Gino Patelli was frustrated. “Where the hell is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you know?”
“I’ve got two men in separate cars staking out the studio,” Sylvester said. “Barnett hasn’t entered the lot since they’ve been on the job.”
“But he’s working there?”
“He’s producing a movie.”
“Then how can he not be there?”
“I have no idea. I tried calling his office and just got the runaround. He’s supposedly on a location scout, but I can’t find out where, what he’s scouting, or when he’ll be back. His secretary can’t be pinned down, and is delightfully vague. Mr. Barnett can’t be reached, can she take a message? Whatever I want to talk to him about, she’ll take it down and pass it on the next time he calls in.”
“Shit. But he’s got a movie going now?”
“That’s right. Gearing up to film.”
“Then he’s gotta be around. After the run-in with Marco, he must be taking precautions. He’s found some way to get on and off the studio grounds without going through the main gate. He’s there, but he’s primed his secretary to say he isn’t.”
Sylvester nodded. “That could be.”
Gino raised his finger. “We need someone inside.”
Sylvester went down to the night court where the early-morning arrests were being processed. He waited through an endless string of drunks and hookers until he finally found what he wanted. A young man in his early twenties, groggy and disheveled from a night in jail but still handsome enough with curly dark hair and a pleasant face.
“Who do we have here?” the judge said.
“Dylan Foster,” the prosecutor said. “Possession of a controlled substance.”
Dylan had been arrested holding half a gram of cocaine. He pled nolo contendere and was sentenced to a fine of five hundred dollars or ten days in jail.
Dylan didn’t have five hundred dollars, and was on his way back to the lockup when Sylvester stepped up and paid the fine.
Dylan was nervous, and rightfully so. He had no idea who this strange man was or why he’d bailed him out. He had half a mind not to go with him. But the prospect of sitting in jail for ten days tipped the scale. And the man was thin and cadaverous, didn’t look that tough. Dylan figured he could always get away.
Dylan allowed himself to be led outside to a waiting car. The driver hopped out and opened the door to the back seat. Dylan glanced around, saw no way out, and climbed in. The thin man climbed in beside him. The driver got in and the car took off.
Dylan was afraid to ask where they were going. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
The car drove out of town and pulled into the gates of what turned out to be an imposing-looking mansion. The gaunt man ushered him up the steps and through the door.
Two burly men approached Dylan. The gaunt man shook his head. “No need. He just came from lockup.”
“Orders,” one said. He took hold of Dylan and patted him down.
When the search found nothing, Dylan was marched down a wood-paneled hall.
They reached a door where another burly man patted him down, before stepping aside to let them in.
Gino Patelli looked up from his desk. “What have we got here?”
“This is Dylan. Found him in night court.”
“Oh?”
“He’s an ‘aspiring actor,’” Sylvester said with mocking condescension. “Pled guilty to possession. I got him out for a five-hundred-dollar fine.”
Gino looked the young man over critically. “You a junkie?”
“No, I did some lines at a party—”
“Don’t care,” Gino interrupted. He frowned, shook his head. “Kid’s a wreck. Clean him up and he might do okay.”
Dylan flinched.
Gino laughed. “Relax, kid. No one wants your body. Here’s the deal. I’m going to get you a job on a movie lot. Not an acting job, probably production assistant, but a chance to make contacts, meet all the people you need to know. That something you’d like to do?”
Dylan paused. “What will you want in return?”
“Be my eyes and ears on the scene. You gotta see what I want to see, hear what I want to hear.” Gino stopped, raised his finger right in Dylan’s face. “There’s only one thing you cannot do. You cannot leave. You cannot say, I’ve got a better gig, I’m moving on. You will not be moving on. If you try, you will be reminded of your obligation in rather dramatic fashion. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. You’re going to get a job at Centurion Studios. It’s a big studio with lots of movies filming, and lots of producers. The only one I’m concerned with is Billy Barnett. I want you to report everything you find out about Billy Barnett. In particular, I want to know when he’s on the lot, and what he’s up to. You got that?”
“Yes, sir. And what do you want with Billy Barnett?”
“None of your fucking business.”