"I'll do it."

"What?" Charlie said, stunned.

"A part is a part. And this is a feature. I haven't done a feature film since I was twelve years old and played Huck Finn in that hideous Tom Sawyer remake with Jason Bateman. Who knows what this could lead to? If I don't take it, I'll always wonder if it could have turned things around for me."

"I don't believe this," Charlie said. "You're actually going to do this."

Laurette knew to keep her mouth shut, and let me handle Charlie. I gently touched his arm, and smiled. "It's only for a few weeks. Besides, my parents have been bugging me to come see them, and they're only a couple hours north of Miami. And don't worry about Juan Carlos and me. I'll buy him a beer, make nice, we'll be buddies by the end of the first day. Besides, it'll make it easier for me to babysit him when we're not shooting."

"You're going to be great, Jarrod. And this is going to do wonders for your career," Laurette crowed. "Larry Levant is hot, hot, hot."

Charlie stood there, steadfast in his resolve. But even he knew this was a no-win situation. In the end, I would go where the work took me. He knew that about me on the first day we met. But he still didn't have to like it.

"Fine," he said, and stalked out of the kitchen to the den, where he resumed watching Die Another Day.

"I didn't mean to cause a fight," Laurette said.

"Don't worry. He'll be fine."

Easier said than done. This was going to take more political wrangling and sensitive diplomacy than the Israeli-Palestinian peace talks. But I was up for the challenge. Charlie would come around. Eventually. And as for me, I was excited about working again. Despite the gnawing fear that Juan Carlos might slit my throat in the wilds of South Florida.

Chapter 11.

The only way I could convince my shopping buddy and personal clairvoyant Isis to drive me to the airport for my flight to Miami was if I promised to make a pit stop at a Costco discount warehouse on the way. Isis was one of those extreme bargain hunters, willing to bungee-jump off the Golden Gate Bridge if it would save her a few pennies on a refill bottle of Ivory Liquid Soap. She had lost her membership card, and while she was waiting to get issued a new one, she needed my Costco card in the interim to gain access to Mecca.

When Isis arrived in her weathered, dented, smoke-billowing 1986 Chevy Caprice Classic, Charlie and I were in the middle of a terrible row. We rarely fought, but somehow the tension surrounding my imminent departure to Florida had ignited an inferno that was burning holes through the fabric of our once fireproof relationship.

Charlie was already late for a court appearance downtown where he was testifying in the trial of a two-hundred-and-twenty-pound Latina gang member named Tiny who had hurled an empty bottle at one of his fellow detectives when they were dispatched to investigate a homicide in the neighborhood. But I guess his boyfriend costarring in a low-rent shocker with a real-life suspected murderer took precedence.

"Sometimes I get the feeling you take your career far more seriously than you take me," Charlie said, arms folded, hovering over me in the kitchen as I tossed a few candy bars in my carrying case for the flight.

"That is not true, and you know it, and I'm tired of you always making me choose between the two," I said.

"Just once I would like to see you make a decision based on what's best for us, as opposed to what's best for you."

I zipped up my bag, stood erect, and threw the strap over my shoulder. "If that's what you really think, then maybe me going away for a while isn't such a bad idea."

There was a loud honking from outside. It was Isis in her Caprice. I glanced out the kitchen window that overlooked the street in front of the house. She was checking her watch, and craning her neck to see how ready I really was. I could tell she was calculating just how much time we would have to buy Green Forest toilet paper in bulk before we had to head on to the airport for the tightened security checks.

I started for the door. Charlie gripped my arm, stopping me. "Look, babe, I know things haven't been perfect between us lately, and maybe I just need to blow off a little steam, but you're not thinking straight."

"I never have," I said, unable to resist a little humor.

Charlie didn't smile. Hell, he didn't even smirk. He always found me funny. This was not good. "Maybe I'm just a little pissed off that you're not respecting what I think."

"What do you think?"

"I think Juan Carlos Barranco is bad news, and he's got it out for you, and buying him one beer is not going to smooth things over between the two of you. And . . ."

"And what?"

"And I'm worried I'm not going to be there to make sure he doesn't try to harm you in some way."

I should've dropped the bag right there and threw my arms around him. I should've said, "Screw the movie. I want to stay right here in LA and be with the man who loves me more than anyone else in the world." I should've said all that. But I didn't.

"Just because I don't have a badge like you doesn't mean I can't take care of myself," I said.

More honking. It was as if Isis's left hand was surgically attached to the car horn on the steering wheel. She could see us arguing in the kitchen, and with her right hand clutching the four-page shopping list, she wasn't going to indulge us with her patience.

Charlie threw his hands up in the air. "Fine." He grabbed his wallet and holster off the table, and walked to the door off the kitchen leading to our two-car garage. He turned his head slightly, barely making eye contact. "Call me when you get there . . . if you find the time." And then he opened the door, marched through, and closed it with a big slam.

I almost went after him. But Isis was now hitting more notes on her car horn than Beethoven's Fifth. With only three hours until my flight, and heavy traffic building on the 405 Freeway, Isis's time at Costco was limited. I grabbed my bags and headed out the front door.

As we bombed down the hill toward Franklin Avenue, Isis sat behind the wheel, her tiny body slumped down in the seat, her eyes barely making it over the dashboard. Her foot was pressed on the accelerator, and she continually flicked her eyes to the digital clock in front of us. We had gotten a late start, and she was not happy about it.

We sat in silence for a few minutes before I cleared my throat and decided to say something. "I'm afraid Charlie and I might break up."

"Don't be ridiculous," she said, slamming on the brakes, hurling us both forward as we stopped in the middle of an intersection for a red light. "It's just the seven-year itch. All couples go through it."

"But we've only been together for three."

"Oh," she said quietly.

More silence.

"So tell me. Do you see us breaking up?" Isis was my psychic. My spiritual guru. Like the Egyptian gods of her homeland she studied so prodigiously, Isis had adopted ancient Eastern philosophies and possessed many mind-blowing powers of acute observation, many of which were astounding glimpses into the future. Even though lately the farthest east she'd ever been was to a Bruce Springsteen concert outside of Boston.

Isis hit the gas when the light turned green, and we sprang forward.

I sat in the passenger seat, watching her, as her mind kicked into gear, and a torrent of psychic energy washed over her. I couldn't stand it anymore.

"What do you see? What are you thinking?" I said.

"I'm thinking that maybe La Cienega might be faster at this time of day. I don't want to get clogged up in traffic on Fairfax. As it is, we'll only have twenty to thirty minutes at Costco."

"What about me and Charlie?"

"I see a lot of conflict."

You didn't have to be a psychic to pick up on that.

"But the power lies within both of you to weather it and move on together," she said. "There are worse things than to be with someone who worries about you, Jarrod."

She was right. And I was feeling guiltier than the time I told Charlie I borrowed three hundred dollars from our Alaskan cruise vacation fund to buy a new suit for a callback for a recurring role on The West Wing when I actually used the money on a deluxe treatment at the Burke Williams Day Spa in West Hollywood.

I rummaged through my bag for a cell phone to call and apologize, but Isis put a gentle hand on my thigh. "Give yourselves some breathing room. Take some time to think about what you're going to say. Call him when you get to Florida." She was right again. I was never in top form when I impulsively spewed a stream of apologies and reasons for my sometimes abhorrent behavior. It was best to rehearse the speech, work on my character motivation, and deliver such a tour de force performance that Charlie would find it utterly impossible not to forgive me. God, it's no wonder some people can't stand us actors.

When I thought about it, it dawned on me that Isis's sound advice had its own hidden motivations. She was afraid if I called Charlie down at the courthouse, and we got wrapped up in a conciliatory conversation, I would seriously cut into our shopping time at Costco.

When we reached the Costco on Washington Boulevard in Culver City, a scant twenty minutes from Los Angeles International Airport, the parking lot was jammed. Isis hurriedly did a few loops, before she spotted one narrow space, and squeezed her Caprice between the lines reserved for compact vehicles. We both had to squeeze out our respective doors so as not to bang into the cars parked on either side of us.

Isis immediately snatched my trusty Costco card out of my hand, grabbed a cart almost twice as big as her tiny frame, and rolled it inside. I did everything I could just to keep up. She was like a NASCAR racer, speeding through the meat and produce section, squealing into a sharp turn that led her to the mass quantities of boxed cereals and cans of coffee. Her eyes blazed with determination as she filled one cart, and dispatched me to round up another.

When I returned with a second cart, she was carefully scanning her list to see what else she needed.

I was still hung up on my fight with Charlie. "Do you think Charlie is right to worry? Should I be concerned about working in such close proximity to Juan Carlos?"

Isis sighed. I was starting to irritate her. She was on a mission and I was hampering her efforts. "Of course he's right," she said. "You said yourself that the two of you duked it out on Laurette's lawn like a couple of middleweight boxers. Juan Carlos isn't going to forget about all that just because you're now acting together in a movie."

"So do you see me in physical danger down in Florida?"

Isis studied the prices on two brands of paper towels, not satisfied with either. "They've both gone up four cents since last month," she muttered to no one in particular. "Unbelievable. This place is supposed to be a cheaper alternative."

I stepped forward, grabbed the cheaper of the two brands, and tossed the eight-roll package into the empty cart. "I'm going to miss my flight if we don't get through your list faster."

Isis tore the list in half, and handed me one of the pieces. "Here. You get the items on this, and I'll concentrate on these. We'll get out of here a lot sooner."

"Deal," I said, checking my list. Lots of soaps and detergents. Isis spun around, and pushed her cart toward the next aisle. I called after her. "You didn't answer my question. As my psychic, tell me, am I in danger?"

She stopped her cart, and spun back around. She nodded. "Yes, you are. There's danger everywhere. It's around you right now. Now leave me alone so I can concentrate."

Not the most comforting observation. But good to know nevertheless.

After stockpiling enough provisions for another Waco standoff, Isis was ready to check out. She sent me back for one more extra large package of Pillsbury cookie dough while she found a place in the checkout line.

When I returned, I saw her immersed in an argument with a big, lumbering man who had obviously cut in front of her. His back was to me, so I couldn't make out his face. Even though he towered over her, Isis was spunky and aggressive, and she was not going to back down.

"I would've let you go ahead of me if you had asked politely," she said. "But you just pushed me aside." The man was unresponsive. For a minute I thought he might be deaf.

I decided diplomacy was the best tactic since time was of the essence. My flight was in a little over an hour and I had bags to check. "Excuse me, sir, normally we wouldn't mind you going through first, but we're in a bit of a hurry. I have a flight to catch. So we'd appreciate it if-"

The man slowly turned to face me. And my blood ran cold. It was Wendell Butterworth. He broke out into a wide smile. "Of course, I'm sorry. Go right ahead." He yanked his cart back, giving Isis enough room to move ahead of him in line. With a huff, she positioned her cart at the belt, and started unloading her groceries.

I stood frozen. I didn't want to take one step nearer to Butterworth. He waved me forward, as if taunting me. He wanted to know if I had the guts to step closer to him.

Isis, who had never seen Wendell Butterworth, had no idea who he was. And her psychic powers were not suggesting he was anything but a rude shopper lacking people skills.

We stared at one another for what seemed like an hour, but it couldn't have been more than a few seconds. Finally, a frizzy-haired Irish lass with a cherubic smile and wearing the traditional Costco uniform of a red vest and blue pants logged on to her cash register and called out to Wendell. "Excuse me, sir, I can take you over here."

Wendell grinned from ear to ear as he maneuvered his cart around mine and wheeled it over to the open register.

Isis, completely clueless and having given up on me helping her, pulled my cart forward and started unloading the items herself.

Wendell Butterworth was stalking me again. And I felt powerless to do anything about it.

Just a few feet away from me stood the man who tried to kill me. To the naked eye, he appeared harmless enough. Just a big cuddly bear of a middle-aged man out stocking up on a few canned goods. But to me, he was a living nightmare.

He glanced over at me, and gave me a wink as he plunged his hand into his cart and withdrew a twelve-pack of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. When I was ten, I told Johnny Carson that was my favorite candy, and the following day Wendell had four giant boxes delivered to the set. He made sure I got a good look at what he was buying. And then he started whistling. The tune was instantly recognizable. It was the theme song from my long-running sitcom, Go to Your Room!

Chapter 12.

After leaving Costco, I had my eyes fixed on the side-view mirror to see if Wendell Butterworth was following us. After hustling through the checkout line, and loading up Isis's Caprice, I spotted him waving at us as we peeled out of the lot. I was convinced he was following us, and would book a ticket to Miami to join me on my film shoot. Isis, having learned how to drive from her parents, who were used to maneuvering through the suicidal highways of Cairo, zipped in and out of traffic with the precision and focus of Paul Walker in the Fast and Furious movies. If anybody could lose Wendell, she could. But there was no sign of him as we slid into the steady stream of cars filling up the departure lanes leading into the airport. I thought about contacting the parole board and updating them on Wendell's recent activities. But what could they do? They had already granted him parole.

Once Isis had deposited me in the white loading zone at United Airlines, I took one last look around at the sea of travelers lined up with their bags for curbside check-in. I half expected to see Wendell's eerily serene yet maniacal face staring at me. I walked into the terminal, momentarily disoriented by the late-morning chaos, and dragged my bags to the endless line of economy passengers waiting for their boarding passes. Since this was a low-budget production, first-class travel was not an option, especially for a supporting player in the cast like me. The last time I had done a feature film I hadn't even started shaving yet.

I stood there, people watching to pass the time. And then I saw him. Wendell. He was in a wheelchair being pushed by an airport employee. No, wait. He was over to the right. In a USC football jersey and cutoff jeans. No. Behind the counter in a blue jacket and tie, checking in first-class passengers. Wendell Butterworth was everywhere. In my head. I needed a sedative, or at the very least, a stiff drink.

What I really needed was my boyfriend. I needed Charlie. And it finally dawned on me that I could not get on that plane without clearing the air. I didn't want to give us both some breathing room as Isis had suggested. No. I wanted to see him now. I gathered up my bags, left the line, and bustled back out to the curb, where I glimpsed a cab dropping off another traveler. Wendell stepped out of the back. Or it could've been Wendell if he'd had gray, wispy hair pulled into a bun, a hunched back half concealed by a bulky blue overcoat, and was a four-foot-eight-inch-tall grandmother. I was really losing it.

After helping the old woman deliver her bags to a curbside check-in attendant, I hopped into the cab and instructed the driver to take me downtown to the Los Angeles County Courthouse, where I knew Charlie would be just about finished testifying at the gang-related assault trial.

As we raced along the 105 Imperial Freeway, connecting to the 110 Harbor Freeway that stretched north toward the shiny, pristine skyline of downtown LA, I imagined the perfect movie moment ending with me showing up in the courtroom in a surprise last-minute appearance. Charlie would be sitting on the stand, relating the events of the night in question. I would sweep in, momentarily distracting him. He would fumble in his testimony, fight back a smile, and continue on, ever the consummate professional police officer. Once the judge allowed him to step down, we would meet outside in the hallway for an embrace, and then retreat to an empty courtroom for some hot, passionate sex on top of a hard wooden table usually reserved for the defendant and his attorneys. I was flushed just thinking about it as I sat in the back seat of the taxi.

When I arrived at the LA courthouse, the line to pass through security took forty minutes. I had to take off my belt, shoes, and jacket, and my three pieces of luggage I was hauling had to be carefully sorted through. Who showed up at the courthouse with a month's wardrobe? Once cleared, I took the elevator up to the fifteenth floor of the criminal courts building and to the room where Charlie had mentioned he would be testifying.

I opened the room, and quietly entered, expecting to slide into an empty seat off to the side and wait for the judge to call a lunch break. But to my surprise, the room was empty. This was odd. It was a four-day trial that had just begun yesterday. I couldn't understand where everybody had gone. I looked around for a stenographer, bailiff, anybody to enlighten me. But nobody was around. I walked back out into the hallway, where a tiny woman in her late twenties, wearing a suit jacket with a matching short skirt, her face hidden in a massive array of light brown curls, jotted furiously in her notebook. I glanced down and recognized Charlie's name in her scratchings.

"Are you one of the lawyers for the assault trial that's supposed to be going on in there?" I asked.

She nodded, not bothering to even look up.

"I'm looking for Charlie Peters."

"We're on a break. Judge Yellin asked to see him in his chambers."

"Could you tell me where I can find Judge Yellin's chambers?"

"Down the hall to your right," she said, and then snapped her notebook shut, annoyed at my intrusion. She stood up and clicked down the hall in her high heels. Definitely a big fan of the canceled Ally McBeal show.

"Thank you," I called after her, but she didn't respond. She just disappeared around a corner. I followed her directions, and found a door marked JUDGE YELLIN. I knocked softly, but got no answer. I tried again. I pressed my ear to the door, hoping to hear if he was on the phone or something, but all the commotion in the hall made it impossible to hear anything. I tried the door. It was unlocked. Should I just barge into a judge's chambers unannounced? I should've tried Charlie's cell phone instead, but I didn't want to cheat myself out of all the bells and whistles of an emotional reunion. Alerting him by phone would diminish the impact. So I opened the door and stepped inside.

It was dark. The shades were drawn, blocking the sunlight from the gorgeous day outside. I turned to leave, when I heard a rustling sound across the room. And heavy, intense breathing. I reached over and felt for a light switch. When I flipped it up with my index finger, I had a sinking feeling I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. And as the fluorescent lights struggled to reach maximum capacity, I knew I had made a tragic mistake. On the couch, off to the right side of the door, I saw a man in a judge's black robe, lying on top of another man. They were making out on the couch. The sudden flood of lights startled the judge, who despite being well north of fifty, was impressively distinguished with an immaculate head of silver hair and a tanned, handsome face. He leapt to his feet, in a state of shock and confusion.

"I'm sorry," I said, embarrassed and mortified. "I didn't mean to . . ."

My eyes fell on the man still sprawled out on the couch. His tie was askew, his dress shirt ripped open, his slacks had been hurriedly unzipped and wrenched halfway down to his lower thighs. It was Charlie. My Charlie. Detective Charlie Peters. Sucking face with a judge and about to do a whole lot more. As they used to say on Laugh-In, "Here cums da judge!"