“I don’t like you a whole lot. Neither does the other me.”

“Now I’m confused.”

“Marlo and K.T. don’t like each other much. It shows when the camera’s not on them. Once the director called ‘Cut,’ they went separate ways, didn’t speak or look at each other until Marlo called K.T. over to you.”

“I guess I had Hollywood stars in my eyes because I didn’t notice. But you’re right. It must be rough to work with somebody so closely, have to pretend you like and respect each other, and you really don’t.”

“That’s why they call it acting.”

“Still. Oh, and I think the other me has a bigger ass.”

“No question about it.”

“Really?”

“Peabody, I didn’t actually look at her ass, and I rarely have occasion to look at yours. But I’m willing to say her ass is bigger if it makes you happy and we can stop talking about the Hollywood people.”

“Okay, but just one more thing. The other me is also a lying sack. She told me she had to go prep for her next scene, but when I cut across where the trailers are to get to the VIP lot, I saw her—and boy, I heard her. Banging on one of the trailer doors, yelling, ‘I know you’re in there, you bastard, and open the fucking door.’ Like that.”

“Whose trailer?”

“I don’t know, but she was pissed, and didn’t care who heard because there was crew milling around.”

“It’s like I’ve always said. You’re a bitch with a nasty temper and no class.”

Peabody sighed, smiled. “But not an underling.”

“With that settled,” Eve said as she pulled behind a black-and-white, “maybe we can check out this DB.”

“A visit to a vid set, a DB, and dinner with celebrities. It’s a really good day.”

Not for Cecil Silcock.

His day had ended early on the leopard-print tiles of his elaborate kitchen. He lay there, blood from the head wound running river to lake over the black-spotted gold. It made the floor look a little too much like a terminally wounded animal, in Eve’s opinion.