Pat Kyle laughed. It was clear and without apology, the way a laugh should be. Pat Kyle is forty-four years old and five feet four, with curly auburn hair and good bones and an athlete’s build. When we met six years ago, she looked like the Graf Zeppelin and was having trouble getting out of a bad marriage. I helped. Now she ran four fast miles every day, had her own casting agency, and was engaged to a dentist from Pasadena. Maybe one day I’d learn to like him. She said, “I’m casting a film for Kapstone Pictures and a director named Peter Alan Nelsen. Do you know who he is?”

“He makes action pictures.”

“That’s right. With great success. Time magazine called him the King of Adventure.”

“They called him a few other things, too.” Arrogant, demanding, brilliant. I had read the article.

“Yes. There is that.” You could hear something behind her. Voices, maybe. “Peter has a problem and I mentioned your name. The Kapstone people want to talk with you.”

“Okay.” I swung up into a sitting position and put my feet on the floor. The detective, ready for action.

“When Peter was in film school, he broke up with his wife just after they had their only child. A boy. Peter hasn’t seen or heard from his former wife or their son since, and he wants to find them. I told him that finding people is one of your best things. Are you interested?”

“It’s what I do.”

“Kapstone has offices at Paramount. I’ll leave a pass at the main gate for you to see Donnie Brewster. Donnie’s the head of production.” Donnie. A twelve-year-old running a film company. “Can you be here in about twenty minutes?”

“Let me check my calendar.”

She said, “Ha. What calendar?”

“Callous. You dames are callous.”

She made the nice laugh again and hung up.

I pushed up off the couch and thought about Kapstone Pictures and Peter Alan Nelsen. The Big Time. I was wearing a white Mickey Mouse sweatshirt with a mustard spot high on the right shoulder. Mickey would be okay, but the mustard spot was definitely unacceptable. Did I have time to race home for the tux? I looked at the Pinocchio clock. Unh-unh. I took off the Mickey and put on a yellow-and-white Hawaiian beachcomber’s shirt, a Dan Wesson .38 caliber revolver, and a light blue waiter’s jacket. Dress for success. I began to hum. There’s no business like show business. I turned on the answering machine and listened to the same message I’d been running for two months. “Elvis Cole Detective Agency, we’re cheap.” Maybe it was time for a change. You work for a major film company, you need something a bit more show business. Elvis Cole Detective Agency: There are no small cases, only small detectives—hire the biggest dick in the business! I decided to leave well enough alone.