The Alias Men (6 page)

12

PLACE: AUNT JENNY AND UNCLE TIM'S HOUSE

TIME: FRIDAY, 7:29 A.M.

STATUS: ASLEEP

“LINC!”

I made a moaning noise. Mornings are not my best time. And someone was slapping my face—gently, but still. Who wants to start the day that way?

“Wake up, kid.”

“Huh!” I sat up, and took a split second to remember where I was. My aunt and uncle's place, sleeping on a foldaway bed. Bunking with Grandpa.

“Good, you're awake,” Grandpa said. He was sitting on his bed, which was just a few inches away from mine. He smelled like old-dude cologne, and had his hair neatly brushed back in his usual fifties style. Grandpa is an early bird, unlike yours truly. He likes to be in and out of the shower, ready for breakfast and his crossword by seven a.m., even on weekends.

“What time is it, anyway?” I looked around for a clock, but there wasn't one. Just the usual small guest room, with framed posters of cars all around. Grandpa had opened the curtain, so bright sunlight was hurting my still-sleepy eyes.

“It's seven thirty—what does it matter!” Grandpa looked kind of panicky. He leaned close. “There's an enemy at the gates.”

“What are you talking about?”

Now, Grandpa isn't going nuts or anything, in case that's what you're thinking. He can just be a little . . . paranoid. He thinks life is one big episode of the crime shows he likes. Last month, he thought the checkout girl at the supermarket was an undercover cop. He had this whole weird conversation with her, and gave her a detailed description of the poor produce guy, who Grandpa thought was a criminal.

“Grandpa,” I moaned, and dropped back on my flimsy mattress. A coil poked at the bottom of my spine, so I sat up again.

Grandpa pointed out the window. “Out there, go see! There's a sinister woman watching the house.”

That got my attention. What if it was that suspicious lady from yesterday, studying her map again?

I walked to the window and looked outside. There was a parked sedan, dark blue, obviously a rental. There was a woman in a black suit behind the wheel. Though I could only see part of her face, I knew it was Agent Stark. Probably waiting to give me a ride, or drop off a case file or whatever. “That's no enemy, Grandpa.”

“7TRZ211,” he said, reciting the plate, looking smug. “I have her details.” He waved his notebook, the one where I knew he wrote down license plates and descriptions of dubious characters.

I looked outside and caught a glimpse of the back of her car. “That's not even the right plate, Grandpa. And this lady is just here to give me a ride to the movie lot.”

Grandpa pushed me aside and peered out the window. “Oh, I thought I saw a different car,” he muttered, sounding disappointed. He took off his glasses, rubbed them on his vest, and put them on again. “Never mind, then.”

“No one messes with the Bakers, Grandpa.” I got up. “I'm gonna take a shower, okay? She's one of the good guys.”

 

After I got dressed, I grabbed my backpack and attached my skateboard with the Velcro straps. Then I went down to the kitchen for some breakfast to go, so I could catch up with Agent Stark before she got too cranky about having to wait for me. Fortunately, it was only Mom in the kitchen. Unfortunately, she was chopping onions, making the place reek like a middle-school gym right after PE.

“Off to the set already?” Mom asked. She was peeling another onion, making my stomach turn. It was eight o'clock—a little early for anything but cereal or eggs.

“The movie people sent a car.”

“I'd prefer it if Mike drives you next time,” Mom said, wiping her eyes. “And I really want to meet that director guy, once I get a handle on things here . . .”

“Why the onions in the morning?” I asked, changing the subject.

“Macaroni salad.” She shook her head in frustration. “I can't seem to get the balance right on the dressing.”

“Good luck with that.” I rummaged inside the large pantry and found a breakfast bar for the road. “Oh, Grandpa needs new glasses.”

“Again already?”

“Yeah. I think he's seeing things.” I told her about the whole license-plate situation that morning.

Mom nodded. “We'll look into it next week. Go be a movie star.”

“It's only a small part,” I said. That was kind of true, since I had no plans to stick around once I got the hat and Melais.

“I left the signed contract over there.” Mom pointed to the other side of the kitchen counter. “Call me at lunch, so I know where you are.”

I grabbed my paperwork and rushed out the door before she could start asking questions. Thank goodness for her obsession with making the perfect macaroni salad for the reunion picnic. Outside, Dad and Aunt Jenny had their heads stuck under the rusty car's hood.

“How's it going?” I asked Uncle Tim, who stood at a distance on the lawn.

He made a face that told me things weren't looking so good. “We'll have to see.”

Enough said. I felt guilty about taking off, but knew I had to get to the mission. I waved good-bye and made my way to the dark-blue rental car.

Agent Stark didn't seem mad at all—surprising, considering she'd been sitting there waiting.

“I didn't know you were driving me,” I said, buckling my seat belt.

“I thought you might need a ride.” Stark put the car in drive and pulled into the street. Why was she being so nice?

“I could've had Mike drive me to the studio.”

“Didn't you look at your call sheet?”

Not that closely. But I wasn't about to admit that.

“Apparently, you're filming on location, at Grauman's Chinese Theatre.” That was about half an hour from my aunt and uncle's place, depending on traffic. “Call time is nine a.m.”

“I remembered that.” I knew Stark was the quiet type, so I turned on the radio, hoping to break the silence.

But after we got onto the highway, Stark turned off the radio. “Did I ever tell you how I came to join Pandora?” She glanced over at me.

“No.” Was Agent Stark about to spill her guts? This was weird. “You only told me that you were let go or something, right?”

“More like reassigned—only I didn't know it at the time.” She exhaled, gripping the steering wheel. “There was a case. The CIA sent me to Italy, to chase down a suspected information broker. A freelance spy.”

“Ethan Melais.”

“Exactly.” Stark paused, like maybe she was trying to figure out how to tell the story.

“You were sent to Italy to catch Melais.”

Stark nodded. “That photograph was of a hotel where several high-powered executives were meeting. Somehow, Melais managed to get inside. We got that image off the security cameras.” Stark gripped the steering wheel even tighter. “I was outside the room, posing as hotel security, waiting for him to show up.”

“But you didn't catch him.”

Stark shook her head. “He managed to slip inside that meeting room, and . . .” She clenched her jaw.

“What did this Melais dude do?”

“He stole the plans to a top secret hideout for . . . never mind, it's not important. But afterward, he slipped his calling card inside my jacket pocket.” Stark reached inside her jacket and handed me a black business card.

Ethan Melais
was all it said, in fancy cream letters.

“Yikes,” I mumbled. That was like sticking your tongue in someone's face. I handed the card back.

“Needless to say, my career with the CIA was over.” Stark glanced at me. “But then I was reassigned to a black-ops team that was just getting started—so in a way, Pandora and Albert Black saved me. It's really important to me to catch the guy. For him to see my face when I cuff him.”

“You want to get revenge,” I said. I got it: Agent Stark had a score to settle.

“Not revenge, exactly. More like . . .” She was searching for the right words; I could tell by the wrinkles on her forehead.

“Set things right.”

“Exactly!” Agent Stark gave me a crooked, worried smile. “So what I need you to do is call me first. If you catch him.”

“
When
I catch him, you mean.”

“Sure, when you catch him. Or if Ben does . . .” Her voice trailed. “I have faith in you.” She forced a smile, which with Stark was never a pretty sight.

“It'll be me catching this Ethan Melais, you know.” I realized I sounded like a cranky toddler, but I didn't care. “Ben's on my turf now. He won't make it in California. I'll show him who the real junior secret agent is.”

I had my own score to settle, like Agent Stark. “I'll get Ethan Melais and the Dangerous Double. Just watch.”

13

FRIDAY, 8:55 A.M.

I WAS SO BUSY IMAGINING HOW I WAS
going to catch Ethan Melais and prove to everyone that I was a great junior secret agent, I didn't even register that we'd left the highway. We were now somewhere in downtown Los Angeles.

“Why stop here?” I asked when Stark put the car in park. We were in a creepy-looking alleyway. There were a couple of overflowing Dumpsters and a dirty white stucco wall. “I thought the movie was supposed to be shot at the Chinese Theatre.”

“We're a block away,” Stark said. “I have to leave you here, so we don't blow your cover.”

That made sense. I opened my door and got out, still feeling a little weird about the conversation. Also, the alley smelled kind of funky, so that didn't help things.

“Linc,” Stark called, leaning on the passenger seat. “Keep this between us, all right? Don't tell Ben.”

Like I was going to tell him anything. “Sure.”

And Stark was off. Me, I was feeling a little stressed out at this point. I had to find Ethan Melais and the Dangerous Double, and save the city and my family. Oh, and on top of that, I had to act in a movie. Next to a pretty girl, no less.

No pressure.

I took my skateboard off my backpack and rode on the sidewalk. I was kind of nervous over the whole movie stuff, to tell you the truth.

I made my way to Hollywood Boulevard, and already it was busy with the usual pedestrian traffic. Tourists gawking at the sights. Some dude was taking a picture of the street sign and a palm tree. I gave up riding my board and walked the rest of the way. LA was pretty cool. I felt a rush of excitement—I was going to catch a bad guy, impress everyone.

Beat Ben Green.

As I got closer to the Chinese Theatre, I reached a big crowd. There was a roadblock made out of sawhorse barricades, and security guards dressed in navy blue were guarding the open street behind it. Floyd even got permission to block off the Chinese Theatre. This movie was a bigger deal than I thought.

I told one of the security guards who I was, and after he checked with someone over his earpiece, I got permission to pass. I strapped my skateboard to my backpack and walked toward a cluster of trailers. There were about ten or so of them, set up to create a U shape. Savannah was sitting on the small steps in front of one of the trailers. She was dressed like it was the 1920s or something: dark gray dress, hair in a long braid. She was eating an apple. And giving me the stink eye.

“If it isn't the one-hit wonder,” Savannah said with a fake smile. Why did this girl hate my guts?

“Who messed with your cereal this morning?” I said, figuring I would give her a taste of her own medicine.

And that's when I saw the door of a red trailer open, a few spaces down from where Savannah sat. A kid came out, wearing pants and a white shirt with suspenders, hair messed up, smears of dirt on his face.

Ben Green. He beat me to the set.

He smirked. Then he made a big deal of checking his watch, only to realize he wasn't wearing one with his 1920s wardrobe. “Made it out of bed, did you, Baker?”

“We were supposed to start at nine, so I'm right on time,
Baker
,” I hissed, reminding him of the cover, and that he was a Baker too.

Ben lowered his voice so no one could hear. “Larry phoned and told me the call time had been changed to zero eight hundred. He didn't notify you?”

“No he didn't! He probably thought you'd tell me, with us being twins and all.”

Ben shrugged and gave me one of his annoying smirks.

Just then Larry, the assistant director, stalked over, looking seriously angry. At me. “Call time was moved to eight, Linc.”

“But I—”

Larry waved his hand in dismissal. “At least your brother is here on time. He already gave me his contract—you have yours, at least?”

I handed Larry my signed contract.

Larry snatched it from my hands and stuffed it in a big folder without looking at it. He turned to Ben. “We're shooting in five. You too, Savannah.” And he stalked back the way he came.

Savannah walked over. The girl already hated my guts; I didn't need her to think I was a hothead too. I'd get Ben back later.

“Ready to start, Ben?” she asked.

“Absolutely.”

“Wait,” I said, almost pulling Savannah's arm but stopping myself. “You hate me, but he's your friend?”

“Ben spent three years with the Camden Acting Studio in London, and he told me that you never even passed the first round of auditions.”

Ben gave me a triumphant grin.

“He may be doing you a favor, getting this part, but I know who
you
are.” Savannah raised her left eyebrow and looked at me like I was a day-old bologna sandwich. “An amateur.”

“We should go,” Ben said, pulling her along. I think he knew I was about to lose my cool.

“Let's get to work.” Savannah straightened her spine, turned, and walked away, with Ben trailing along.

I'd been outplayed. By the dumbest junior secret agent ever, no less. Okay, maybe he wasn't the dumbest. It was a smart move, I had to admit.

I just had to be smarter.

Because while Ben was playing actor from the whatever studio in London, I would beat him where it mattered: figuring out who on the set was Ethan Melais. And I'd arrest him, and bring him to Stark. Then I'd get the Dangerous Double.

I looked around the area at the center of the trailers. There were a couple of people buzzing around. A dude with a clipboard, talking to a woman carrying a stack of papers. Another guy, carrying a tray of coffee cups, trying not to drop it. And Kate, the makeup artist I'd met at Floyd's party. She waved and gave me a smile before disappearing inside her trailer.

And that's when I spotted this guy leaning against the red trailer that was parked right next to Kate's. He had long curly hair and wore a faded brown fedora hat. The guy popped a piece of gum in his mouth and gave me a nod.

That red trailer was where Ben had come out, wearing his 1920s outfit. I'd bet it was the costume department on wheels. What better place to hide a Chaplin hat without arousing suspicion, right?

I made my way over. Let's face it: I had no leads, so the costume trailer was a good place to start.

“Gum?” the guy asked.

I shook my head. “No thanks.”

“I'm Kurt.” He put the gum pack back in his white shirt's breast pocket. He adjusted his fedora. “You're Linc, right?”

“Yeah.” We shook hands.

“I saw you at Sterling yesterday, when those security guards busted you.” He thumbed over his shoulder at the trailer. “I had just loaded her up out back.”

The Dangerous Double! It had to be in there. But wait—did that mean this dude Kurt was Ethan Melais? I tried to picture him as Melais but was having a hard time.

“So Floyd cast you, but now your brother is out there,” Kurt said, smacking his gum. “You're competitive, huh?”

“You have no idea.”

“I get it. I have a brother who lives up in Seattle. He's an accountant. Always likes to remind me he makes more money than me.”

This was fascinating, but I had to get to the case already. I glanced over Kurt's shoulder at the costume trailer. “You think I can have a tour?”

“Of the trailer?” Kurt shook his head. “Naw, wish I could. Got a guy coming for a fitting any minute now.”

Behind him, I could see some boxes—even a couple of those fancy hatboxes. One of them could have the Dangerous Double inside! “Don't you have a costume for me?”

Kurt shook his head. “Only got one, since we didn't think we'd be having twins. I'm working on making a duplicate, but right now you're gonna have to swap with your brother at lunch. Once I finish your costume, maybe you can have a tour.”

“No sweat.” I would just have to come back later to check the place out. And once I found the hat, I'd have proof that Kurt was Ethan Melais.

This case turned out to be a breeze after all.

I said, “I'll go watch the set. You think that's okay?”

Kurt laughed. “Yeah. If you can handle it.”

“What do you mean?”

“You'll see.” He turned to go back inside his top secret trailer. “Let's just say Floyd lives up to his reputation. And then some. I'm glad I'm not an intern or a grip is all I'm getting at.”

“A grip?”

“Those are the people who move stuff around on the set. Floyd will yell at them the loudest,” Kurt said before he closed the door to his trailer.

I left and made my way between the trailers, toward the set. Several cameras were set up, and groups of movie-crew members hung back, watching the Chinese Theatre. I couldn't see the handprints by big movie actors in the concrete along the Hollywood Walk of Fame out front, but I knew they were there. Years ago, Mom and Dad took me for a trip here.

The theater itself looks exactly like what you'd think: Chinese, with a really tall pagoda-style entry. There are two lion statues on either side, and golden double doors that lead inside. It looks kind of ridiculous, if you want to know the truth. I mean, we're not in China, right?

Not that anyone cared: Behind the sawhorse barriers on the street, there were a few hundred people gawking, trying to snap pictures of the actors.

As I walked closer to the set, I saw Ben and Savannah standing on the road, next to the red carpet that ran to the theater entrance. Ben looked nervous and kind of pale, like he was ready to lose his breakfast.

“No, no, NO!” That was Nigel Floyd, having a fit. He shook his head.

I stopped—let's face it: Normally, if there was a grown-up yelling, it was at me. So for once, I was happy to be out of range.

Floyd pointed his finger at Ben. “You've got it all wrong. ALL. WRONG!”

Ben looked shocked, and a little angry. But he didn't say anything. Savannah took a step to the left, and another, distancing herself from Ben.

“You studied at Camden Studios in London? My foot!” Floyd was practically spitting at Ben now. I actually felt bad—but only a little.

“Sir, you need to calm down now,” Ben tried. His voice trembled.

But that only fueled Floyd's fire. “I need to do no such thing, you little . . .” He waved, until his assistant director, Larry, appeared at his side. “Get him OFF MY SET!”

“You got it, Nigel,” Larry said, not looking at all stressed out. He was obviously used to these outbursts. Larry tried to grab Ben by the elbow.

But Ben pulled away. He looked like he was about to blow up—I'd never seen him this mad.

They passed me, and Larry brushed my shoulder. He smelled faintly of something chemical—toothpaste, or mints? “You're up, kid,” he said.

I turned and watched Larry walk away, expecting me to follow. The hair on the back of my neck stood up.

Was Larry actually Ethan Melais?