James Hell Is Naked

1. Auflage 2017
ISBN: 978-0-9848605-7-9
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 244 Seiten

This award winning mystery/thriller took finalist honors in the Readers Favorite International Book Awards. One of WARREN ROBERTS' SWAT cronies once told him a woman would run naked into the street to save her baby, but a man would stop to put on his pants first. It was an interesting thought, an enigma to ride the back of his mind and wait for a time of future analysis. But time plays tricks and sometimes there is no time for analysis, only for action. Action soon takes on a whole new meaning as he embarks on the most embarrassing job he's ever attempted-working undercover as a movie extra. Just one day of bungling tells him he would weep for joy over some high-risk, tactical, search and rescue operation involving weapons of mass destruction, that is, provided it is anywhere but Hollywood. For a man with his diverse skill sets, it takes only three days to locate background actress, RAINY WRAY. It takes him slightly longer to discover why he is really locating this blithe hippy. Only after he bungles them both into a quagmire of disaster does he take his acting seriously. When Warren Roberts, romps through the Hollywood movie scene, he proves that off-beat investigative styles can achieve results and that action, adventure, humor, and romance can credibly inhabit the same story.

Autoren/Hrsg.

James, Jean

James, Mary

Leseproben

Hell is naked before him,

and destruction hath no covering.

Job 26:6

Chapter 1

A friend once told me a woman would run naked into the street to save her baby, but a man would stop to put on his pants first. I didn’t buy it—until now.

For ten minutes, I had watched this gal, dressed somewhat like an alien kangaroo, bounce giddily across the floor in front of two cameras, a production crew, and a few hundred paid extras. If she forced herself to such extremes for the insignificant pay she earned, no doubt she would march through hell without hesitation if some important matter faced her. No way could I expose myself to such embarrassment, not for fifty dollars, not for a million. When I undertook this job, I never imagined it would lead me to a crowded movie set where I would attempt to behave like an experienced extra. All day I had tried to melt into the masses, but six-foot-six of quaking flesh didn’t conceal easily.

No need to look again at the picture in my inner jacket pocket to know for sure I had found my missing girl. I located her three friends too, all altered versions of the pictures I carried, but after a few mental adjustments, I could see they matched. My third day of humiliation and the job neared completion. If she would give me her address, I could leave this land of shorter people and go back to Chicago, but until that happened, fear would reign.

No one who had witnessed my terrorized bearing the past few days would have seen in me a police officer of twenty years, nine of them SWAT—a man trained to intimidate. Some high-risk, tactical, counter sniper, search and rescue, undercover operation involving weapons of mass destruction would feel cozy next to the present situation. Sadly, I left those days behind me two years ago when I turned forty-two, not because forty-two disqualifies one for police work, but because I relentlessly abused my body for too long, and it insisted on a break. Even when I politely asked it to perform some strenuous task, it answered back sarcastically or utterly refused.

Now I had to be satisfied with any job my detective friend, Bob Caine, threw my way. Today I found a missing person for him; tomorrow I might perform boring security work for a big corporation. My wallet approved of the work, it paid better than retirement, but I missed the action.

No feeling of satisfaction accompanied this newest conquest. I guess I could call it a noble cause, a father paying a detective to locate his too-long-gone grown daughter, but a twenty-nine-year-old runaway was pushing it a little far. Evidently, remorse or love or some other redeeming reason drove him to find her. Heck, the man had money, so motives didn’t count. The girl probably got too busy living her life and forgot about Mom and Dad the last time she changed her address. I couldn’t explain the changed identity. She and her three friends in no way resembled the pictures Bob had given me, but maybe that was just Hollywood and the movie industry. The client had insisted on haste since the girl’s mother suffered health problems. Bob and I both knew that a client often buried the truth under a pile of lies, but it was a job.

“You haven’t done this kind of work before, have you?” my missing person said as she stopped at the clothes rack that I gripped for moral support.

I liked the laughter in her green eyes and the friendly smile on her perky face. I hadn’t expected it to be this easy. They never, ever, came to me.

“My third day. Someone told me I could earn a quick paycheck this way. I believe I’d rather starve.”

“It must not have been that bad.”

Either my acting had improved or else she was used to liars. While I tried to think of something witty to say, a real girl, dressed in white shorts and a California suntan, stepped out of that ridiculous costume and smiled at me again.

“You survived the first two days and came back for more punishment.”

“I barely survived. I hid in the bathroom most of the time.”

“You’re the one who shouted after they signaled for silence, aren’t you?”

“Yep. I’d finally grasped that extras were supposed to shout, and then everyone shut up. . . . I was the one who left their cell phone on during that bedroom scene too.”

“Stay with me, and I’ll steer you through the rest of the day. Extras return to holding now. We’ll have time to get something to eat at craft services.”

“Not me. They ran me off—rudely.”

“We can’t prevent the rudeness. It thrives here. But you are allowed to eat. Take all you want—I’ll protect you.”

With her confident backing, I headed for the table I had eyed all morning. She immediately grabbed my arm.

“Wrong table. That’s for crew and SAG actors—members of the Screen Actors Guild. Our table’s over here.”

“But their table has meat . . . and candy bars.”

“Ours isn’t so bad.” She led me through the milling crowds. “Hurry, before all the good stuff disappears.”

Now I felt much wiser and understood why I went hungry my first two days. I wondered why she didn’t use the SAG table. According to Bob, she joined SAG when she turned eighteen and had worked at such ever since. That added up to eleven years of extra work, and that was why he believed she would still be here, even though her father thought she had changed her name and moved away. Bob knew people and knew I was strong on identifying them, so he sent me to where I should find her.

He told me I would be hitting a slow season of filming and could look at most of the full-time LA extras in two weeks if I registered for extra work—the only sure way to get on the film and TV sets where extras worked. That part proved relatively painless. I flew to LA, rented a cheap car, and drove straight to the large casting agency he had recommended. I filled out a few papers and used my own information except for a fictitious LA address. The agency took my picture—unflattering. It made me look like I had accumulated excess poundage. When I suggested they try again and use a different camera angle, they just stared at me and sent me on to a person who finished the registration process.

Another efficient person gave me phone numbers to call for upcoming extra jobs, and before the end of the day I had a comfortable motel room and a booking for a shoot on the morrow—a TV show. I had brought only one suitcase. Luckily, I found clothes in it that met their specifications.

There followed two terrifying days where I made every mistake imaginable and didn’t find anyone who even remotely matched my pictures—not even when I snooped around on other nearby shoots. I did see repeats of many faces, though. Today ranked as mega terrifying, but I had found the prize, and Bob’s hunch had been a good one. His shrewdness rarely made a mistake.

“I’m SAG,” she volunteered as we pillaged the correct table, “but I’m working nonunion today. Most everyone here is nonunion, so you don’t need to feel uncomfortable.”

I wasn’t uncomfortable—now. I held food in my hands and had filled my pants and jacket pockets with bags of chips and canned drinks. She laughed at my pile of food, a good laugh, low, with a warm, happy sound to it. While she fixed herself a cup of hot chocolate, I studied her more closely. Her face had a childlike innocence that made her seem younger than twenty-nine. My picture showed her with long, straight, red hair, but today she wore short, light-brown curls. They looked like they belonged. Her height matched the five-foot-eight figure her father had supplied, but where he had described her as thin—I would have called her about perfect, with a straighter, more muscular body that most of those around us.

“Come on. There’s room at that table over there.”

I followed dutifully and noted the voucher in her hip pocket. Her name, or the name she used now, should be on that slip of paper. Bob said her actual name was Lorraine Wray—Rainy Wray with the actor’s union. I would have to play helpless, something I excelled at lately.

“Do you have a minute to help me with my paperwork? I’ve done it wrong both days. . . . Maybe I could copy yours.”

She hesitated while a look of uncertainty passed over her face. It lasted only a second.

“Your voucher? Yes, you have to fill it out correctly if you expect pay, but you can’t copy mine, or they’d send me your check.” A glib smile followed. “You can use it as a model, though.” She handed it to me and glanced over at a dark-skinned girl in jeans who had motioned to her. ”I’ll be back in a minute. Holler if you need help.”

There it was, Rainy Wray, along with driver’s license number, address, and everything else. The address was a post office box, so more work awaited me. When she turned her back to me, I copied her info, stuffed it away in my pocket, and filled out my own voucher. Meanwhile, the two women drifted closer, and I caught the end of their conversation.

“You did right. Forget what your father said. He loves you and thinks he’s...