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When he does, I alert you and Danny. Give you the where and when. You take Skeletor off the street. Paulie repents. We fade to black and roll credits.”
    Ceepak squints. “Would your cameras be filming this hypothetical drug deal?”
    “Second unit only. We document the transaction so you can use it in court. Like those stings in airport hotel rooms the FBI is always running.”
    “But you won’t use the footage on your program?”
    “Not until Skeletor is safely behind bars, right, Marty?”
    “Hmm?” Mandrake was distracted, picking through the grape bowl again.
    “We don’t run anything on the steroid storyline without clearance from SHPD.”
    “Definitely,” he says. “Of course not. No way.”
    “You guys will save a ton of time if we play it this way,” Layla tells Ceepak. “I’m guessing Skeletor is off the street before we’re on the air next Thursday night.”
    “It is highly doubtful that Skeletor, himself, will take the meet with Mr. Braciole.”
    “Well, if he sends a flunky,” I say, trying to lend Layla a hand, “at least we’ll land the next fish up the line. We cut that fish a deal, he leads us up the food chain to an even bigger fish. Sooner or later, we’re reeling in Skeletor.”
    Ceepak turns to Layla. “Encourage Mr. Braciole to contact his supplier.”
    She smiles. “Come on. Let’s do it together!”
    We hike out of the production trailer and head around the corner toward 102 Halibut Street.
    “So, Danny?” says Layla, “you free between five and eight?”
    “Huh?”
    “We’re wrapping here at five. The crew has three hours to make the move to Morgan’s Surf and Turf. I don’t have to be on set till eight. Thought we could hang.”
    One of the things I immediately liked about Layla Shapiro when we met under less-than-ideal conditions was how bold and ballsy she acted in a high-stress situation.
    Right now? Not so much.
    I mean, Ceepak is walking with us. Ballsy Shapiro? She could care less.
    “I’m not sure.” I turn to Ceepak. “Boss?”
    “I anticipate we’ll also stand down when the cast is confined to quarters. I, too, need to attend to a few personal matters on the home front.”
    I nod. I figure one of the personal matters is calling a certain sheriff’s office up in Ohio to see how soon he can take their chief-of-detectives job. I can tell: John Ceepak is not having a very sunny or funderful day in Sea Haven today.
    We climb up the world-famous Fun House steps and hit the deck. The beer pong glasses—filled with flat Budweiser, balls, and bugs—sit on the picnic table, fermenting in the sun.
    “This way,” says Layla, sliding open the patio door.
    We wade into the living room. It smells like my dirty clothes-basket during the sweaty months.
    “Where’s Paulie?” Layla asks Soozy K, who is even shorter than she looks on TV.
    “Who the fuck cares?”
    I’m thinking these kids need to carry personal bleep boxes.
    “The cameras are off, Susan,” says Layla.
    “So? My heart is breaking here,” she says with a tanned hip thrust. “I thought, being on this journey together, me and Paulie had made a connection, you know?”
    “Sorry, hon. This ain’t The Bachelorette . Where is he?”
    “Upstairs. With Mike.”
    “Thanks.”
    We follow Layla up a hallway littered with empties: beer bottles, vodka bottles, pizza boxes, chicken buckets, hoagie wrappers.
    “Guess the maid took the day off,” she jokes.
    We’re not laughing. If we did, we wouldn’t be able to breathe through our mouths to fight off the stench of B.O. mixed with Axe body spray.
    Now we’re ascending a very steep set of steps. Littered with underwear, socks, and clothing items I don’t recognize. We can hear Mike and Paulie shouting at each other.
    “You’re gonna blow it for me, bro,” screams Mike. “My dad’s setting up this endorsement deal. My own Ab Ball infomercial.”
    “So?”
    “So you do this shit, everybody will think I’m doing it, too, and I can kiss my