taking over the whole town."
"You're not making sense," Megan said. Then she started coughing again and her sweating increased.
"I'm making sense for the first time in a long time," Jonas insisted.
"Let's talk about it tomorrow," Megan said, wiping her face on her T-shirt. "It's stressful to talk like this when you're all beat-up and not thinking."
"Baby, it's easy," he said, "and the Bling Ring had a blast doing it."
"It's not like running out and boosting from department stores," Megan said. "Breaking into houses? That's very different and very scary."
"Whadda you mean 'breaking'?" Jonas said. "Those rich morons up in the Hollywood. Hills, they leave their houses wide open. Know where Paris Hilton kept her house key? Under the fucking doormat. And they leave their windows unlocked. And you're getting so skinny these days, you could crawl through a doggie door too small for a fucking Chihuahua. Nothing could stop us from getting into any house we want."
Megan Burke suddenly flashed on how it had been in the beginning with Jonas Claymore, back when she was someone else and so was he. At first, they'd smoked pot on dates before doing zannies and benzos. It was carefree and it was fun at first. Then came the perks and norcos. And then they'd started smoking OxyContin, and after riding the ox for all these months, they had become unrecognizable people. Megan didn't know this Jonas, and in fact, she didn't even know this Megan that she had become.
"Can we please talk tomorrow, Jonas?" Megan pleaded. "This is nerve-racking and it's making me burbly."
"Jesus fucking Christ," Jonas moaned, eyes rolling back, not wanting to be reminded that he, too, was experiencing bouts of diarrhea since the jonesing episodes started. "I ain't got enough tribulations in life, I gotta hook up with a chick with irritable bowel syndrome? Why can't I catch a break just for once?"
"Sorry. Gotta do number two," Megan said, getting up and running to the bathroom.
"Go ahead, jingle bowels," he said. "Drop a deuce for me while you're at it."
Chapter Five.
TWO WEEKS AFTER the red carpet event at the Kodak Theatre, Hollywood Nate Weiss was lying on the sofa in his North Hollywood apartment, where he lived alone, considering the business card he'd received from the director Rudy Ressler. For years, while working red carpet events and taking every opportunity to chat up the rich and famous, he'd been given plenty of business cards by virtue of being an LAPD cop from people who hoped he could fix a ticket or do other things for them that were equally impossible. He'd tried and mostly failed to meet the kind of people who could get him real work. No one was more aware than Nate that the clock was not on his side.
The last job where he'd had a speaking role was three years ago in an indie production that had vanished and not even gone to DVD. He'd been a day player on that one and of course had been typecast as an LAPD cop. His scripted line was "Put your hands on your head and grab the wall."
When he'd tried to tell the director, a no-talent bully ten years younger, that it was impossible to grab a wall or anything else when your hands were on your head, the director said, "And what're your qualifications in such matters?"
The assistant director then whispered to the director that Nate was an LAPD police officer in his other life, and the directo r g rumbled something and then said to Nate, "Just go, 'Up against the wall.' And try to act excited because you've collared a perp you've been looking for." Then he turned to the assistant director and said, "Or maybe we should have the lieutenant say that?"
"Say what?" the AD asked.
"We just collared a perp we've been looking for," the annoyed director said.
"Excuse me," Nate interrupted. "The words perp and collar are terms used in the East, and though they're very popular on TV shows, we don't use either of them at LAPD. Would you like me to give you some substitute words that we use out here in
"You're not making sense," Megan said. Then she started coughing again and her sweating increased.
"I'm making sense for the first time in a long time," Jonas insisted.
"Let's talk about it tomorrow," Megan said, wiping her face on her T-shirt. "It's stressful to talk like this when you're all beat-up and not thinking."
"Baby, it's easy," he said, "and the Bling Ring had a blast doing it."
"It's not like running out and boosting from department stores," Megan said. "Breaking into houses? That's very different and very scary."
"Whadda you mean 'breaking'?" Jonas said. "Those rich morons up in the Hollywood. Hills, they leave their houses wide open. Know where Paris Hilton kept her house key? Under the fucking doormat. And they leave their windows unlocked. And you're getting so skinny these days, you could crawl through a doggie door too small for a fucking Chihuahua. Nothing could stop us from getting into any house we want."
Megan Burke suddenly flashed on how it had been in the beginning with Jonas Claymore, back when she was someone else and so was he. At first, they'd smoked pot on dates before doing zannies and benzos. It was carefree and it was fun at first. Then came the perks and norcos. And then they'd started smoking OxyContin, and after riding the ox for all these months, they had become unrecognizable people. Megan didn't know this Jonas, and in fact, she didn't even know this Megan that she had become.
"Can we please talk tomorrow, Jonas?" Megan pleaded. "This is nerve-racking and it's making me burbly."
"Jesus fucking Christ," Jonas moaned, eyes rolling back, not wanting to be reminded that he, too, was experiencing bouts of diarrhea since the jonesing episodes started. "I ain't got enough tribulations in life, I gotta hook up with a chick with irritable bowel syndrome? Why can't I catch a break just for once?"
"Sorry. Gotta do number two," Megan said, getting up and running to the bathroom.
"Go ahead, jingle bowels," he said. "Drop a deuce for me while you're at it."
Chapter Five.
TWO WEEKS AFTER the red carpet event at the Kodak Theatre, Hollywood Nate Weiss was lying on the sofa in his North Hollywood apartment, where he lived alone, considering the business card he'd received from the director Rudy Ressler. For years, while working red carpet events and taking every opportunity to chat up the rich and famous, he'd been given plenty of business cards by virtue of being an LAPD cop from people who hoped he could fix a ticket or do other things for them that were equally impossible. He'd tried and mostly failed to meet the kind of people who could get him real work. No one was more aware than Nate that the clock was not on his side.
The last job where he'd had a speaking role was three years ago in an indie production that had vanished and not even gone to DVD. He'd been a day player on that one and of course had been typecast as an LAPD cop. His scripted line was "Put your hands on your head and grab the wall."
When he'd tried to tell the director, a no-talent bully ten years younger, that it was impossible to grab a wall or anything else when your hands were on your head, the director said, "And what're your qualifications in such matters?"
The assistant director then whispered to the director that Nate was an LAPD police officer in his other life, and the directo r g rumbled something and then said to Nate, "Just go, 'Up against the wall.' And try to act excited because you've collared a perp you've been looking for." Then he turned to the assistant director and said, "Or maybe we should have the lieutenant say that?"
"Say what?" the AD asked.
"We just collared a perp we've been looking for," the annoyed director said.
"Excuse me," Nate interrupted. "The words perp and collar are terms used in the East, and though they're very popular on TV shows, we don't use either of them at LAPD. Would you like me to give you some substitute words that we use out here in
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