“It’s the same hair he had last week, Everett.” Tony grinned as he moved around so Alan could see him in the mirror. Everett’s fascination with Alan’s hair and the crew’s awareness of it left the actor alternately flattered and embarrassed. “As soon as you’re done here, Peter would like to see you on set so that he . . .”

“. . . can run over my blocking. Same old. Same old.”

Detective Chan liked to move when he talked, his constant motion in direct and deliberate contrast to Raymond Dark’s brooding stillness. It made his scenes harder to shoot, as a stationary actor was easier for both light and sound but, since CB himself had been responsible for that bit of character development, no one argued too loudly against it; they just scheduled extra time and counted on Alan to hit his marks.

Fortunately, twenty years in the business made Alan the closest thing to a sure bet on the set.

The late Catherine’s less than loving mom and dad were in the other two chairs being worked on by Everett’s assistant—who worked part-time for CB Productions and part-time at a local funeral parlor. She’d told Tony once that thanks to Six Feet Under, people saw her second job as the more exotic. “But for me—you know, corpses, actors—meat’s meat. At least the dead dudes don’t complain that natural beige foundation makes them look fat.”

Lee was in the same scene, but he wasn’t due on set until 8:30. Two hours and forty-five minutes before the gate. Tony paused outside his dressing room door, imagined he could hear the rustle of fabric, actually could hear muffled profanity, raised his hand to knock, changed his mind, and ran.

Terrified he’d hear Lee’s door open before he was out of sight.

Jesus. What are you afraid of? He’s a guy; it’s not like he’s going to want to talk about it.

He hit the production office just as Amy, hair and fingernails a matching burgundy, was shrugging out of her jacket. Crossing toward her, he lifted a hand in greeting. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself, Kemosabe. You still work here?”

It appeared that yesterday’s early departure was common knowledge. Great. The last thing he needed was a reputation as a slacker. Well, maybe not the last thing; he supposed he needed homicidal shadows less, but still . . . “All has been forgiven,” he told her, pushing the staple remover around her desk with the tip of one finger, “but apparently I’m going to have to rescue another stuntman before I do it again.”

Amy glanced around the office. “Don’t see anyone in need of rescue.”

“Too bad. Did you know that clock is two hours off?”

She turned to look and snorted. “We reset it to Hawaiian time.”

“That’s not . . .”

“Did you come in here to criticize, or are you actually hanging around for a reason?”