When the sly vixen had returned to her den, he paused for a moment on the street outside her drive, his road-weary car a blemish among the fine BMWs and Rolls Royce machines that came and went. The house was a castle in its own right, and Ben imagined a small army of staff tending to every need as soon as Jacqueline and her husband showed the slightest glimmer of discontentment. 

What a life. 

Grinding out the butt of his cigarette on the asphalt, he ducked into his car and drove off. He had a long night ahead of him yet. Ben had all but sweat through his shirt and hadn't eaten a nibble since lunch. He was hungry, tired, and had a knot in his back as large as the San Andreas fault. He could go for a fat steak and a long shower, but he had photos to develop. Instead, the PI stopped by a diner for a cold cut and the liquor store for a fresh bottle of bourbon. 

What would have constituted a guest bathroom in Ben's office had been retrofitted into a dark room, the door fitted with enough locks to make any meandering client think twice before trying the knob. Dark red lights bored into his eyes, making them ache as much as the fumes did. It was at times like these that he detested his thoroughness. The photos came out well enough; far more than he'd anticipated. Hung up on a line like so much drying laundry, Ben was daunted by those dark lips and bright smile into the measly hours of the morning. 

By the time he'd finished developing the photos and dragged himself into the shower, it was nearing the witching hour in the city of angels. For how ragged the landlady rode her tenets, Ben figured the water heater should be working when he needed it. Alas, Ben's shower was brief as it was brisk, but perhaps a cold shower was just what he needed. 

A few glasses of bourbon later and Ben passed out on his measly cot. His rest was fitful, dragging him back to the mud and blood of the war, as it always did. A merciless ray of sunlight stabbed Ben in the eye to rouse him in the morning. Rolling out of bed, naked as a jaybird, the veteran planted his face in his calloused hands and breathed deep. Old wounds ached, his head pounded, and he felt empty in more ways than one. 

[i]Another day, another dime...[/i] Ben thought, shuffling tiredly to brew a fresh pot of coffee. He stared at his reflection in the dingy mirror with dismay; the circles under his eyes were more profound than the day before, his cheeks rough with stubble. Only one of those he could help, so after a quick shave and slurping down a cup of coffee with his bacon and eggs, Ben got back on the case. 

Thankfully, Ben still had his staff badge for the GHS in the glove compartment of his car. Flashing it to one of the guards on the lot, Ben even got to park his car behind scenes. That alone would save him some time, and give him a few extra minutes to go through his notebook while his finished off the rest of the coffee pot's contents from his thermos. It was gas in the tank, and feeling jazzed enough from the french roast, he made his rounds. 

The Glamor Hawk was even more impressive when coming in through the backlot, seeing the techies practicing their craft in sculpting setpieces, checking props, or doing makeup. Talk about movie magic. Sure enough, Jacqueline was back to her own proverbial grindstone, looking radiant as she was the day before. He spied her passing a note to... Jerry, was it? 

It was a slower day at the studio, as relative as that was. People milled about their business as usual, but it looked like several crews had gone elsewhere to shoot. Probably at the beach or in the brush-laden foothills inland, that could so easily pass for Italy or Greece. As such, a tall drink like Ben would stand out with his camera. There was little else to do for now but make a gamble, so Ben, in his infinite wisdom, rolled the dice. 

"I take it you talked him out of the forest nymph scene, then?" Ben asked lowly after clearing his throat on approach to the starlet. He was dressed in a fine summer suit, or at least as fine as he could afford. A linen shirt with matched khaki suit and slacks with an army-brown hat. All in all, it made him look more like a big-game hunter than some studio peon. Looking Jacqueline in the eyes, he offered a genteel smile and thrust his chin after the stout chimney of a man that had received the flash paper. 

"If I talked at him the way you did, they'd have tanned my hide. Ben," he said, offering his hand. "Ben Carter."