[i]You would know all about carrion-eaters and blood-suckers, wouldn't you?[/i] Ben thought with another wayward twitch of his eye as he watched those knobby knuckles venture into the folds of his [i]Boss[/i] jacket. Instinct roiled inside of Ben, rousing a pinch of tension between his broad shoulders. Instead of a gun, a knife, or another bottle of pills, Schultz procured a photo. Ben had expected a picture in a wallet or a locket, not this. It was overly-professional and eerily banal for what Ben normally encountered in his line of work. 

Taking the photo, Ben studied the woman - Jacqueline - for a long moment with the faintest furrow of his brow. Photo grain did no favors for anyone's looks, but the dame's brilliant smile still shone through. Young, beautiful, and full of life, by the look of her. Te kind of gal who could brighten a room. [i]And married to a fellow old enough to be her father,[/i] Ben reminded himself. 

His hard blue eyes saw the play of noon-day light over the photograph, noting the faint impressions on the other side. Turning the polaroid in hand, Ben scribbled a few more notes. It was something he'd discovered in is grade-school days; Ben had a mind like a steel trap once he wrote something down. As soon as he scribbled it somewhere, even if he never saw the note again, he'd remember every detail. 

"You've given me a lead, Mr. Schultz. That's enough," Ben said, slipping the photo into the pages of his notebook before regarding the older kraut in a long span of silence. Of course, the man [i]had[/i] to drive the nail home and flex his wealth and the depth of his resources. When Schultz leafed two bills casually onto the desk, Ben's mouth quirked as he started to say something, but the kraut was already leaving. Ben [i]had[/i] said the consultation was free, but when money was of no consequence, a display of theater was worth more than the money itself. 

Ben waited for the door to shut and to hear Schultz's hobbling step descend the stairs before burying his face in his hands. Stubble rasped against Ben's rough palms. The photo of the dame peeked at him from the pages of Ben's notebook, taunting, daring him to pick up the money, and by extension accept the job. After a deep breath and a moment's contemplation, Ben took the crisp bills and shuffled them into his pocketbook. 

"After lunch..." Ben muttered to himself, and drained his glass. 


[center]* * *[/center]


Parked across the street from the [i]Glamor Hawk[/i] lot, Ben surveyed the property and the milling busybodies coming hither and thither, flocking like tropical birds. After a solid meal and a chance to freshen up on the kraut's dime, Ben felt fresh as a spring sprig. Dressed in one of his nicer light grey suits, Ben fanned himself with his stetson fedora while he cased the joint. The paparazzi was already out in force, drawn like flies to stink. Was Ben any better, though?

With that chipper thought, he drained the last of his coca-cola and snatched up his little Nikon camera. In the years since the war, the dinky little thing had gotten more use than Ben's pistol or his Ford. Such were the times. The car door groaned as Ben stepped onto the sidewalk, settling his hat onto his head and his camera into his coat pocket. The [i]Glamor Hawk[/i] could pass for a military compound if not for all the glitz and glam. A tall gate flanked by walls and hedges, designed to keep prying and predatory eyes at bay. [i]They couldn't make it easy on me, could they? No siree,[/i] Ben grumbled inwardly as he casually tread the sidewalk, counting his steps as a means to measure the length of wall. 

Traffic paused as pedestrians crossed the intersection like milling ants. Ben could probably make it if he ran, but discretion was the finer point of valor in the preliminary leg of the investigation. Haste always made waste. [i]Fifty feet of wall on either side, single guard at the gatehouse...[/i] Ben's eagle-keen eyes darted from detain to detail, drinking it all in, looking for a weak point in the [i]Hawk's[/i] perimeter. His attention had been consumed, drawn to a pinpoint when he suddenly felt a crash against his chest,

"Hey! You stupid mook, look where you're going!" 

Snapping his attention to the sidewalk, Ben's expression fluttered from terse to apologetic as he saw a short, round man throw up his hands in fury at the handful of office material that had just been dumped on the sidewalk. Ben hissed and breath, 

"Sorry about that, mack. Here, allow me," Ben took a knee to shuffle the papers together as neatly as he could. Blocks of typewriter scratch were red-lined and blacked out, notations for revisions on scenes and dialogue. [i]A script...?[/i] Ben thought, then eyed his golden ticket. Amid the papers and folders, there was a laminate [i]Glamor Hawk Staff[/i] badge. 

[i]Haste makes waste, indeed,[/i] Ben thought to himself, compiling all of the surly little fellow's materials together, deftly slipping the badge from the bottom of the pile up his sleeve. 

"I'm real sorry about that, mister," Ben said, laying on the drawl. The red-faced writer sneered and snatched the stack of his work back. 

"Yeah, yeah. Thanks for nothin', Huckleberry. Stupid fuckin' hick." Ben just tipped his hat to the fellow as he stormed off, smirking softly. City of Angels, indeed. Waiting to be in the crowd that meandered across the cross-walk next, Ben clipped on the staff badge, and hoped. He tipped his hat to the gate guard, who gave no further regard than a cursory glance to the badge before nodding Ben in before returning to his crossword. Tucking his hat back down, Ben made the most of his long stride to cover ground in the busy lot. Now that he was inside, Ben just needed to move from building to building, looking for one dame among the rest. Keeping in mind that stellar smile, he imagined it wouldn't be too hard.