"Chase? I thought you said you just spotted it a couple of times?" Charlie said.

All my little white lies inevitably came back to haunt me. "It followed us for a bit, but Dad lost them."

"I didn't know you were visiting your parents," Charlie said, his voice brightening. He was a big fan of Clyde and Priscilla.

"Just for the day. I have to get back to Miami for shooting on Monday."

"Promise me you'll call if anything weird happens," Charlie said.

"I will."

There was another long pause before I said hesitantly, "I miss you."

"I miss you too. Bye, babe."

Click. He was gone. And even in the company of my loving parents, without Charlie, I felt very alone.

Chapter 17.

When I returned to the set on Monday, the cast and crew were abuzz over the reputed affair between Juan Carlos and his much older costar, Viveca. As Stella applied a pound of makeup to the slowly fading bruise on my right eye, she could barely contain herself.

"I heard they spent all weekend locked in a room at the Delano. I'm sure she paid. He couldn't afford a place like that on what he's making on this movie," she said.

I could have clued her in to the fact that Juan Carlos was also screwing around with a handsome young lad two hours north of Coral Gables, but decided it was wiser to play my cards close to the vest.

A mousy PA armed with a walkie-talkie poked her head into the messy makeup and hair trailer. "We're ready for you on the set, Jarrod," she said tentatively.

"Okay, thanks, Lucy," I said.

Furrowing her own brow, Stella studied my face and shrugged. "About as good as it's going to get, I'm afraid."

I yanked off the paper bib protecting my freshly pressed wardrobe, and stood up. "You sure know how to talk to actors," I said.

Stella guffawed, and slapped my behind as I headed out of the trailer.

The outdoor campground set was bustling with activity as I made my way to my mark. A lighting technician gauged the shadows in the shot, and then repositioned a klieg light set up just outside of camera range.

Larry was engrossed in conversation with his director of photography, while over at the craft services table, Viveca picked up a Payday candy bar, unwrapped it, and playfully stuffed it into Juan Carlos's mouth. He let his hand slip down until it cupped her still firmly toned butt.

Caitlin dragged her devil child Simon onto the set, and spoke to him in urgent hushed whispers. I assumed she was bribing him. If he completed the scene without a tantrum, she would indulge his sweet tooth with all sorts of goodies. It was a pointless effort. Even if he did cry and make demands, she'd still give the little bugger anything he wanted.

"Good morning, Simon," I said with as much cheer as I could muster.

He snorted. No real words. Just a short, derisive snort. I hated him so much. It was going to take every last ounce of my acting ability to portray this little shit's loving father.

Larry bounded on the set. "Okay, this is a pretty straightforward scene," he said, talking with his hands. He turned to Simon. "You're pretty scared at this point. There have been rumors around the campground that four tourists have been found brutally slaughtered just half a mile away. You want to go home. But you know how much your dad's been looking forward to this quality time with you, so at the last minute you decide to stick it out. Serial killer be damned!" Larry then turned to me. "Jarrod, this is basically Simon's scene so just react accordingly."

Great. I was a glorified extra to this tiny terror. But I smiled and nodded enthusiastically. No one could ever accuse me of not being the utmost professional.

Larry ran back behind the camera, leaned over the shoulder of his DP to check the shot, took his seat in the director's chair with his name embroidered on the back, and yelled, "Action!"

Simon launched into his monologue, and as much as I loathe admitting it, he was pretty good. The kid had talent. I stayed in the moment, playing the doting parent who took great pains to understand what his frightened son was trying to tell him. Just as Simon reached the climax of his speech, making the choice to stay in the woods and risk a run-in with a madman, someone's cell phone rang.

"Cut!" Larry screamed, hurling his baseball cap to the ground in frustration. "Who the hell forgot to turn off their phone?"

Of course this time I knew it couldn't be mine. Since that disastrous first day, I had always left my cell phone in my gym bag, which I kept stored in the wardrobe trailer. The ringing continued. It was very close by. Everyone looked around frantically, trying to locate the source of the disturbance.

"It's coming out of his ass!" Simon screamed, pointing at the back pocket of my jeans. Oh God! I had taken it out to check my messages when I'd arrived on the set, and got so interested in watching Juan Carlos and Viveca paw each other at the craft services table that I had completely forgotten to put it back in my bag.

"Larry, I'm so sorry," I offered weakly.

"Just answer the goddamned phone! It's driving me nuts!" he said. "Everybody, take five!"

Simon glared at me and then ran after Larry. "I can't work like this, Mr. Levant! That was my best take on the whole picture and he ruined it!"

I was mortified, and looked around at everybody with an apologetic smile, but they scattered to keep their distance as if I were a walking virus.

I finally answered the phone. "Hello?"

"It's me," said Charlie. "Can you talk?"

Glancing around at the deserted set, I shrugged and said, "Sure. I've got five whole minutes."

"I did some digging on Casa Construction. Found out it's a legitimate business owned by none other than Javier Martinez."

"The Miami mob boss?"

"Yeah. I called my friend in South Beach and he said it's probably a front for all sorts of illegal activities. The question is why has a guy like Martinez suddenly taken an interest in you?"

I should have told Charlie that Martinez's henchmen probably spotted me staking out Juan Carlos, who was busy hooking up with a young stud at a dilapidated motel, and decided to find out if I was somehow connected to whatever business it was that had soured Martinez on Juan Carlos. But instead, I simply said, "Beats me."

"I don't like this one bit, Jarrod," Charlie said. "Martinez has a history of making people disappear, and if you're suddenly on his radar, that can't be good."

"I agree. So don't worry. I'll be really careful."

"Maybe I should book a flight down there."

"Charlie, I'm around people all the time on the set. I'm completely safe." Charlie wasn't a fan of my amateur sleuthing, so I didn't want to raise any hackles by confessing my recent Hardy Boy adventure.

"All right. But I have a very bad feeling, so if you get the slightest hint that someone's following you . . ."

"I'll call the police and then call you."

"Okay. What about Juan Carlos? Laurette's been calling three times a day to see if I've heard from you, and if you have any news."

I wasn't ready to fess up to the fact that Laurette's new husband was shacking up with more Floridians than the number who voted in the state's ill-fated 2000 presidential election. I needed to find out more about Juan Carlos's illicit affairs, his relationship with Austin Teboe, and the deadly business he had gotten mixed up in with Javier Martinez. The last thing I needed was Charlie reporting back to Laurette.

"I haven't seen much so far," I said. "But I can say he's got his fingers in a whole lot of pies."

Larry stalked back onto the set, his face covered in powdered sugar from the half-eaten donut in his hand. If looks could kill.

"Charlie, I've got to go. We're about to start shooting again."

I shut off the cell phone and was about to stuff it back into my jeans pocket when the mousy PA ran up to me, stuck out her hand, and said, "Larry wants me to hold on to your phone." Her eyes pleaded with me not to make a fuss.

I surrendered the phone without a word.

Caitlin brought her son back onto the set as an exasperated Larry screamed, "Are we finally ready to do this again?"

Trying my hardest to be contrite, I turned to Simon, who stepped on the piece of black tape designating his mark. "I'm really sorry I disrupted the take, Simon," I said.

He just snorted. And I clasped my hands behind my back until the urge to strangle his fat little neck subsided.

My scene with Simon wrapped just before lunch, and after grabbing a turkey and Swiss sandwich and a Diet Coke to go, I jumped in the Taurus and drove to Fort Lauderdale in just under twenty minutes. If I was ever going to unearth the mystery of why there was such bad blood between Juan Carlos and Mr. Martinez, the best course of action was to talk to the Miami mobster directly. After placing a call to Casa Construction, I was told by the very curt receptionist that Mr. Martinez was on-site today supervising an oceanfront construction job. She refused to disclose the exact address, but since the city's downtown area was relatively small, I decided to just drive around until I spotted a couple of guys in orange vests and a few cement trucks.

A viable alternative to the glittery, fast-paced South Beach, the city of Fort Lauderdale had reinvented itself by pouring over twenty-six million dollars into refurbishing its dreary and dated oceanfront. Now completely revitalized, the city was thriving in the tourist trade. And no doubt companies like Casa Construction were reaping the benefits.

It took all of ten minutes to lock in on a building under construction. And before I could even find a parking space across the street, I saw a big sign posted out front boasting the newest job by Casa Construction and a telephone number to call if you needed the city's number one building contractors.

I stepped out of the Taurus, locked it up tight, and made my way across the street to the site. There were a few workers sitting in folding chairs eating takeout from Taco Bell. I started to approach them when I spotted the two goons pull up in the familiar black Town Car. I ducked behind a giant green earth-mover that had been parked about a hundred feet from the half-constructed building. They walked toward a white aluminum trailer that had been set up to serve as a makeshift on-site office. They rapped on the door, waited a few moments, and then entered. Just as the bigger one went to close the door behind him, I spotted Javier Martinez sitting behind a desk, sipping a Starbucks coffee. He had a strikingly handsome face marred by a scar down his left cheek. He was in his late forties and very fit from what I could tell. The door closed. I knew his goons Laurel and Hardy would never let me get close to the boss, so my best point of attack would be to sneak around to the back of the trailer, wait for his henchmen to leave, and then talk my way in, pretending to be some kind of representative of a company interested in acquiring the services of Casa Construction. That would only work, of course, if Martinez had yet to see a picture of me. I was banking on him knowing I was out there following Juan Carlos, but not knowing what I looked like.

I left my earthmover cover and circled around behind the workers on their lunch break. I tiptoed behind the trailer, carefully making sure not to step on any rocks and debris that littered the site. Once I was positioned in the back, I picked up a discarded pail and set it down underneath a window. Stepping up on it, I raised my head high enough to peer inside. The two goons were both talking at once, presumably filling in their boss on their own surveillance activities. I had little doubt I was a part of the discussion. Martinez's back was to me, so I had no idea what his reaction was. After a few minutes, Martinez put down his Starbucks cup and waved Laurel and Hardy away. They both nodded, and then turned to leave, bumping shoulders in the small, enclosed space. They both tried going through the tiny door at the same time, almost crushing each other in the process. Finally, with a big sigh, the white guy allowed the Hispanic to pass through first. I couldn't tell if Martinez had even noticed this little comedy sketch.

Now was my chance. Martinez was alone. I stepped down off the pail and moved quickly to the edge of the trailer. I peeked out and spied Laurel and Hardy getting back in the Town Car. They drove away. I had to move fast. I thought up a fake name for the company I worked for and a nonexistent building project to bluff my way into Martinez's office, but before I could take a step toward the small aluminum door, a beefy hand clamped tightly over my mouth and yanked me back behind the trailer.

Chapter 18.

Whoever it was who grabbed me spun me around and shoved me hard up against the chain link fence that separated the office trailer from the construction site. He kept his hand pressed firmly over my mouth as he hissed in my ear, "Not a word, or we're both dead."

When he was confident I was going to keep quiet, he removed his hand and stepped back so I could finally get a good look at him. He was a big guy, well over six feet, with a shaved head and a dragon tattoo on his left bicep. He looked like a studly action hero cut from the Vin Diesel mode, and even wore a tight Army green tank top, camouflage pants, and black scuffed boots. His handsome stubbled face was dark and tan, a perfect testament to his obvious Latin heritage. He was the sexy, strong, silent type, and boasted a killer body underneath his casual military attire. If I hadn't known better, I would have sworn I had just walked into the middle of a gay porn video.

"Who are you?" I whispered.

"Later. Right now I'm going to get you out of here."

"Not until I talk to Mr. Martinez."

He looked at me as if I were an idiot. And at the moment, that was exactly what I felt like.

"You say the wrong thing to Martinez," he said, "and you might wind up on a one-way cruise to Cuba as fish food."

I had heard that line before. It was probably from when I'd guest-starred on Miami Vice in the eighties as a child prodigy chess champion who competes in a high-stakes international tournament against the thirteen-year-old son of a Havana-based drug dealer Crocket and Tubbs were investigating.

"Trust me," he said. "Not a smart move. Now come with me."

I wasn't used to being told what I could or could not do. Charlie would certainly attest to that. But my instincts told me to trust this guy.

He gripped my arm with his enormous, thick hand and steered me toward an alley leading away from the site and to a vast empty parking lot on the other side of a neighboring building. He pulled a set of keys out of his pants, clicked a button, and unlocked a custom-made sleek blue van that was more buffed and built up than he was. He released my arm and crossed to the driver's side door.

"Get in," he said in a gruff, impatient voice.

"What about my car?"

"Forget it. Martinez's meatheads recognized it parked across the street when they came out. They're just waiting for you to come back so they can pounce. Now are we going to stand here and jabber all day or are you going to get in my van?"

I stopped just short of climbing in the passenger's seat. "You're not some serial killer, are you? I just had this vision of you knocking me over the head with a crowbar, and me waking up in some carved-out ditch in your basement handcuffed to a water heater."

He treated me to a barely perceptible smile. "Relax. You're safe with me."

I decided to go with it and jumped in the van next to him. As he thrust the key into the ignition and fired the van up, he turned and added with a swift wink, "Of course, if you don't stop looking at me with those ocean blue eyes of yours, I may have to pounce."

I was starting to like him. A lot.

We pulled out and drove south toward Hollywood, Florida, a tiny hamlet wedged between the two larger, more famous cities of Fort Lauderdale and Miami. We drove in silence for a few minutes. I was still reeling from his flattering remark regarding my eyes. Maybe it was a tactic to throw me off balance so I wouldn't give him any more trouble. I guess the Hairspray T-shirt I was wearing, from the Broadway show, had given my loosely guarded sexual orientation away.

"So what were you doing sneaking around Martinez's site?" I asked.

"Same as you," he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the road. "Trying to find some answers. I'm a private detective. Name's Bowie. Bowie Lassiter."

I wasn't sure how much I should reveal. He could be lying. He could be on Martinez's payroll and just pretending to be on the same side to find out how much I knew about Martinez's illegal operations. And once he had drained all the necessary information out of me, he would just slit my throat with the hunting knife that was sheathed in the leather pouch tied to his belt. Man, he was butch.

"I'm not pulling your chain. Check the glove box," he said.

I twisted the knob, and the compartment popped open, revealing a Florida private investigator's license with a laminated photo. It was definitely him. The picture didn't begin to do him justice. I tossed the identification back in the box and snapped it shut.

"Your turn," he said.

"I'm Jarrod Jarvis. I'm here working on a movie, and I have reason to believe that one of my costars on the picture has somehow gotten mixed up with Javier Martinez."

"Too bad for him," Bowie said.

"I think he's crossed him in some way."

Bowie shook his head slowly. "Man, pissing off Martinez is like contracting a fatal disease. It's not a question of if you die, it's a question of when."

"How do you know so much about Martinez?"