I took a meat loaf out of the freezer, put it in the microwave to thaw, turned on the oven to preheat, then opened a can of Falstaff. It was twenty minutes after five. Business hours were until six. I drank some of the Falstaff, then phoned the Screen Actors Guild and spoke to a woman named Mrs. Lopaka about Karen Shipley. Mrs. Lopaka confirmed everything Pat Kyle had told me and added nothing new. I thanked her, hung up, then dialed the Screen Extras Guild and then AFTRA. Ditto. I called the machine at my office, hoping that there might be a message from the phone company or from B of A. Nada. Somebody named Jose wanted someone named Esteban to call him back right away. Jose sounded pissed. I called my partner, Joe Pike.

Pike said, “Gun shop.” Pike owns a gun shop in Culver City.

“We’re on the job again. Backtrack to a woman and child.”

“You need me?”

“Well, I’m here at the house and I’m not yet pinned down by snipers across the canyon, so I guess not yet.”

Pike didn’t answer.

“You know the director, Peter Alan Nelsen? He’s our client.”

Pike didn’t answer some more. Trying to talk with Pike is like carrying on a fill-in-the-blank conversation.

I said, “Try to make conversation, Joe. It’s easy. All you have to do is say something.”

Pike said, “You need me, you know where I am.” Then he hung up. So much for conversation.

The microwave dinged. I took out the meat loaf, transferred it to a metal pan, opened a can of new potatoes, drained them, put them in the pan around the meat loaf and sprinkled them with garlic and paprika, then put bacon over the meat loaf and put the pan in the oven on high. I like the skin on my meat loaf to be crispy.

The cat said, “Naow?”

“No. Not now. About forty-five minutes.”

He didn’t look happy about it.