“Thal,” I said, “let me tell you about a hit-and-run I witnessed recently.”

And I went into what happened outside Pete’s Chophouse, including the sense I’d had about it that something just didn’t feel right.

As I wrapped it up, I said, “Could that have been faked?”

His frown was thoughtful. “You mean, could Kraft have hit that guy just right and not hurt him? Not unless they were both in on it.”

Velda gave me a sharp look.

I said, “What if they were? For example…is that a stunt you could stage for a flick?”

His laugh was big. “Oh, hell yes. Easy peasy. But you’d have to be a pro…both of ya, not just the driver.”

“A talented amateur couldn’t pull off the victim role? Somebody with martial arts training and an athletic background? Former college athlete, maybe?”

He shook his head. “Probably not without some special training. Some real practice. Likely some padding under the clothes too. In that case…doable.”

Velda and I exchanged glances.

I said, “Can you think of anybody locally who might be up for that? A trainer who thought he was getting somebody ready for a movie stunt…or just didn’t give a shit how his training got used?”

This laugh wasn’t so big. “I know exactly the guy.”

I blinked. “You’re kidding. How can you be so sure? Zero in right away like that?”

“Because you’ve been asking me about that Kraft dude, Michael my man, and this is a guy who knew Kraft, who worked with him, both hand-to-hand stuff and stunt driving. I fired both their asses off that Shaft shoot.”

Velda got out her notebook and took down the name—Harry Strutt.

“No idea,” he told her, “what address. And whether he’s even still around town. But if he is? He’d be the natural one to work with Kraft on somethin’ shady.” He winked at her. “Maybe you can find a detective who can track him down.”

“Maybe,” Velda said.

A pretty young woman in a baseball hat, NYU t-shirt, and jeans with a clipboard in her hands came up to Thal and said, “You’re needed, Mr. Lockhart.”

“Thank you, Sal.”

She went off, providing sweet rear view.

Thal asked me, “You know what she’s paid?”

“Not enough,” I said.

Velda elbowed me.

“Not a red cent,” Thal said. “She’s what you call a production assistant. An intern, college kid. Does more work than any salaried man on the picture.”

Velda said, “I know the feeling.”

Thal stood and so did we.

The stuntman stuck out his paw and I shook it.

“Listen, Mike,” he said, settling a hand on my shoulder, “you ever need anything, you know where to come. Just say the word and I’m there. That was one hell of a jam you got me out of.”