Blues in the Night by Dick Lochte

Mace’s grip. ‘I just wanna give you my card. OK? Just my fucking card.’
    Mace released his wrist.
    Slowly, he removed a worn, overloaded wallet from his pocket. He fished a bright yellow card from it that he handed to Mace. ‘I’m Simon S. Symon. Like it says there. Proprietor of ShootOnSite. That’s me. I take candid pictures of celebrities.’
    â€˜This is supposed to make me like you more?’ Mace said. ‘Who told you to take my picture?’
    â€˜Listen to Mister Me. Like you’re the reason I’m here.’
    â€˜Talk straight.’
    â€˜The night man at the Florian’s an old bud, so he phones me real late to tell me some guest just blew through the lobby with Deidre Lindstrom. They’re stoned. Feelin’ each other up, almos’ goin’ down on each other right there in the lobby.
    â€˜So I grab a few hours of snooze and here I am. A shot of Deidre looking hungover will be worth maybe two grand, three. But the guest, some kinda TV exec from back East, ain’t a guy. Now that hikes the price of the photo considerably. That’s the guest’s Audi across the aisle. They gotta show up sooner or—’
    â€˜You took pictures of me ,’ Mace said. ‘Why?’
    â€˜You’re somebody, right? Got that don’t-fuck-with-me look. To me that says photo op. My guess is TV, right? I can’t keep track of everybody on the box, what with cable and all. But you TV pricks are the toughest to get along with. And we make you guys.’
    Mace stared at Simon S. Symon, trying to decide if it was worth knocking him around a little to make sure he wasn’t bullshitting. The sound of heels clicking on concrete made the decision suddenly moot.
    Mace glimpsed someone at the far end of the garage.
    Simon S. Symon had already grabbed his camera.
    But it wasn’t Deidre Lindstrom and her lesbian exec from back East. It was Angela Lowell, dressed for summer in tight white slacks and a black silk blouse.
    Mace moved between the Cherokee and the SUV. ‘Fifty bucks for a couple of good clear prints of her,’ he whispered to the paparazzi.
    â€˜No prob,’ Symon said.
    â€˜I gotta run. Pick up at the address on your card?’
    â€˜Yeah,’ Symon said, busy getting Angela in his frame.
    Mace headed toward his leased Camry Hybrid, hopping over car bumpers to avoid Angela’s line of sight. He was sliding under the steering wheel by the time she drove past.
    Backing the Camry from its stall he saw Wylie running full out from the stairwell carrying a small laptop. ‘I got her,’ Mace shouted to the boy.
    â€˜What about this?’ Wylie held up the laptop.
    â€˜I don’t need it.’ In point of fact, he had no idea how the tracking device hidden in the Mustang’s trunk worked.
    As he drove past the Cherokee, he was annoyed to see Symon aiming his camera at Wylie.

TEN
    A ngela Lowell couldn’tfind a coin for the meter.
    Sitting several parked cars back on Melrose Avenue, in a loading zone, Mace watched her root through her handbag, then duck back into the yellow Mustang, probably to rifle the glove compartment. Finally, she gave up the search and decided to risk the ticket.
    She literally ran into a shop with the enigmatic name of Slick.
    Unless she returned to feed the meter, indicating she would be spending some time there, he wouldn’t bother following her inside.
    From his angle he couldn’t see anything on the storefront to indicate what sort of goods or service Slick provided. Its Spartan display window offered few clues. Just a white plastic tree on Astroturf. Colorful little squiggly things were hanging from the tree’s otherwise bare branches. Mace counted three customers, male, going into the store before Angela emerged with a package the size of a large book under her arm. She tossed it casually into the rear of the Mustang and slid behind the wheel.
    He let her enter the