When our waiter arrived, I snatched the vodka from his tray.

“Finally,” I said under my breath.

“A drink for you, Mr. Haney?”

“No thanks, Sammy. Just the little lady. I’m working tomorrow.”

Brett knew everybody’s name. That was another thing that irked me. Did he have to be so goddamn friendly?

He pushed away half the pizza and took a swallow of his diet coke. “That’s enough calories for me.” He was starting rehearsal for Kill Shot; an action-adventure about mercenaries which, fortunately, shot close to home in the Santa Monica mountains.

“Kind of dead tonight,” Brett said, dabbing sauce from the corners of his mouth.

“Henry’s here.” I motioned to where the director, Henry Jaglom, sat at his usual table by the window. He was famous for making independent films, starring whoever he was dating. Naturally, every actress in town wanted his number.

“Yeah. He never remembers my name.” Brett laughed. “Guys like that hate me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The arty-types and the old-timers, you know. Like your dad.”

“My dad? Since when does my dad hate you?” True, Daddy wasn’t overly fond of Brett. He was often befuddled by my boyfriend’s attempts to engage him with his down-home sayings and folksy manner. But Daddy didn’t hate Brett. No one could hate Brett. That was another thing that bugged me.

“All right, if you must know…” He leaned in so as not to be overheard. “If you must know, there was a movie Penny suggested to me for, but your dad shot it down.”

“Which one?”

“The Howard picture. Well, it was the Howard picture but now it’s Reitman’s.”

“Why didn’t you say something? I would have talked to Daddy.”

“Right, Jackie. I’m gonna let my lady beg her pop for my paycheck. You know me better than that.” Brett shoved his plate aside and leaned back in his chair. “Let’s get the check.”

“Um, Henry’s waving at us to come over.”

“He’s waving at you. I’m just a stupid redneck.” He sighed. “No one takes me seriously. Maybe I should become Jewish, I’ve almost got the schnoz for it,” he joked.

I leaned over and kissed his nose. “You’d never pass.”

“If I was Jewish, I’d be in the club,” he sulked.

“Where you come from, darlin’,” I drawled, “the clubs keep us out.”

“Not in this town, princess.” He picked up a spoon and checked his teeth in the reflection.

I finished my vodka and waved at Henry. Fortunately, Brett never made an issue of my drinking, though he’d returned to abstaining. He worked out a minimum of two hours a day and like most leading men, was obsessed with every aspect of his body.

That made two of us.