The next morning I woke up late, shoved myself into a pair of purple jeans, black Converse, and a black Tshirt with pink lettering that read, “If You Can Read This, You’re Too Close.” Then I hopped on my bike and pulled up to the L.A. Informer’s offices almost on time. The Informer was situated on Hollywood Boulevard, just bordering the trendy tourist part of town and the part where you don’t walk alone at night without body armor. The building was a square, stuccoed, three-story thing that was at one time white, but now lay something closer to dingy beige. Built around the same time as the famed Hollywoodland sign, it might have been charming once, but that had been many years and many uncaring landlords ago. Sun-faded awning over the door, peeling paint near the windows, a rusty metal fire escape clinging to the side of the building as if its life depended on it. Trump Towers it was not.

I pushed through the doors and rode the elevator to the second floor, dropping Strawberry Shortcake on my desk with a clang.

“That you, Bender?” A head popped up from the neighboring cubicle. Balding, gray stubble along the chin, droopy, bloodshot eyes—Max Beacon, the oldest, most experienced, and generally the most hung-over member of the Informer’s staff. He covered obits and had his own, detailing how he’d died of liver failure, pre-written and tacked to the fabric-covered wall of his cubicle, right next to a poster of a bulldog saying, “This is my happy face.”

“Hey, Max. What’s new?”

“Remember that guy who played Bette Davis’s son in that film about the traveling theater group?”

“Uh huh.” I nodded. Even though I had no clue what movie he was talking about.

“Died today. Sixty-four. Heart failure.”

“Bummer.”

“Very. Hey, did you see the new applicant on your way in?”

I pushed my chair back, glancing toward Felix’s glasswalled office in the far corner. Until this summer—when he’d moved up in the world to take over as editor—Felix had been the Informer’s star reporter. Ever since he’d become the boss man, Felix had been interviewing applicants to fill in his former position. So far none had passed his test.

I squinted at the latest victim sitting across the desk from him. Blonde, miniskirt, jugs out to here.

I did a low whistle. “She applying to be a reporter or go-go dancer?”

Max chuckled. “She’s been in there for over an hour.”

“Really?” I raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’m sure Felix wants to thoroughly go over all her professional assets.”

Max chuckled. “Maybe he’s checking her experience.”

“Or he’s outlining the benefits of working here.”

Max snorted. Then tilted his head to the side, eyes clearly trying to get inside Ms. Jugs stretchy little top. “Tough being the boss, huh?”

“That’s why they pay him the big bucks.”