dennis hadn’t realized how anxious he was that Mindy like his friends—that she have a good time—until he saw her talking to Shelley, and something relaxed a little inside him.
That was before the bullshit email waiting from some douche-nozzle named Atkins. If it was even a real name. This was the third one on a similar theme. Either these were all one guy, or Ellerton had had a lot of friends who found Dennis’s presence in L.A. a threat.
He felt like firing back an email saying that he’d spent weeks in L.A. not long ago, but under a fake name while investigating something far more interesting than a bunch of petty hoods. But he made himself delete the email, just as he the previous two.
One or many, let ‘em stew, Dennis thought as they climbed down the boarding ladder from the plane. Or if Atkins had made
Mindy was experienced enough in social exchanges to recognize an attempt at being friendly. Sidestepping talking about herself, she said, “One thing I’ve never seen is a film project from the inside. Like your pilot. Location shots, sure—anyone who lives in L.A. has had to drive around at least one. What’s it like, doing stunt work?”
“It’s basically getting paid to have fun,” Shelley said with a grin.
“How did you get into it?”
“With my size and a bunch of older, sports-crazy brothers, it was hard not to get into what they were into, which was martial arts and motocross. I sort of fell into stunt work at UCLA,” she said. “Discovered I liked it way better than memorizing lines for theater—”
Shelley broke off at the sound of Dennis’s sharp voice, “Fucking asshole.”
Mindy was instantly alert, her poodle quivering inside her. “Dennis?”
He glanced back. “Sorry,” he said instantly. “It’s just this damn phone—I keep trying to deal with the never-ending stream, and there’s this asshole who I guess was buddies with that crook Ellerton I helped bust last year. Seems to think I’m here in L.A. to make trouble for him, when I could give a flying fuck for him and his douche-canoe pals.”
Dennis jammed his phone back into his pocket, and made an obvious effort to lighten up. “So, did L.A. in December lived up to the hype?”
“It’s beautiful,” Mindy said. “But if someone is threatening you, shouldn’t we alert the police?”
“It’s bullshit,” Dennis said. “I think he’s running scared. Assuming that someone is going to be scratching below the surface in his own business. Maybe that needs to happen, maybe he’s as clean as he says he is, but either way, it’s not going to be me. Forget I said anything—I’m not letting some asshole ruin the mood here.”
“We’re making our descent,” Mick pointed out, as they seemed to skim the up-thrusting mountains below which lay the flat Imperial Valley, divided up the middle by the tiny lights of Highway 5.
Dennis said in that determinedly congenial voice, “You know what they’ve got planned for us tonight? I hope it includes dinner. I could eat a horse right about now.”
“Dinner it is,” Mick said. “Promised we’d have a table at the steakhouse.”
“Now, that’s what I want to hear,” Dennis said.
Mindy could see that whatever had irritated Dennis was now regarded as old news. Dennis turned to smile at Shelley. “Sorry—we got caught up in tech talk. Mick probably told you that in high school we were the world’s worst would-be filmmakers, and as camera work was mostly my specialty, I can fall into technical discussions in a heartbeat. Tell me about your new pilot.”
Shelley smiled, lifting a shoulder. “Truth is, it’d be easier to screen the pilot than to yak about it.”
Mick broke in, “Especially as we’re just about to start our landing run. Tell you what. If you really want to see it, we’ll make time to screen it. Day of the premier. My place.”
Dennis turned Mindy’s way. “Would you like that?”
What could she say but yes?
* * *
Dennis hadn’t realized how anxious he was that Mindy like his friends—that she have a good time—until he saw her talking to Shelley, and something relaxed a little inside him.
That was before the bullshit email waiting from some douche-nozzle named Atkins. If it was even a real name. This was the third one on a similar theme. Either these were all one guy, or Ellerton had had a lot of friends who found Dennis’s presence in L.A. a threat.
He felt like firing back an email saying that he’d spent weeks in L.A. not long ago, but under a fake name while investigating something far more interesting than a bunch of petty hoods. But he made himself delete the email, just as he the previous two.
One or many, let ‘em stew, Dennis thought as they climbed down the boarding ladder from the plane. Or if Atkins had made
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