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don’t even know me. Just pay boss and let me go.”
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    Out in the car, Dutch woke from a hazy nap. Sirens were whining closer. Two LAPD cruisers passed her, heading north then “flipping a bitch” as they say in the stunt world, swinging a wide U-turn and pulling in, one behind her, one forced to park on the highway. Lights were turning and it made her cortisol spike. When she saw two cops walking toward the same brown house that Louie had entered, she did the thing that meant she was ready for lockup. She slipped off her right shoe, freeing her bare foot and her ankle bracelet, the one with a tiny St. Christopher medal on it. Monkey foot was what she called her driving style, a closer connection between driver and pedal. Her hand edged deliberately to the ignition. “Fuck a duck,” she whispered.
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    â€œWould you read it?” Troy said.
    Louie looked at the slim script in the kid’s hands then glanced over his shoulder at the sound of sirens outside.
    â€œIt’s called The Cage ,” Troy said. “A onetime famous cage fighter who killed a guy in an illegal match down in Mexico. He gets out of jail after twenty years. Tries to find his family and live a normal life, but the brothers of the guy he killed hear that he’s out. They come after him.”
    â€œYou make movie?”
    â€œEveryone is after him. All the young guys in MMA, all different styles of fighting. It’s like John Woo meets fifties Western noir meets Run, Lola, Run . It’s kick-ass, Louie, almost like one big shot that doesn’t let up. How cool would it be, Louie Mo in his first leading role? All his own stunts, not for someone else.”
    â€œYou’re crazy.”
    â€œI can pay you.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI’ve got some cash from the production I’m on now. I can get you ten grand up front. Maybe another ten to finish and then some back end. Same as we just did for Eddie Morales on Slash .”
    Louie stared, incredulous. Twenty grand to star in an action movie, not just doing stunts? He looked around the big living room, did a quick inventory of shabby-chic furniture and framed art. This was Malibu, maybe this kid was for real. Louie was taking in the seven-million-dollar ocean view when he saw the cop at the open porch door, hand on his leather holster. A second cop sidled calmly alongside the house, same position.
    â€œShit,” Troy said, “chick must’ve called the police.”
    When Troy started toward the cops, they calmly ordered him to stay where he was.
    â€œIs there a problem here, bud?” the first cop said.
    â€œNo, Officer. My girlfriend must’ve called.”
    The cops were looking at the Asian man now.
    â€œThis is Louie Mo,” Troy said, almost bragging. “Hong Kong stuntman. Legend.”
    When the cops angled unimpressed looks, Louie gave a slight nod.
    â€œWe got excited, about a script,” Troy said. “That’s all. There’s no problem, Officer.”
    â€œMust be one hell of a script, bud,” the first cop said, “if your girlfriend calls nine-one-one.”
    When the second cop saw Alexis peering out, he stared, expressionless. “Did you report an incident, Miss?”
    â€œI thought,” Alexis said, “this guy was assaulting my boyfriend.”
    The second cop scanned her through his Ray-Bans. “You from Charlie’s house?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œI thought so.”
    â€œYou the home owner?” the first cop asked Troy.
    â€œNo. Avi Ghazaryan the film producer owns the house. I’m the tenant.”
    The cops stayed on the porch for a moment, instructing Troy and Louie to stick around. Troy could tell that they were bored by the affair but were seizing the opportunity to loiter on a sunny Malibu balcony and catch a break from the freeway. After