

Synopsis

Running as fast as his young legs will carry him, the cops hot on his

heels, an up and coming car thief stumbles onto the set of an action movie

being filmed on the streets of Bangkok . . . straight into the world of

smoke and mirrors. His wild looks catch the attention, and the heart of

an aging screen hero, and self proclaimed 'Asian James Bond'.

Becoming a budding film star means leaving the reality of his life on themean streets of the city behind, and stepping into a fantasy landscape

where pretend and make-believe are the everyday norms, and where

appearance is the key that unlocks the vault . . . and a damn good place to

hide from the law, in plain sight. Or so he thinks.

With a brand new lady cop, right out of the police academy, dogging his

trail, the fleet-foot car booster has no intention of falling in love with

anyone, on either side of the law. But then . . .

In the end, a thief is a thief, and a cop must do his . . . uh, her duty.

The Star Thief is a modern fable of life and love, set against the timeless

realities of crime, fame, violence and illusion, and the lines that blur

between them, a tale where murder means freedom and love doesn't

always follow the straightest path.

2



Point of Sale

If this film were cast with bi-lingual actors, each scene could be shot

twice, first in Thai, then in English. A parallel edit will produce both a

domestic and international version simultaneously, for the price of one.

In this, my talents as a dialogue coach will prove invaluable during the

shooting of the film, if needed.

Although the story of The Star Thief is universal, and could madeanywhere, my love for the essence of Thailand makes me feel strongly

that this the perfect setting, the perfect environment to make this film.

My hope is to be given the opportunity to work directly with an

established Thai screenwriter to produce twin versions of the screenplay,

exact copies of each other, the only difference being the fonts they're

printed in. I also think that a successful collaboration on this picture will

lead to more jointly produced film projects in the future.

I cannot describe how clearly I see this as a story that Thai, as well as

foreign audiences will enjoy very much.

C.A.L.

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Alt Titles & Poster Blurbs

1.

When you're on the lam from the long arm of the law . . .

There's no place better to hide than in the movies . . .

literally!

THIEF OF HEARTS

2.

With the heat hot on his heels . . .

He ran straight on to the silver screen.

But in the end . . .

His heart has to pay the price.

THE STAR BOOSTER

STAR OF THE SILVER STREETS

3.

From the means streets of Bangkok . . .To the dizzying heights of stardom comes . . .

COPS, R OBBERS & MOVIE STARS

4



4.

One thing leads to another in . . .

HOT CARS & MOVIE STARS

5.

Sometimes life comes down to a simple formula . . .

HOT COPS & STOLEN CARS

5



Full Story Treatment

The film opens:

A somewhat handsome looking, young man is strolling casually down a

busy, noisy street somewhere in the heart of Bangkok. No one pays the

slightest attention as he passes by their shops and carts, or notices him

sweeping the area with his eyes, scanning the endless column of parked

cars, looking for a likely target. He seems like just another normal,happy fellow, going about his business without a worry in the world.

The same as millions like him walking by all of us each and every day.

He sees what he's looking for. A bright shiny, brand spanking new

BMW (model) sports coupe, that has been all tricked out with the latest,

and costliest high performance accessories, parked right on a good corner

for making a quick, clean getaway. He wants it, and has the skills to

make it his, for a short time anyway. But, as his years of training havetaught him, he has to keep an eye out for the enemy, the cops.

Sure enough, a group of four of them are standing around in an informal

group, shooting the breeze, way over on the opposite of the busy, four

lane thoroughfare, packed with cars zooming in every direction but up.

He quickly calculates the odds. Can he boost the sharpest set of wheels

he's seen in a week of searching, before the coppers can get their butts in

gear and catch him? The sum of his calculations is an instant green light.

So, without further ado, he walks straight to the car, as though to admire

it like thousands of other envious car-obsessed young guys in his

position. He doesn't see anyone who looks like the owner, so wham-

bam, in half the blink of an eye, the door is jimmied open and he's

reaching under the dash reaching for the bundle of wires that will kill the

theft alarm sending up a deafening screech of electric hysteria at being

unduly disturbed, and fire the engine to life at the same time.

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What he didn't factor into his criminal equation is the local reaction to the

alarm. Vendors and shopkeepers begin pouring out their stores and

when they realize what's going on, start pummeling him with all manner

of flying objects. Trying to protect himself from being hurt by the fruits

and vegetables raining down on him, while keeping an eye on the police

at the same time. Two of whom are trying desperately attempting to

duck and weave their way through mid-day traffic, while the other two

are mounting their police motorcycles, makes him decide to abandon his

enterprise. He takes off running as fast as his legs will carry him, down

the same side street he saw himself speeding down in the Beemer only

moments before. His disappointment instantly forgotten in the heat of

making good his escape. As he zigs and zags through the normalstraggle of pedestrians and window shoppers, he sees a large crowd of

gawkers up ahead, looking intently at something beyond them. He

decides they're the best cover at hand, like a tree hiding in the forest.

Back at the corner, after a symphony of blaring car horns and squealing

tires, the two policemen have managed to cross the busy street, and are

both bent over, gasping for air. Helpful onlookers are pointing to the

direction the thief ran, exhorting the panting cops to hurry and run after

him. The two officers pass a look of 'what the hell?' between them and

reluctantly take out in the direction the angry citizens are waving at.

Our thief, his panic subsiding a degree or two, decides to stroll casually

up to the mob and blends in as smoothly as possible. But when he looks

back over his shoulder, there they are, the men with the guns and badges,

and they see him looking at back at them. The chase is back on.

The thief slams headlong into the mass of bodies, jamming and

shimmying himself deeper with all the strength he can muster. The swell

of mildly annoyed onlookers, sensing the nature of the situation, swell

closed behind him, like a Venus, uh human flytrap. The poor hapless

cops are frustrated in every attempt to penetrate the wall of flesh.

The thief bursts out of the crowd, and directly into a film production

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being shot on the streets of Bangkok. Without slowing down, he jumps

under the barrier ropes and is immediately grabbed by two burly security

guards, who saw him coming, and lift him off his feet. The thief squirms

and kicks, and somehow manages to break free. Now running from the

guards, who are screaming bloody hell at him, the thief isn't watching

where he's going when he crashes straight into a group of actors playing a

scene for the umpteenth time, heedless of the intrusion. They're all

knocked to the ground. A mature actor in the middle of the group, the

star of the film, is sent flying, like a stunt man. The other actors in the

scene, have to hide their faces to keep from being seen smirking. The

boom man can't resist a quick 'holy shit!' The actor shoots him a look

that would freeze vodka.

The director yells 'CUT!' only a milli-second before the film's producer

comes flying out of his chair with a stream of epithets, threats and insults

flying in every direction, including up. He'd been sitting with his back

turned to the action, paying closer attention to a pretty young starlet than

to the action behind him. He wants to know why so much of his money

is being flushed down the toilet like so much bullcrap, he's not made of

money, like Spielburg, after all. He's still in a flaming rage when he gets

to the scene of the crime. He glares, nose to nose, at the intruder like he

wants to rip out his throat. His shouts are louder than the car alarm.

The crowd roars with glee. They delight in seeing one of their own, so to

speak, poking a finger in the eye of the high and mighty world of fame

and riches. Real life action is a lot more entertaining than all the make

believe violence happening before them.

The thief is paralyzed with fear. Everyone else quickly backs away from

the onrushing storm. Everyone, that is, except the star, who has regained

both his feet and his loathing for the producer. His killer instincts are

driving him to come to the aid of the clumsy interloper, any excuse at all

to berate the hated producer, who has been a thorn in his side for more

years than he cares to recall. That is, until he actually sees the young car

thief. He is instantly taken with the boy's smoldering goods looks, and

8



the air of danger that radiates from him. And he wants what he sees.

The actor launches a diatribe of invectives at the producer, who isn't

phased in the least, having heard it all before, too many times to count.

He completely ignores the star, until he hears a threat he is very familiar

with, and just as afraid of.

The star, the hero of this film and every other film he appears in, demands

that the boy be written into the film immediately, or else he'll walk off the

set and right out of the production. The producer is instantly shocked

into silence. He knows that the aging screen idol not only means what

he says, but with his clout, his star power, can make it happen. The

producer, knowing he's helpless to do anything about it, nearly faints atthe thought of all that money going down the tubes. He retreats, slinking

away in defeat from this battle. Down for the moment, but not out.

There's always tomorrow to look forward to, after all.

Meanwhile, the poor harried director is slumped forward in his chair, his

head in his hands, muttering to himself, oblivious to everything around

him. Utter frustration and hopeless desperation are the only emotions he

feels during the making of his movies, but secretly, he wouldn't have it

any other way. As he passes, the producer snaps at the director to reset

the shot and shoot the scene again, pronto!

The star coos at the thief, virtually quivering with lust, asking him if he

needs anything. Thinking quick on his feet is one of the thief 's best

qualities. He asks for a moustache. Oh, and becoming a movie star

would be pretty cool too, he adds just for the fun of it. With nothingmore than a look from the star, wardrobe, makeup and props are all over

the boy, outfitting him with a completely different look, not to mention

arming him with a rubber AK47. Before he's called to his mark, the star

winks at the thief, saying he'll look into the second request.

He's going to be one of the gang of thugs the star is about to blow away,

single handed, when shooting resumes, which is surprisingly fast for him.

An assistant director yanks him by the arm, talking a blue streak as they

9



cross the street, telling him where he is to stand and how he's supposed to

fall when he's shot. A few hands reach out from the crowd to pat him on

the shoulder. He barely comprehends when the director shouts

"ACTION!".

Meanwhile, the four policemen have joined up to watch the action.

When the director yell 'CUT!' they elbow their way onto the set. The

security guards are not happy about this new intrusion. They shoot dirty

looks at each other. But not for long, the police are more star-struck than

interested in hassling with a pair of rent-a-cops, or catching a wanna-be

Beemer booster. They walk right past the thief. After all, how could it

be that a working actor can be a bad guy on the run? And vice versa.Cool as can be, the thief takes a drag from his cigarette and watches as

the cops make a cursory search the location, more interested in seeing a

movie star in real life than concentrating on the job. After a couple of

minutes, the cops leave. The thief takes a deep breath.

When the director finally wraps shooting for the day, the grips

immediately start striking the set and packing up the gear. The thief

watches, mildly curious, taking a minute or two to consider his next

move. He lives wherever he drops his hat, and right now things are

getting a little tense where he's been flopping for the last week or so, so

he's in no hurry to go back out on the streets. He lights another cigarette

and lets his mind drift along with the flow of the work going on around

him. His reverie is shattered when a hand firmly clamps onto his

shoulder from behind. He's startled, sure it's the cops.

The voice of the star sets him somewhat at ease, wanting to know if it's

true, that he arrived on the set running from the police. The thief shrugs.

Being so close to a genuine criminal turns the star on even more than he

already was. He asks if the thief has a place to stay. Again, the thief

just shrugs. So the star offers to help him break into a legitimate

business, showbiz that is, and offers him an apartment to live in if he

needs a place to stay for a while. The thief turns to look the star in the

eye, and shrugs. The star is even more deeply struck by the laconic

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outlaw from the mean streets. He feels like a teenager in love for the

first time, well nearly the first time. As they walk off the set, to an

awaiting limo, he assures the kid that he is sure to be a big star, with his

help, of course. He wants to touch the boy so much, he's actually

trembling with desire, but he resists the temptation.

The apartment turns out to be a glitzy, spectacular monument to

modernism, as seen through the eyes of someone a little less masculine

than his screen image would bear out. It is high up on one of the top

floors of a towering spike of polished steel and blacked out glass, with a

panoramic view of the cityscape that is truly breathtaking. Humble it

ain't. Manly it ain't, either.

The thief is even more at a loss for words at the idea of hiding out here.

* * * * *

A somewhat pretty young lady walks into the police station and asks the

desk sergeant to point out the way to the Chief of Detective's office. At

first the gruff little man behind the ratty old desk that serves as his

fortress bristles at her request, assuming she's just some bit of fluff off the

street with a petty complaint he's more than capable of dispatching. That

is to say, he still bears the teeth marks on his rear end from the last

chewing out he received from his boss for disturbing him with something

too trivial for his authority, his rank in the station hierarchy. That

explains the squeaky air cushion on his ancient institutional chair.

The girl insists with an air of impatience and boldness that prompts the

desk sergeant to leap from his rickety wooden chair, sprint around his

desk and come face to face with the audacious tart demanding entrance to

the holiest of all sanctums, the detective's room up on the second floor.

Well nearly face to face. The girl towers over him by a good eight

inches. Thanks to the icy stare she has learned to affect to cover her true

emotions, the little sergeant can't see just how petrified she is inside.

The stony hardness in her eyes serves its purpose, and moments later

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she's standing in front of another desk, this time with a genuine look of

terror on her face.

The compact little man behind the desk, middle aged, hardened by years

of trouble, in contrast to the noticeable spare tire around his middle,

easily roused into a rage, usually caused by a lifetime of anxiety and

frustration, slowly raises his eyes to look at this interruption to a

perfectly lousy morning. And it's not even ten AM yet.

Without a word from either, the girl hands her papers over the desk to the

Chief. He just sits there, staring like an overfed lion at its next prey, so

she gently places her dossier on the cluttered desk. The Chief uses thetip of a serious looking knife from under the desk to flip the folder open.

The girl is the first female police officer to graduate from university with

a degree in criminal justice, and thus the first of her gender to earn the

rank of detective. And now she's standing here, praying like hell that her

knees don't give out. It would ruin everything if she collapsed to the

floor at this precise moment. There's time for that later, when she

reaches the safe confines of the little apartment she shares with her sister

and her sister's daughter. For now she concentrates on remaining

upright.

After a cursory interview, the Chief, a lethally quiet cop from the old

school, grudgingly accepts that she's going to be one of his flock of

misfits, so he shows her around the squad room, assigns her a desk and

snaps his fingers. In the blink of an eye, a thick, dog-eared, coffee

stained file is dropped with a weary thud unceremoniously on her greasy,much-scarred new desk. A low rumble of male laughter growls through

the room. Everyone turns their backs on her. No one says hello. She

feels more alone, in a sweltering hot room filled with sweating detectives,

than she has felt in her entire life. Even on the day when she was nine

and her mother died, leaving she and her sister to fend for themselves.

The case before her concerns a car thief, personal data unknown, who

graduated from the occasional joy ride in a hot-wired tuk-tuk in the rice

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lands of the rural northern provinces, to boosting nothing but top of the

line automobiles here in the capital city. This time the cars aren't stolen

for a few hours of fun cruising, joyriding through the streets, trying to

impress girls. Now the thief is in a serious, and potentially dangerous

business. Stealing luxury cars, chopped, stripped or whole, for export to

middle eastern countries where oil sheiks and other ga-jillionaires who

want the latest model Porsche's at dirt cheap, bargain basement prices,

and are more than ready to break a few legs to get them. He's been at it

for the better part of ten years without a single arrest despite his MO of

only stealing cars in broad daylight while they're parked on busy,

downtown streets. It appears the thief craves the adrenaline rush he gets

from taking something while everyone is watching, but too slow to doanything. He obviously enjoys the shock value of his daring deeds, of

car thievery that is.

The folder is filled with stacks notes, clipped haphazardly together in no

particular order. Scrawled in the illegible handwriting of clearly angry

cops, detailing just how close they've come to grabbing the kid, on

dozens of occasions, and the contempt (and a certain degree of grudging

admiration) he's earned from the frustrated lawmen. Among the

conglomeration of scribbled notes and typed reports are only two or three

sketchy descriptions of a youngish male, Thai, average, average, average,

good looking with no distinguishing marks and remarkably fast whether

behind the wheel or on foot. In fact, she glimpses the phrase 'formula

one' on quite a number of the pages. The file is conspicuously devoid of

photographs. The case was dropped on her desk as a kind of trial by fire.

The kid's considered to be the best at what he does, fast, smart andfearless.

She knows she will either earn her bones with this case. Or else she’ll

end up at the bottom of the food chain for the rest of her days as the city’s

first lady detective. Solving the case, and snagging the little prick, might

even earn her a few brownie points toward making detective first grade,

her life's ambition. She looks around the squalid room. No one returns

her glance. To the veteran cops she's not there, like she doesn't exist.

13



This the opening gambit in the legendary head game old cops play with

rookies on their first day, made all the worse by the fact that she's a girl.

But she's more than ready and willing to play their macho game.

Downstairs, the desk sergeant is busy with another frantic woman,

shrieking at the top of her lungs that her pet dog has been abducted by

aliens from another planet and the police have to come immediately if the

world is to be saved. Plus, she really wants her dog back.

Her first day on the job finally over and done with, the detective runs to

the shelter of her apartment as fast as her little car will carry her. Inside

at long last, she drops her bag with a hard thump and lets herself crumpleto the floor in front the couch in the living room. Her sister is in the

kitchen fixing something to eat, while her young niece is sprawled on the

nice cool hardwood floor, coloring a picture in her latest coloring book.

After the vibrations of motion and tension finally die down inside her, the

tears flow. This has been the absolute worst day of her life. Being

stuck in an overcrowded airless room, wreaking with foul odors best left

undescribed, not the slightest breath of fresh air anywhere within a five

block area, the humidity set at ten thousand percent, any hope of a view

blocked by windows more grime than glass, with a dozen surly gorillas

who would be just as happy to eat her for lunch as have her run away in

terror, is one hell of a way to kick off a shiny new career as an angel of

justice, and warrior against wrongdoers.

She lets it all come flooding out, slumps on the floor with her legs spreadin every direction, tears turning to sludge on her cheeks, her hands lying

lifeless at her sides like a couple of dead fish, the pain in her lower back

threatening to burst into open flames at any second. From the kitchen,

all her sister has to say is 'I told you so'. She's more concerned with her

own love life, or more accurately, the lack of it, to spare any more

emotional energy to her overachieving sister than is absolutely necessary.

Without looking up, saying a word, or missing a stroke, the little girl in

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the hallway gets up, walks over and settles herself in the detective's lap as

gently and naturally as can be. Again, not a word spoken, and the

crayons are moving briskly back and forth, spreading bright colors inside

the lines on the book's pages, her concentration perfect and seamless.

The detective studies the top of her nieces pretty little head. The tears

stop, and the healing power of touch has once again saved the day. The

wonderful aromas floating from the kitchen do their bit to help, reminding

her just how hungry she is.

* * * * *

When he hears the sound of a door opening in the next room, the thief

wakes up with a start. He quickly throws back the rumpled red silk bed

sheets and leaps from the huge circular bed, searching for his clothes.

He's confused and a little frightened. For a split second he doesn't know

where he is or how he got here. Memories of the previous night, and

most of that day, are lost in the hazy blur of fine liquor, well drunk the

previous evening. The unctuous cooing voice of the actor sharpens his

focus.

Pulling up his pants as he enters the main living area of the magnificent

bachelor pad, the thief looks up to see the actor, grinning like the

Cheshire cat, dangling a set of shiny new car keys, on a diamond key

chain, from his well manicured fingers.

Downstairs, in the underground parking garage, the thief finds himself standing in car booster heaven. All around him, arranged in neat rows of

well ordered parking spaces, are a virtual menagerie of the finest

motoring machines ever crafted by the hand of man, not to mention the

most expensive. The sight is even more breathtaking than all the

penthouse vistas put together, for him at least. One night alone in here

and he could be one of the richest men in all of Thailand.

The actor mistakes the thief's obvious excitement as being for himself,

15



especially when he silently points to a sparkling, brand new Beemer

coupe. Except for the color, not unlike his intended target of the day

before. The thief can't suppress the laugh that bursts from his lips, at the

irony of it all. Thinking quick, he gets himself under control. He knows

what he has to do, that is, at least pretend to be overwhelmed by the

unbelievable generosity of the gesture the actor is making. He protests

semi-strenuously.

The actor counters that if the thief is serious about a movie career he has

to be seen as a star, right from the get-go, he has to live large, think large

and act large. When people see him, they have to want what they see.

That's how the game works, now that the young thief has come under thewing of a genuine screen legend, as his protege, so to speak.

The thief is fully aware of how the game works, and is not in the least

hesitant in reaching for the keys. The actor looks somewhat crushed

when the thief says he'd like to take his new wheels out for a test ride,

rather than going back upstairs to celebrate the start of his new life with

the crest fallen star. The thief explains that he has to go fetch his stuff.

There are reasons he'd rather not talk about that make it necessary he get

his stuff as quick as possible. The look in his eyes tell the thief that the

actor accepts he has no choice in the matter. The thief is measuring just

who's going to wear the pants around here.

The movie-going world knows the star as a rough tough macho action

hero, who never hesitates to go up against the most dastardly of villains,

the more the merrier, master of all weapons and forms of man-to-mancombat. He has saved the world from certain disaster time and time

again, up on the silver screen. The actor's reward, the prettiest girl in the

film is his dewy-eyed love slave, at least until the final credits roll. His

publicity hails him as the "the Asian James Bond, fast with a gun, but

faster with the girl!" Little does his network of loving fans realize where

his eye, and heart, truly wanders.

But standing here, wincing at the symphony of the car's high performance

16



engine and the squeal of its tires reverberating off the concrete pillars, as

the tiny red sports car races away from him, tears shoelace their way

down his flawlessly made-up cheeks, ruining his eye-liner and

foundation. He swallows his deflated smile and heads back to the

elevator.

* * * * *

The thief wheels his new ride into the alley where he normally stashes his

purloined cars before he can dispose of them. He is unaccustomed to

driving a car he hasn't stolen. He chuckles at the fact that he has never

owned a car of his own in his life, or applied for a driver's license either,for that matter. Now he has to park his very own BMW road rocket

where some other thief won't get his hands on it. The layers of irony just

keep piling up. When he gets out, he very carefully locks the car doors,

then pushes the alarm button on the key chain. The two little beeps

sound strange to him. Setting a car alarm, as opposed to dismantling

one, is another first for him.

Outside the chipped and scarred door of the cheap crib, on the third floor

of the third rate, flea-bitten hotel, in the meanest part of town, he's been

flopping in for the last couple of weeks, the thief hesitates. He takes a

deep breath, holds it a beat and a half, and then lets it out in a stream

through his pursed lips, like he's blowing an unseen trumpet. Very much

the same way he performs his pre-theft routine whenever he goes out to

snatch another car. He long ago lost the ecstasy of love he felt for cars

that made him want to steal them in the first place. Now it's strictly amatter of cash flow and the economic realities of life. The pinprick of

excitement he feels at the moment the car's engine fires to life is just the

icing on the cake, and very thin icing at that. The fun of it is slowly

vanishing in the haze of city life, and knowing how fast his life is heading

down a dead end street.

A lump of loneliness has been slowly growing in his gut, like a tumor, for

the last few years. Standing outside the door he's passed through so

17



many times before, he hopes very much that the two-room junkie suite is

empty when he goes in. His hand moves to the doorknob, just as slowly.

He twists it. The door swings inward, hinges squeaking their usual cry

of annoyance. He steps inside.

The odor of rancid cigarette smoke and spilled liquor in the filthy rooms

is almost nauseating. The thief feels like vomiting right where he stands,

but manages to gulp down the feeling. Not a sound. No music, or

footsteps, or snoring, nothing disturbs the dry smoky air. He walks into

the next room. His clothes and junk are still heaped in the corner where

he left them. They're not much to look at. He feels a pang in his

stomach. He looks around for something to carry them in. His host'sgirlfriend's oversized canvas purse is lying on the floor in the front room.

She uses it in her work as a shoplifter, when her boyfriend is between

burglaries and needs a little ready cash. She refuses to hook, so the odd

snatch and run has become her main means of survival. Occasionally

she has acted as lookout during her boyfriend's burglaries, and once she

drove the getaway car after an especially messy jewelry store stick up.

The guy who rents the place, her boyfriend, is a hardened criminal, a

lifelong burglar, armed robber and strong-arm man. He especially likes

breaking into a place, guns blazing, just to see the terrified looks on the

faces of his victims. He lives for the rush of power that it gives him.

The only person he really cares about is himself, not even his girlfriend, if

the truth be told. She is his property. He found her on the street, taught

her what she needed to know to make a quick buck when times are lean.

In his way, he's a jealous man, be it over a living thing he covets or sometrinket he's stolen. He carries a loaded gun at all times, and isn't the

slightest bit hesitant to use it, especially if he suspects someone is trying

to make off with something that belongs to him, very much including his

current girlfriend.

Just as he reaches for the bag, the door swings open. In walks the

girlfriend carrying two shopping bags, stuffed to overflowing. She stops

short when she sees him, the glossy paper bags dangle like giant

18



oversized earrings from her hands. The thief takes the old purse and

turns for the bedroom. If she's happy to see him, she doesn't show it.

She asks him if he's leaving. He grunts a quick answer. From that point

on, not a word passes between them. She doesn't ask, and he doesn't

offer, which ratchets the awkwardness filling the room near the boiling

point. She tries not to be obvious as her eyes follow his every move, her

ears drink in his sound and her nose flares with his scent. The thief

never looks directly at her, but he knows. Feelings have been growing

between them for a while now, even before he moved in with her and he

boyfriend. He's known her for a while, but in all that time he's never

made a move on her for reasons buried too deep to understand.

The seconds it takes for him to stuff his meager possessions into the bag

last hours. Every breath takes a century. The clock ticking in the

adjoining room beats a jungle drumbeat at the slowest rhythm, like lava

flowing down the side of a volcano. When he finally makes it to the

door, eyes meet eyes, briefly, but lips never move.

* * * * *

The star treatment begins in spades. The senior actor has succeeded in

casting him in the role of a spoiled Thai boy, from an extremely wealthy

family in Bangkok, who has just returned from England where he flunked

out of all the finest schools Britain has to offer. He must be completely

transformed, from the street to the penthouse, surprisingly similar to

what's happening in his real life, but glitzier, if that's possible. The thief has to act like he's bored and petulant. It's not easy for him. It goes

against the grain of his basic nature, but slowly he begins to show signs

that he might just get the hang of it. His father, in the story, is the arch

enemy of the 'Asian James Bond', and he is his father's lieutenant, and the

last to get blown away in a bloody shootout that should set new standards

for bloodshed and dismemberment on the silver screen.

Hour after hour, in studio after studio, hair, makeup, wardrobe, elocution,

19



dance classes, which they insist are essential for learning to fall the right

way when he's hit by gunfire, or has to hit the deck to avoid same. The

pampering and massaging of his image and mannerisms goes on and on,

from morning to night. If it weren't for his youthful exuberance and

tenacity, not to mention the complete change of lifestyle, he would have

run screaming from the building after the first week. Being turned into a

new man is exhausting work, certainly not for the faint of heart,

especially when there are deadlines and budgets to meet. The thief

perseveres, happy to be out of the line of fire for the time being. Cops

and cars are furthest things from his mind during the torture sessions has

to endure.

* * * * *

A week later, on her drive to work, the new lady detective gets an idea

about where to start on the case of the Robin Hood of grand larceny, auto.

She has decided that the illusive car thief is hers, and hers alone. Plus,

she really doesn't relish the thought of spending another minute in the

squad room, stinking of dried sweat and ancient cigar fumes, listening to

the murmured insults and obscenities the other dicks share with each

other, but not with her. Of course, most of them are about her, but it

would be far better to be the direct brunt of their whispered hazing, than

to be ignores like some idiot cousin made to sit in the corner, wearing a

dunce cap, with her face to the wall.

If the thief was last seen running hell-bent-for-leather down a tiny side

street, straight into a movie production company shooting scenes for anupcoming feature film, then vanishing into thin air. It stands to reason

that someone connected to the movie company had to have seen

something, heard something, or knew something. She decides the

company headquarters are the best place to start her investigation. She

radios in as she swerves across three lanes of traffic to make a U-turn at

the next traffic light. The desk sergeant questions her about the car horns

he hears in the background. She just laughs it off with a clumsy joke.

She's damned thankful he isn't there to witness her stupidity behind the

20



wheel.

Her secret sin is her obsession with all things to do with the movies.

After the death of her mother, the small movie theater in her village was

the only oasis of calmness and comfort available for her and her younger

sister. Whenever it was possible, that is whenever her maiden auntie

would break loose with a little spare change, the dark confines of the

humble palace of flickering light and magic shows was where she and her

sister were to be found. For reasons that totally mystify her, her sister

developed a completely take-it-or-leave-it attitude. But for the detective,

the fantasy, the famous stars, the dreams of living like at the top of the

world, the romance and wonder of it all sends her into giggling fits of ecstasy. People who know and love her describe her as a star-gazer

extraordinaire and a movie nut of the first order. Since moving to the

city, she has seen every movie she could make time for, and stood outside

more theaters on more opening nights, just to get a glimpse of a passing

movie star, than she can count.

Except that's not quite true. She can recount every detail of every thing

that ever happened to her, in complete and excruciating detail. That not

only includes movie trivia, but every moment, of every day of her life,

almost all the way back to her birth. She's a little fuzzy on that topic, but

that's about all she's unsure of when it comes to her history. Her

incredible faculty for remembering everything, down to the tiniest detail,

is the reason she was recommended for the detective squad in the first

place.

Except for her sister, and her sister's daughter, with whom she shares her

modest apartment, movies, and movie stars, are the things she loves the

most, in the whole world. They helped her more than once get over the

rough times she had to live through, being an orphan with a sister to look

after, when she wished she could give it all up and just lie down and fall

off to sleep, forever. Those days, and thoughts, are past her, but her love

of movies is most definitely not.

21



When the guard at the gate asks what business she has with the studio,

she flashes her detective's badge. The guard gives her quick salute and

steps back. She gets a tiny flash of pride at his reaction to her display of

authority. The guard doesn't see the grin on her face as she lurches

forward in her long suffering Toyota. Quickly, she gets her car under

control and pulls into the parking lot in front of the tallest, shiniest office

tower she has ever seen. The incredibly sharp reflections radiating off

the glistening glass makes the building seem unreal, as if drawn by a

brilliant animator. To break the spell, she looks away from the chrome

and glass edifice, pretending to be reviewing something in her notebook,

while she lets her heartbeat fall beneath two hundred beats per minute.

Finally, after a minute or two, she takes a deep breath, switches off thecar's radio and opens the car door. The heat of the day, even at ten AM,

singes the hairs on her neck. She swallows, hard.

Her sister derides the studio as 'the temple of glitterati and tinsel', but for

the detective, it feels more like walking into a dream factory. She has to

struggle triple hard controlling her nervousness as she mounts the front

steps. She regrets choosing wearing high heels when dressing that

morning. She steps inside the near arctic, air-conditioned lobby, her feet

wobbling under her. Whether it's the icy air, or the reality of standing

there, freezing her lungs shut, she doesn't know, or care. She stops dead

in her tracks, a few inches too quickly, which is why she is nearly

knocked to the polished inlaid granite floors when the two inch thick

glass doors swing closed behind her.

One of the more experienced receptionists sees what's happening anddashes around the reception counter and comes to the detective's aid.

But she's a policewoman, and a full-fledged detective to boot, so it won't

do to be seen falling down, on the job, as it were. The studio girl has

seen it all before, so she does her best to put the obvious flustered newbie

at ease. She's really nice and more than willing to help the detective find

her way through the rat's-maze of offices she's going to have to master if

she hopes to find out anything. The receptionist admits she's a little bit

impressed knowing the detective's badge is the real mc'coy, and not the

22



crappy scraps of tin foil and cardboard the actors flash when the camera's

rolling.

Upstairs, the detective is bounced from office to office, like some hapless

ping-pong ball, from make-up studio to sound stage, from wardrobe to

props, post production, pre-production, and all point in between, back and

forth and back again. She winds up feeling dizzy, like a shuttlecock in a

mad hatter's game of badminton. Enduring the labyrinth of shuck and

jive, 'yeah I was there . . . well, maybe I was there . . . let me just check

my schedule . . . oh I'm so sorry, my girl's out right now . . . I'll get right

back to you . . . I'll call you . . . we'll do lunch . . . wait, on second

thought I was having lunch with Cee El that day . . . yeah I'm sure aboutthat . . . but I'll confirm that with you the second my girl gets back . . . so

if you'll excuse me . . . blah . . . blah . . . blah de blah'. 'Gotta run,

sweetie, I'm running late . . . I'll call ya soon as I can, bye now.'

Over and over again, no one could say for sure where they were that day,

or any other day for that matter, including the day they were born. It

would seem the movie shoot on the little side street was a figment of

someone else's imagination. It never happened, nobody was there, and

when an army of absent secretaries gets back from wherever they are,

we'll get right back to you.

After being numbed into a virtual stupor by all the non-talk one woman

can bear, the detective's brain is almost fried to a crisp. She stops to

catch her breath, when she decides to pick one last door on the corridor

she happens to be on, drop in unannounced and see what line of crapthey'll try to feed her. It's a shot in the dark, but she has just enough grit

left for one last foray into never-never land. She flips a coin in her mind,

grabs the first doorknob she comes to and walks inside, bold as brass.

For the second time that day, her feet are frozen to the spot. She can

breath later, when she's back outside. The walls of the outer office are

plastered from floor to ceiling with glossy photos, original ad artwork and

one sheets from movies starring her favorite actor, 'the Asian James

23



Bond'. The shelves behind the glass and chrome desk, which is a

miniature of the building's architecture, is crammed to overflowing with

awards, statuettes, mementos and souvenirs from a long and illustrious

career. The office is a living biography, the actor's life as observed in

object d'art.

She has to force herself to blink her eyes before they shrivel up and fall

out. She has seen every movie of his, is familiar with every story about

him and admires every award she sees, as if they represent a chapter from

her own life. It is very hard for her to believe where she is. Still, she

doesn't move.

She snaps to, to half a degree or so, when she hears someone moving

about in the inner office. The door is open only a crack, making it

impossible to see who it is. She is expecting another of the endless

parade of overworked, underpaid office girls in jeans and tee shirts to

appear, when a figure she recognizes stops a few feet in front of her.

Once again she's stunned beyond movement. It takes all her

concentration to raise her eyes to his face. Her mind is a solid block of

concrete threatening to break loose, topple off her shoulders and crash to

the floor at his feet. She can't believe she's standing there, in that room,

only inches from the icon of her fantasies.

Accustomed with such behavior, the actor is content to get the ball rolling

and attempt to revive the bambi frozen in the headlamps of his gaze.

Most of his young female fans are overwhelmed by the radiance of his

aura the first time they meet him. Extremely few ever get the chance for a repeat encounter. That's the way he has been so successful at keeping

his reputation as a Don Juan lady killer alive and flourishing for so long.

At first, the actor is the ultimate in suave and gallant, turning his charm

on full blast. The very air around him seems to shimmer, as if reflecting

the beams of sunlight from the Ra that walks among us. The effect is not

lost on the floundering detective, which is how she feels for the moment.

She is unaware of how condescending and patronizing he is being to her.

24



She was also blissfully unmindful of the expanding paunch putting a fair

bit of strain on the waistband of his impeccable Italian silk trousers. She

just thinks he's the most beautiful, most wonderful thing she's ever been

so close to in her entire life. His silky smooth patter is working like

magic until she reaches into her handbag, exposing her service revolver,

pulls out her shield and musters the courage to identify herself.

As quickly as the actor's charm can be switched on, his bitchy nastiness is

much quicker to surface, like a stiletto knife flicking open from PMS hell.

The detective is startled into reality. The shock brings her natural

instincts as a cop back to life. The pretty picture of mere moments

before has been shattered into a flurry of flying shards of illusory glass,like a make-believe mirror after running into a flying hammer.

She's been his biggest fan as long as she can remember, and is more than

taken a little aback by the sudden shape-shift in his demeanor towards

her. She scans her memory, trying like mad to think of what it was that

she might have said or done to provoked him this way. She can think of

nothing. What was it that could incite the beloved screen idol into

becoming so instantly vicious, filled with such intense venom for her, is a

complete and soul withering mystery to her.

A little history: it seems the actor was not your average boy when he was

eight or nine years old. He was drawn to very different things than the

other boys in his small town in the south. Except, that is, when it came

to bicycles. The notion of zooming as fast as a speeding bullet down the

hills around his area, his body bent all the way forward, his hair streaming in the wind, knuckles white from gripping the handlebars so

tightly, the sun glinting off the brilliant new red paint, only to slam on the

brakes and screech to a dramatic stop in front of all the kids in his

neighborhood that spent the better part of their lives taunting him, was the

dream that fired his young passions. It was a dream that was never to be

his.

His father was two things, more so when it came to him. First, the old

25



man seemed to be perpetually mad at him for any and all unstated

reasons, and second, the stingiest man on the planet. The combination of

these two factors giving his dad the perfect excuse not to buy his swishy

son the shiny new bike he clamored and cajoled for constantly. His

father's unassailable stubbornness sent him into a spiral of submerged

rage and helpless frustration. The young actor cried himself to sleep

more nights than not.

But the boy was nothing if not crafty. It didn't take long for his

tormented young imagination to settle upon an outlet for his righteous

pique. He decided that if he was never going to get the bike of his

dreams, none of the other boys should be allowed to have what he couldnot. So he went out and stole bicycles, specifically, only the brightest,

shiniest, newest two wheelers in town. The town he grew up in was too

small to support a bike shop of its own, so all the new bikes had to be

imported from as far away as Bangkok, a fabled city of glamour and

riches somewhere over the horizon. The fact that the new bikes in town

traveled great distances from foreign lands gave them a mystique far and

above their humble beings. To the other kids, the newest bike was the

stuff of endless admiration and boasting, and more than a little envy.

And regular dads being what they are, when one dad sees the new bike

his rival down the street brought home from his last trip to the big city,

well that dad is honor bound to match him, if not top him with a better

bike, especially one from overseas, like a Raleigh from London, the

pinnacle of all bikes at that time. The actor's dad was inexplicably

immune to that whole system of one-upsmanship that should haveguaranteed him a bike of his own. Something in him made him reject the

idea of owning a second hand bike out of hand, so payback was the only

option left open in his devious young mind. A quality that would serve

him well years later, in his upcoming climb to the top of the fame and

glory ladder, as a film star and action hero.

There were boys who bullied and badgered him. He hated them, of

course. But the boys, and girls for that matter, that really burned his

26



britches were the other kids who tolerated the bullies, who let the bullies

get away with anything they wanted, and never did a thing to stop the

daily harassment he had to endure. Even at the earliest age, the actor had

a highly overdeveloped sense of the dramatic. The knights of the round

table were true heroes, who roamed the land doing good deeds wherever

they saw them needed. Heroes were supposed to jump into every fight to

defend the innocent victim against harm and injustice. But where his

heroes? Where were the brave men, and girls for that matter, who were

supposed to come to his defense and rescue him from harm's way? In his

mind, they were all around him, but some reason adamantly refused to

come to his aid, over and over again. He stood alone against a sea of

torment and indignation. The boys who should have been his avatars became his targets of revenge.

Should one of those boys receive a Raleigh, or even a Schwin, for a

present, say on his birthday, then the actor felt hell-bent to shinny out his

bedroom window on the second floor of his family's home, in the middle

of the night when absolutely nobody was up or about, climb down to the

backyard and vanish into the shadows of the night. In his fevered

imagination, he became the Phantom of the Night, avenger of perceived

wrongs, of course always against himself. Assuming the persona of an

unseen, misunderstood doer of righteousness helped him develop the bug

for acting that would become his life's work in the future.

Being smaller than average and surprisingly nimble helped in his stealthy

endeavors. His size and agility should have made him a star at sports,

but to the consternation of more people than just his father, this was justnot in the cards. The actor, as a lad and an adult, never showed the

slightest interest in anything involving balls, bats, athletic supporters,

player's uniforms, finish lines or score boards. Getting involved in rough

and tumble activities that included sweating, rolling on the ground or

bodily contact with other boys was strictly peasant behavior, and he

would have none of it. Well, almost none of it as it turned out. In a

completely different context, bodily contact is a whole lot more fun than

being tackled on some dusty playground for the sake of the 'team', a

27



concept in itself that filled his heart with loathing. He was kid everyone

admitted would go it alone, come hell or high water.

Anyway, the Phantom of the Night would make his way to the target's

house, make his way over, through or under the fence or wall that was

there to keep him out, find the unsuspecting bike and make off with it.

Too worried about getting caught, he would usually forego the thrill of

racing down is favorite hill, instead pedaling out to the farthest ranges of

his limited bravery, to an out of sight bend in the local river, or a flooded

rice paddy. There he would concentrate all his muscle power and spin

the bike round and round, like a hammer thrower, and hurl it out as far as

it would fly into the depth of the water. If he couldn't possess it, no oneelse could either.

The actor managed to get away with six of his daring escapades before

being seen slinking past the house of the town's most notorious

insomniac, who just happened to be looking out his window. At the

crack of working hours the next morning, two policemen show up at his

school and cart him away, one officer clamped like steel to each elbow.

The actor has to endure the humiliation of being identified as the bike

robber in front of a gaggle of gawking pupils, and then being dragged

sniffling and pleading away to the police station, all of this performed in

full view of the entire student body of his school. The sound of their

catcalls and laughter rings in his ears to this day.

After one hell of a brouhaha, and the only really hard slap his father ever

gave him, the actor's father came to his defense in front of the judge, tohis unending amazement, squared everything with the victims and their

outraged fathers, and somehow managed to put the whole matter to rest.

All the bikes were recovered, restored to new and returned to their

rightful owners. But hard feelings die hard, and thinking he had it bad

being constantly picked on by the tough boys, being completely shunned

by everyone was ten times worse. He began to think of himself as a

leper with a good complexion. At night, he prayed as hard as he could

for the knights of the round table, or any other table for that matter, to

28



ride in and carry him away, to join their lives of magic, mystery and

adventure. It was at about this time that he decided acting was the thing

for him.

Now, standing here, in his very own offices, his innermost sanctum, face

to face with the person he dreads and despises the most, a police person,

the whole sordid affair is brought back in full four color Technicolor, in

amazing Dolby THX surround sound. His head is starting to spin. His

high blood pressure is pounding in his ears. The mark of guilt branded

on his fragile psyche, on his permanent emotional record as it were, is

threatening to pull his legs right out from under him. He stumbles over

to the chair behind his girl's desk and slumps down in it like a wet sack of potatoes. He clenches his hands together in front of himself on the

secretary's desk. His knuckles turn ghostly white under the strain. He

fixes his eyes in a straight line and stares at them hoping against hope that

when he looks up the demon of his nightmares will have disappeared like

a bad headache after a couple of those wonderful pills the doctor his last

lover recommended gave him.

He has never whispered so much as a word about his criminal past to

anyone, and thankfully both of his parents went to their graves with his

dirty little secret tucked away in their miserable little souls. Not that he

didn't love his parents, but the feeling of relief inside him, when each of

them past, father first then mother, far outweighed any feeling of loss he

might have felt. Not that anyone at the funeral could tell, however, the

grief struck orphan, weeping at the side of an open coffin is a scene he

can play to the hilt. He should have been given an award for his performance, but has only mentioned that oversight to only the most

intimate of his many 'friends and fans', as he calls his legions of lovers.

The idea of this tiny little cop lady, standing there all high and mighty,

come to make him pay yet again for his worst sins, has not only incensed

him, it has also done what hundreds of armed assassins and murdering

psychopaths have failed to. She has completely knocked the stuffing

right out of him. If she even so much as looks at him with those cold

29



black unwavering eyes of hers, he'll fall over on his back, like a whipped

puppy, and beg for her mercy. But he can't let that happen. He can't let

her see him grovel on his knees like he used to in front of directors and

producers in the early days of his career, so he glares at his clenched fists

all the harder. He has to press his knees together painfully hard to keep

his bladder from exploding all over the room.

'I stole bicycles, not cars' he chants to himself, inside his head. The

sound of his perfect capped and polished teeth grinding themselves to

powder is deafening, in his ears anyway. And besides that, her fashion

sense is simply atrocious. It's as if she buys only the cheapest bits of

clothes she can find from the street vendors specializing in the oldest,ugliest clothes they can find, and then tries to mix and match them into

outfits that are supposed to make her look like a person of authority.

Who makes this kind of fashion abomination for sale in the first place?,

he wonders, also to himself. It's more than obvious she's stretching a

very limited budget way past the breaking point. Poor dear, he

commiserates a little, what wonders a little money could produce? At

least her shoes are kind of pretty, and they compliment her shapely legs

and ankles. With a complete makeover this dowdy policewoman, no

longer trembling at his presence, might just clean up good, who's to say?

I mean, one can only stay depressed for so long, he reassures himself.

The actor's eye for the do's and don'ts of fashion is dead on. He has a

reputation in the industry for spotting the unlikeliest diamonds in the

rough and polishing them to a brilliant luster, if only for the briefest of

moments. As his interest in one of his pets wanes, so does the elbowgrease he invests in the care and caressing of their image. He drops day

old friends and proteges like used tissue. His wake is littered with the

carcasses of countless pretty boys and girls, mostly boys, who caught his

attention for a few days, or weeks at the most, then failed to keep him

from growing bored with their endless whining and drivel. Here today,

gone by dinner, tomorrow the latest. This is also a well known chapter

in his legend.

30



Meanwhile, the detective is in a complete state of confusion, with more

than a hint of shame making her discomfort all the more intense. She

isn't sure about anything at this moment. Her world is being rocked off

its foundations, and the rumbling is making her sick to her stomach. She

can't take her eyes off the man at the desk, her idol, her hero, glaring his

hands as though he might at any instant jump up and pummel her into a

pulp, the way he has so many times to the bad guys of the world.

The sound of the actor's outburst reverberates down the corridors of

moviedom, bringing the thief running to see what the commotion is all

about. He's been trapped in yet another of the endless series of meetings

he seems to have to sit through, if he wants to be a top star like actor promised. Any excuse to bolt from the overstuffed Italian leather

armchair and escape the room will do. The possibility that he may walk

in on a fight, a catfight as it were, is just the cherry on the sundae.

When he turns the corner into the actor's offices, he stops, he smells

danger in the air. Spotting the badge in the cute lady cop's hand, and

then seeing the actor's obvious distress, are all he needs to take a quick

bearing of the situation. The particulars will come later, but for the

moment, he sees that their is a kryptonite that can hobble the mighty

superman. He knows he can use the intense animosity between the star

and the cop to his advantage. The thief smiles.

Seeing the smile of mockery on the thief's face sets the actor off again,

with much renewed venom. The cop, with her back still to the thief, and

the thief both stand their ground. He can't be sure, but his hunches tellhim the gorgeous lady cop, in the worst looking get up he's ever seen, is

here in the actors chambers on his account. Some instinct warns him that

the focus of her mission is him, and not the actor, who is behaving

extremely weirdly for reasons only the actor is aware of. The thief

doesn't care a whit about that. Standing so close to his nemesis is

exhilarating.

When she realizes there's someone standing behind her, she turns. His

31



eyes meet hers straight on. Bold as brass, he sticks out his hand to

introduce himself. There's a childlike innocence in her face that instantly

captivates him, in spite of her bearing of authority. His instincts also tell

him that what he sees is only a brave front, the flimsiest of facades, put

on to curtain the fear and confusion that is eating her up inside. He can

see how hard she's working to maintain the pretense. His eyes never

waver.

He has all but forgotten about the star, still ranting and raving behind the

desk, about being pushed out of the center of attention. So has the

detective.

The thief's heart settles a few beats when he sees her jaw drop nearly to

the floor, and a flood of astonishment gush from her gee-gaw stare. All

his life, people have told him how handsome they think he is, but he

hasn't really believed them. Seeing the look on the detective's face is

proof enough to accept the praise, a little.

Having worked so hard learning the role of a rich playboy brat with

international tastes and moves, he slides behind the mask and lets his

hours of training take over. He is no longer a wanted car booster who

never made it past the seventh grade in school, living from hand to

mouth, on the lam from the long arm of the law. Seamlessly, he

becomes a worldly wise, debonair young dandy with smoky Asian good

looks and charisma enough to charm the pelt right off an alligator's back.

The hint of sinister associations gives him the edge that makes it all come

together, makes it all work. Only his connections are real, not the product of some screen hack's fevered imagination in trying to sell a

mediocre script to the studio bosses. The thief ratchets down the

negative side of his character, and amplifies the sexier aspects.

It takes the detective more than a few heartbeats to recoup her

composure. The thief relishes every second of her discomfort. Her

hand in his goes from stone cold to blast furnace hot in a matter of

seconds.

32



Meanwhile, the actor has risen to his feet, standing there, leaning on his

legs against the edge of the desk for moral, as well as physical support.

He's virtually vibrating in a near frenzy of outrage at the double insult of

the cop's continued contamination of his star-clad existence, and then

being pre-empted from her focus on himself, by his very own protege,

who should know better by now not to steal the spotlight away from the

sun in his universe. The effrontery of it all! And here he is, the only

card-carrying movie star in the room.

The fact that the two men in the room share a common bond of mutual

self-interest is the only thing keeping him from leaping over the desk andchoking one or the other of them to death. The girl would be easier, but

that would give the thief the chance to do him serious bodily harm.

While the boy is no match for his expertise in the martial arts, the

diminutive lady detective is carrying a very real looking revolver only

inches and from her fingertips. So, the wise actor decides discretion is

the better part of valor, and a fair percentage of basic survival.

The thief is the first to speak anything intelligible. He asks the detective

if she's like to have dinner with him sometime, say, tonight, for instance?

He wants to gauge just how far this act of defiance will drive the spike

into the actor's already tormented heart. When he sees the reaction on

the actor's face, he feels recharged. Seducing the cop out to clamp his

ass in the slammer should be as much fun as snatching hot looking cars

right off the streets in broad daylight, his criminal MO. He sees it as the

snake eating the mongoose, while the fox looks on, drooling from thesidelines.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, things aren't going so peachy in the life of the burglar. His

last major heist netted a big fat zero after the rent-a-cops guarding a

33



consignment of luxury automobiles refused to be good little puppies and

roll over for the burglar and his men, who came to liberate a few of the

juicier cars for their own benefit. When the guards refused to get down

on their faces, at the burglar's more than explicit demand, and decided to

be cowboys about the whole thing, the ensuing gunplay not only roused

the slumbering neighbors in a five block radius into dialing (911), it also

produced a dozen or so, five Baht sized bullet holes in the most expensive

cars, including a shiny maroon red Rolls Royce earmarked for delivery to

the head of the movie company where the burglar's rival will soon be

enchanting a diminutive lady police detective, the same lady cop who has

been dogging his own tracks since she was a uniform cop patrolling the

streets.

The superficial, but irreparably psychological, damage to the cars renders

them irredeemable to the agents who commissioned the burglar's first

foray into high stakes auto theft in the first place. For the last week, he

had searched everywhere, but no one seemed to know the whereabouts of

the thief, who is by all accounts the reigning expert in this sort of

enterprise. He even went so far as trying to beat the information out of

his own girlfriend. Nagging suspicions had been gnawing at the back of

his brain about the two of them, for a few days before the thief vanished

into thin air. She protested loudly that she knew nothing and that nothing

had happened between her and the wayward guest. He very reluctantly

accepted her word, mostly because his arms were weary from throwing

things at her. Finally, after failing to locate the thief, the burglar

proclaimed himself boss of his motley gang of petty crooks and promptly

set about screwing the entire caper up to the hilt.

The girlfriend is trying to get some sleep after a long night's battle with

the burglar. The burglar is more frantic than she's ever seen him before,

worrying himself into a violent tizzy about what he has to do to get

himself out trouble with his bosses. It's impossible, the combination of

the bruises and the thought of him returning from wherever he is in an

even worse mood conspire to rob her of even a minute's sleep.

Whenever she tries to roll over pain and terror shoot through her like a

34



million lightning bolts. She's been alone in the rooms for more than four

days. She wishes the thief was here to hold her and make the burglar go

away, forever. The thought of running away, on her own, never enters

her mind.

Suddenly, the apartment door crashes open. She is startled and tumbles

backwards, out of bed onto the floor. When she hits her head on the

floor, she lets out a squeal of pain. Thugs, armed with guns and clubs,

some she's seen before, some strangers, pour into the bedroom like the

army of hulking barbarians they are. They grab her, yank her semi-nude

into the front room and throw her hard on the ratty armchair that is the

only stick of furniture in the place that hasn't been smashed to splinters.She tries desperately, and in vain, to cover herself from their leering eyes.

The obvious leader tells the one closest to the door to go outside and keep

an eye out for nosey neighbors or the cops, and close the door behind

him. The junior thug grunts and follows orders. This might take a

while, the leader sighs, resigning himself into doing something he has no

taste for, torturing a pretty young woman for information. He's a thief,

and a lover, not a psychopath who gets his kicks inflicting pain on others,

especially girls, and if it wasn't for the threats hanging over his own head,

he wouldn't be here in the first place.

The girlfriend has been through this scenario once or twice in the past.

The burglar's associates are not nice people you have over for Sunday

dinner. When double-crossed, they are pure bad. She knows

instinctively what she has to do. She's a brave little cookie, and although

the burglar treats her mean from time to time, she keeps her mouth shutabout his comings and goings. The only thing she can tell them,

something they already know, is that her boyfriend has gone to ground

somewhere until he can figure some way to get himself out of this current

jam. He's in the wind and she has no idea where. The leader, knowing

it's most likely the truth, is more than a little taken with her. He tells her

he wishes circumstances had been different, he would have liked to add

her to his list of things to do on cold rainy nights, when a couple of

candles, a bottle of wine and a warm bed are the best medicine for the

35



late night blues. Something inside her heart is sparked to life. She

wants to smile, but dares not.

After the door finally closes behind them, she sits there, her legs sprawled

out in every direction, arms dangling, dead at her sides, waiting to let her

heart rate fall back to somewhere near normal. She can't get his face out

of her thoughts. She too wishes circumstances were different, in more

ways than one. The sun sets through the grimy window behind her, but

she doesn't move a muscle as the darkness washes over her bruised and

battered form. The shadows hide the mournful tears tracing down her

cheeks.

* * * * *

At the studio, an armored car is backing up to a steel door at the rear of

the HQ, painted industrial green, in an odd jarring contrast to the

pearlescent pastels of the building's public essence. The door is open in

anticipation of the delivery. Standing in the doorway are three of the

studios execs and an executive producer from England, here to oversee a

major cooperative film project that will be going out on an extended

location shoot in the deep rain forest in a couple of days. The armored

car is carrying a substantial amount of cash that will be used for out-of-

pocket expenditures, extras, laborers, security for the vehicles, food for

the locals, medicine and hospital care, the occasional intoxicants, bribes,

etc.

The British movie mogul is understandably nervous, even after being

shown the magnificent state-of-the-art safe in the studio boss's penthouse

office suite. He's at the back door to personally supervise the transfer of

his backer's money from the truck to the strong box upstairs. This much

cash, in one place, and in such an easily observable place, puts a knot in

stomach the size of Buckingham Palace. Who knows if there are eyes

out there, watching with high-powered lenses from one of the

36



surrounding buildings that back up to the studio lot's perimeter fences?

Or how many there might be? The Thai execs, saying they agree with

his worries, are actually laughing at him behind his back. The foreigner

knows, but doesn't care, just as long as the money gets to a safe place,

under lock and key, ASAP.

* * * * *

Back at his own mansion, the actor finds that he's jazzed by the thrill of

competition with the lady detective in the hideous outfit for the hand, andother parts, of the fair thief. He's on his third sherry in as many minutes,

and is beginning to feel the heat swelling in his loins. He chuckles out

loud when he remembers her attempt to look like a real police detective

with the absolute ugliest rags he has ever witnessed, and the really

adorable shoes she was wearing. Shoes, the more expensive and trendy

the better, are his secret addiction, and are never far from his line of sight.

He thinks of the thief now as a prize, a spectacularly beautiful prize, to be

awarded to the best man, as the saying goes. Whether it's his astonishing

good looks, or the slightly villainous air mystery that forms his aura, or

the certainty that the thief is a creature that can vanish in the blink of an

eye, he can't say for sure, but something about the handsome outlaw

makes him want to possess the boy more than anything, or anyone he's

ever seen before. Not to put too melodramatic a face on it, but he'd

almost be willing cut off his arm, left of course, to have the thief all tohimself, from now until the sun fades away. His lust is intense enough to

make him think such thoughts, and about a mere stranger off the streets at

that. But not just any ordinary pretty boy, he has to admit to himself.

To alleviate the melancholy cloud forming over his heart, he pours

himself another snifter of fine Spanish sherry. This time he makes it a

double, or something like that. Tonight is a night for alcohol's fiery

narcosis to help bolster his determination. Once convinced of

37



something, the actor is virtually undeterable in his drive to get what he

wants. Much like the bike debacle of his childhood. When reason and

the reality of failure should override the worst of his instincts, he can

shove them aside, send them flying into the gutters like a string of eighty

pound stunt players on one of his action hit movies.

He understands the thief's strategy to use the lady detective to ward off

his advances. But he sees that as nothing more than the thrust and parry

of the tempestuous affair he's sure will happen in the future. I mean, he

asks himself, how could the boy not want him as much as he wants the

boy? After all, he, a bona fide screen legend, holds the key to a life of

limitless wealth and utter decadence all young men from his amoral background would kill to have. He and the thief are a matched pair when

it comes to the things they expect from life, or so he believes. The thief

is simply trying to make the game more interesting by using the cop lady

as his foil. But the actor reassures himself, lying on an Italian silk chaise

lounge, alone with his fantasies, his robe falling open to reveal a sizeable

paunch, that he has the sharpest sword of all. The boost he feels as the

result of this bit of self-hypnosis spurs the strings of his heart into playing

the sweetest of melodies, to his ears anyway.

Let the games begin! The words echo off the cavernous walls of his

magnificent cave.

* * * * *

The thief's prospects as an actor in demand are starting to really pick up.

The right people are beginning to remember his name when it comes up

in conversation, which it does more and more as the days pass. Word is

getting out about him, that he's the next star set to hit the stratosphere, on

his way to grabbing the brass ring as it were, and set the night skies

ablaze with his fame and glory. And all this without a single on-screen

credit to his name. His career is all set to skyrocket into the cosmos,

38



more specifically, movie theaters all over the country and then the world,

who knows?

Each morning, as he drives to work he spots car after car that would

otherwise be his for the taking. He greets each with a tiny nod of his

head, assuring them that they're safe for the time being. Which means

the detective can turn her attentions to other crimes and misdemeanors,

and leave the dusty old file to gather even more dust in the right hand

bottom drawer of her desk.

In the squad room, her appearance there every morning hardly raises an

eyebrow anymore, as a truce of boredom has settled over the room and itsinhabitants. She hasn't done anything to earn their respect, but then

again, she hasn't shot anybody with her service revolver either. So a

mutual contract of dis-involvement with each other has come into being.

At least now, when she gets home at night, she isn't doubled over by the

tension in her gut cramping her stomach muscles into a knot.

Everyday, the thief shows up at the studio in his very own bright shiny

Beemer. The guards at the gate snap to mock attention, smile and salute

him as he passes them. Something about him makes them treat him like

the more established talents that worked long and hard to achieve their

status as 'names' in the pecking order of stardom. He can't help smiling

to himself that he has managed somehow to become a rising young star in

two completely different realms, crime and fantasy. He never fails to

sing along with the two tiny beeps that sing out from his car every time

he presses the alarm button on his key chain. It's as if his car is wishinghim another terrific day. Passers by have wondered why the young

proto-star says 'thanks' to his car before turning and walking away. They

come to accept his strange ritual as part of his routine to bring good luck.

After the days are over, the thief and the detective are seeing more and

more of each other, going out to eat and take in a movie, or whatever they

think of at the moment. They are growing closer as time passes. But

not close enough for the detective. Her sister, the self-proclaimed 'guru

39



of the heart, and swami of all loves' is puzzled, and somewhat concerned,

that the relationship is not progressing as hoped for. She has her

misgivings about the beautiful actor in training.

After all, she reasons, if the big star, the screen idol of millions, can turn

out to be something he's not, in the minds of the teeming masses who fork

over their hard earned dough to be thrilled and chilled by his manly

exploits vanquishing evil, then why is it that the thief isn't beginning to

pay more romantic interest in the detective, manly interest that is. If he's

a healthy virile young man, he should have needs that need satisfying?, if

you know what I mean, she asks her sister. When a handsome boy and

an attractive woman, the same age and temperament get together, thereshould be more to it than a few pleasant dinners, the occasional movie

and spoken 'goodnights' between them. Shouldn't there? The sister is

growing worried that all isn't as it should be.

One evening the thief and the detective are up in his apartment relaxing

on the luxuriously deep Italian leather sofa, idly watching TV when

there's a knock on the door. The detective excuses herself to use the

little girl's room, while the thief goes to answer the door.

When opens the door a crack, suddenly it explodes open, hitting him in

the face and knocking him back. As suddenly, the burglar and a very

tough looking goon he's never seen before burst in. The two grab the

thief and roughly lift him back to his feet. They are in the process of

dragging him out the front door, into the privacy of the hallway, when the

detectives rushes into the living room, drawn by the noise of the ruckus.She's all the way on the opposite side of the room, with an unobstructed

view of the commotion. She instantly concludes that this is an attempted

kidnapping and immediately she dives for her purse and the gun inside.

The burglar recognizes her, decides not to investigate the situation for the

moment, and turns to make a break for it. He stops for just a split second

to hiss something into the thief's ear, something about finding him, and

how much the thief owes him, before cursing at him.

40



The thief falls back to the floor right where he is. He is completely

baffled. The burglar can't resist knocking the stunned look off the much-

changed thief's face, so he punches him hard enough to knock him out.

His accomplice has already disappeared, the loud thump of his boots

resonating down the emergency stairway. Without another moment's

hesitation, the burglar turns and runs in the same direction. Instantly, he

too is gone, and now the sound of four boots thunders up from the stairs

never, but never, used by the building's tenants.

The detective, torn by her emotions like she has never been before,

decides she must protect the thief, and forego chasing the kidnappers.She runs to his unconscious body, sprawled half in and half out of the

apartment door and lifts his head into her lap. She can't help listening as

the footsteps grow fainter and fainter down the stairwell. She can't decide

which is stronger, her fear, or her regret. Tears gush from her eyes. The

thief is out cold and never sees her shame.

Back in the squad room, after making her report to the grim-faced chief,

the other detectives make fun of her for failing to 'handle a simple snatch'

like a seasoned pro, which she definitely is not, they point out repeatedly.

She knows they're right and walks out into the humid night air almost

ready to pass out from the weight of the shame chewing her gut to shreds.

Not being able to decide her next move, she stands there praying the night

air will ease her suffering. It doesn't. She feels as if she's about to be

smothered, when the crusty old desk sergeant walks out of the building at

the end of his shift, stops at her side and offers her a ride home while helights his first cigarette of the evening. The look in his eyes tells her that

he understands what it must have been like, back there with two armed

thugs taking her and her movie star boyfriend by complete surprise.

Wordlessly, she understands there wasn't anything she could have done to

catch the bastards. At the very least she foiled their plans and protected

the life of the intended victim in the process. The two jamokes will be

caught, or killed, sooner or later. She thanks him for his offer, but says

she's okay, her car is just around the corner. Their eyes meet for an

41



instant before he turns to walk away. Maybe by accident, maybe not, his

hand brushes hers. Suddenly the moist cool evening air feels a degree

cooler.

* * * * *

On the movie set the next day, a P.A. brings a mobile phone over to

where the thief is lounging, waiting for the next setup, trying to appear as

if nothing about the previous night's assault is bothering him. He wasn't

being kidnapped, he knows that, it was a brutal overture for something

the burglar wants him for.

It's the burglar on the line. The thief demands to know how the burglar

found him and how he got this number. The burglar sneers that anything

is available for the right price. The thief doesn't believe him. He knows

perfectly well the burglar would rather eat his own eyeballs than fork out

actual cash to get what he wants. The thief feels a tad sorry for the poor

sod that must have taken a serious beating before giving the burglar what

he wanted, and probably after as well. The thief isn't really afraid of the

burglar, but respects his penchant for violence.

He expresses his confusion about any debts between them. They run

with two different crowds, work two different sides of the street, rob two

different brands of goods and usually don't cross professional paths at all.

So, what's this all about, he wants to know. He's smart enough not to

whine about the knockout punch that jarred a couple of his teeth loose, or

bring up the subject of the girlfriend. Nothing happened between the twoof them, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything to the volatile burglar.

The burglar comes straight out and tells the thief that he knows all about

him and his girlfriend. It can't be true, but that does nothing to lessen the

stab of fear piercing his belly. The thief quickly guesses the burglar is

using this tactic as a way to knock him off his guard. He holds his

tongue. Protesting his innocence would be the same as confessing. And

he's confident there's nothing to give up when it comes to the girlfriend.

42



Longing looks and an aching heart do not add up to messing around with

someone else's property. The thief half wishes that the burglar's words

were, in fact, true. Then a head-on confrontation would settle the score,

once and for all.

The burglar is trying to lever him, trying to extort him, the car booster

cum fledgling movie star, into feeling guilty enough about something to

help him pull off some robbery or other, for whatever reason he doesn't

know. Word of the botched car heist hasn't reached him, so he has no

idea the jam the burglar's in with the city's top crime bosses. (joke of the

day around the squad room: what does a red Rolls Royce and a block of

Swiss cheese have in common?) He doesn't know that the burglar bit off more than he could chew, and choked on it, all over the evening news no

less, leaving the bosses exposed, not to mention out a considerable

amount of up-front money, and looking for blood as payback. (answer:

they both whistle when you throw them.)

He doesn't say so to the burglar, but he has heard rumors around the

studio that there's a pile of cash locked up in the headquarters building, to

be used on an upcoming location shoot, to pay for odds and ends, this and

that, and more than a few of the comforts of home for the company big-

wigs when they wander down to inspect the proceedings. Cash talks and

credit walks out in the boonies, among the natives who trust big city

jerkoffs as far as they can spit them out. Being left holding the bag,

again, when some fly-by-night film outfit disappears in a puff of smoke is

something the wiser country elders are not keen to repeat. They've seen

it all before, and now only believe it if they can fold it in their hands and put in their pockets. From make-up artists to grips, everyone is drooling

to have that money, which of course was supposed to be a secret.

When his ploy has apparently failed to intimidate the thief into

submission, the burglar's tone of voice changes completely. The burglar

knows that the thief is starting to chafe under the collar. When push

comes to shove, the thief isn't the type to lie down and let himself be

rolled over by nothing more than bluster and cheap intimidation. The

43



thief's no pansy when it comes to holding his own. He is also not the

kind to blurt out his every thought. So the burglar backs down a step or

two from his aggressive tone. He too knows when wait & see is a better

policy than punch & kick. He sketches the fix he's in, and a little about

what happened during 'the great Rolls Royce screw-up', as the papers

characterize the failed robbery. The thief laughs, maybe just a hint too

freely, to demonstrate his sympathy and bond of comradeship for a fellow

wanna-be car booster. Again, the subject of the burglar's girlfriend slips

past unmentioned.

As he is suggesting to the burglar that the cars they went after were a

little bigger a nut than he should have tried to chew, in the back of hismind, he is deciding the stash of cash in the next building is worth

checking out. The burglar grunts his answer and hangs up. The thief

realizes the burglar has decided to keep a close eye on his movements.

* * * * *

Later that night, on the drive from her apartment, the thief makes up some

phony excuse about needing stop by the studio to pick something up from

his dressing room on their way back. The sister watches from the sliding

glass doors that lead onto the front veranda as the Beemer pulls out into

traffic and merges into the fray. She's chewing her lip, a brooding look

on her face. Idly, her eyes fixed in the distance, she strokes her

daughter's hair.

As they're sitting in the smoky, candle lit restaurant, he reassures her it'srather important and will only take a second. She understands

effortlessly. Suddenly, without warning, the soft flickering light, the

gently wafting music, the intimate atmosphere, transforms the detective,

the hardened cop, into the detective, the woman. And a surprisingly

lovely one at that. The thief is somewhat shaken by the sudden spike in

his emotions, the sudden eruption of desire he feels for the enemy in his

midst. In the blink of a heartbeat, she has become something totally

unexpected, something not entirely within his control, a ravishing

44



woman. A woman he wants. The suddenness of the perplexities

attacking him from all sides casts a shadow across his face.

She leans forward to ask if something is wrong. He tells her it's nothing,

really, just work stuff, he can handle it. Dinner passes without a word.

The thief keeps his eyes on his plate and eats like the end of the earth is at

hand. Just as soon as he can manage it, he hustles the detective out of

the restaurant, into his waiting car and out into the flow of nighttime

traffic. She knows something is not right, but she keeps her tongue.

Occasionally she sneaks a sidelong glimpse over at him. The thief

makes no sign of recognition. Maybe it's the air of mystery surrounding

the whole evening, maybe it was that look that came into his eyes whenthey first sat down in restaurant, she can't say which, but she's sure

something has changed, something has come over him, and she can only

wait and hope it's what she wants. For the moment, she'll bide her time

and let the truth evolve as it will. She has the patience to hold on a little

while longer, and let her confusion go unanswered.

Stopped at a streetlight, the thief spots the burglar, and three serious

looking men, sitting two cars behind him. The burglar stopped his car in

a way, straddling the white lines, to give the thief an unobstructed view,

in his rearview mirror, letting the thief know that he's is right there and

wants the thief to know it. Just to make sure there's no question, he takes

an extra long time lighting his cigarette. The glow from the lighter casts

a bright orange halo that lights up all the occupants of the car. All eyes,

except one pair in the back seat, are on the thief. The lone holdout is

bored and more interested in the chicks in the next car. They're doingtheir best not to look too eager to return his stare. The backseat man is

saying something to the girls in the neighboring car, but the thief can only

guess at what it is. Concentrating his gaze on the backseat lothario,

helps him avoid the burglar's menacing stare. When the light turns

green, the thief jams the throttle to the floor, and within two blocks and a

short series of rather abrupt turns, leaves the burglar and his stooges in

the dust.

45



From her side of the car, the detective turns to look back at the road

behind them. For his part, the burglar didn't recognize the woman sitting

beside the thief, which is a stroke of luck for all of them. Now that

they're lost from sight, she can only assume this bit of road chicanery had

something to do with the attack the other night. The thief is driving

normally again. His demeanor is so cool, so unruffled, it isn't long

before the detective is questioning if anything out of the ordinary

happened at all. She can't take her eyes off of him. The thief doesn't

seem the least bit flustered, or even that she, as a cop, is there, in spite of

the small talk between them. Anyone seeing them, not knowing who

they are or anything of the circumstances, would think them a perfectly

normal couple, blessed with above average good looks, going about their business with the greatest of ease, without a care in the world except

where to satisfy their immediate desires the same as millions of couples

just like them.

The fact is, the thief did recognize the three accomplices with the burglar.

He doesn't know them personally, he's seen them around, in all the usual

hangouts, which is how he knows their reputations as hard boys, always

spoiling for a fight to alleviate the boredom of their degenerate

existences. They like nothing better than to gang up some unlucky sod

in a dark alley somewhere just out of sight of passers by, but at the same

within earshot, then kick and beat the poor bastard until their muscles and

knuckles are crying out in agony, and their need for inflicting pain on

others is satisfied. Walking away from a bloody body, slumped in the

filthy gutter never fails to leave them with the warm glow of satisfaction.

The fact that the three were riding in the burglar's car makes it only tooclear how serious the burglar is about getting him into whatever plan he

has to extricate himself from harm's way.

The burglar is in too deep and growing more desperate with each passing

hour. The thief is also in deep, in terms of his feelings for the detective,

and he doesn't like the idea of it. He feels strange and uncomfortable in a

way that is new to him. Nothing and no one has ever held any claim on

him, or his heart. He knows just how incredibly lucky he is never to

46



have been caught. His criminal record is unblemished. So far, the only

thing the cops have are vague descriptions and sketchy eyewitness

testimony. His strongest instincts tell him that it is best that he do

whatever it takes to keep it that way. His mind is working in double

overdrive.

He thinks he has a way to use the burglar, and his gang, to get out from

under the threat of being found out, permanently. He can't the studio

back lot rumors out of his head. Even though he didn't see it with his

own eyes, he accepts the accounts of an armored car backing up to the

main headquarters as true. Too many people described the rare event

right down to the last detail for it to a case of mass hysteria, like playingthe lottery. What would any of them, the working stiffs, do to score a

pot of gold so big it would guarantee a lifetime of freedom and luxury

beyond their wildest dreams? At least a couple of year's worth anyway.

He has a pretty good idea. He's never been outside the country before.

Now, he decides, is the best time to see the world.

As he pulls his car up to the front of the studio HQ, he is surprised to see

the studio bosses cars, and the stretch limo the London Exec has been

using, already in the lot. He has to cut the wheel sharply to avoid

running into them. Putting a dent in the boss's car would not be the best

move right about now. Apologizing to the detective, he slides out of the

car. He's relieved that she insists on waiting for him here in the car.

Just a tiny bit miffed, she has to struggle a little to put on a smile for his

benefit.

As he closes the door, he shoots a glance up the building's facade. Sure

enough, the top floor is ablaze with lights. That tells he thief all he needs

to know. As quick as he can make it, he runs up to his dressing room,

grabs the first official looking script he sees and starts back to his car, and

the waiting detective. Standing in the corridor, with his fists on his hips,

his feet spread apart, is eyes narrowed, is the actor. The effect is

somewhat lessened by the pearly white skin cream slathered all over his

face. Little do people realize how much time he spends at the studio in

47



order to avoid being home alone. He virtually haunts the halls and

studios, like a living ghost, white face and all.

The actor is growing desperate. He demands to know what the thief is

after and where he’s going in such a rush. His voice is tinged with more

sadness than authority. The thief tries to beg off saying he’s on a date

and just wanted to grab a copy of his lines to study for the next day. By

the purest of luck, those are what he has in his hand. The actor is

begrudgingly forced to believe him, but persists in questioning the thief.

When the thief has had enough of this harassment, he simply tells the

actor who is in the car waiting for him. The flesh on the actor’s face

blanches as white as his make-up. He is stunned into silence.

More than relieved, the thief dashes out of the building. The cool night

air feels triple good on his overheated skin. He lets out a long breath.

He looks around. No one moving. He half suspects she'll be out of the

car snooping around. Despite there being nothing to see, or uncover as it

were, he's more than a little happy to find her still sitting in the car where

he left her. No matter what, you damn sure can't trust the cops to mind

their own business. As he opens the car door, he thanks her for her

patience and understanding.

He has no idea what makes him do it, but when he slides down into his

seat and pulls the door closed, he leans over, turns his face to hers, and

kisses her.

On the ride back to his apartment the silence filling the car is streakedwith a rainbow of emotions, uncertainty, rapture, desire, confusion, fear,

longing, nervousness. His mind is racing. He can only think clearly

about one thing. It helps him focus.

The word is that the transfer was a single cash pouch, fat as a suckling

pig. No handcuffs, no keys, nothing extraordinary in the handoff. The

bag was hand carried up to the penthouse by the British exec himself.

The local company execs put on a good show of feigned concern. Fools

48



like that want more than anything to see their money stacked in neat piles,

inside some glossy, overpriced wall safe, behind a swing-out Picasso

knock-off, with a six inch thick door, and hear the tumblers click when

it's swung closed and the dial spun. It's a kind of pageant that creates the

illusion of impregnability.

The thief knows the burglar and his crew can pop the puny safe open

easier than a beer can. He smiles, unconsciously. His spirits are

buoyed. His juices are flowing, for more reasons than one. He’s ready

for anything, and this renewed energy is contagious.

The detective sees his smile. She wants to believe she is its inspiration.She doesn’t know what to think about his silence, but takes a degree of

relief when she sees that they’re driving back to his place, not hers. She

has her fingers crossed that she will most likely wake up in bed other than

her own. She spends the remainder of the ride debating with herself

whether or not to phone her sister when they get upstairs. Tentatively,

she thinks she’ll wait until the morning, go home to clean up for work,

stroll into her apartment and wait to see the reaction on her sister’s face.

Within moments of walking into his apartment, before the ornate front

door has even swung shut, they fall into each other’s arms. Their

passion is ablaze, threatening to flame out of control at any instant. The

way he crushes her in his arms, the way his body flows against hers, the

way his lips burn on hers is far and away beyond her wildest fantasies.

Just when it seems their love is going to set the night on fire, the thief pulls back, abruptly. The detective feels as though she’s been dropped

off a mile high cliff, stumbling, choking, falling while floating, like

standing vertigo. The thief’s lips are moving. He’s begging her to

forgive him. Something urgent has come up and she needs to leave. He

promises repeatedly to call her the moment he’s free and everything is

taken care of. But she can’t hear him. The thundering in her ears is too

loud.

49



She’s crushed. Tears are streaming down her face, but she maintains a

degree of dignity as she gathers up her things and turns for the door. The

thief has retreated back into the shadows of his bedroom, where only

moments before their love had finally come to life. He can’t take his

eyes off her.

Teardrops have soaked the front of her chemise, as she pulls the

apartment door silently closed behind her. Barefoot, sobbing, clutching

the disheveled remainders of her clothes in her arms, leaning against the

once cherished doorframe, alone and lost in the lifeless hallway, she has

never felt so defeated, so ashamed, so hurt in her entire life. Seconds

later, she is still pulling on the last of her clothes, buttons be damned,when soft chimes announce the arrival of the elevator. The mature

couple inside look away, mute as mummies, for long trip to the ground

floor. They heave an audible sigh of relief when the detective steps out

of the elevator opposite the building’s main doorway. The woman

immediately reaches for the elevator button, which is still glowing from

pushed earlier, but the man restrains her arm. They continue down to the

underground parking level.

* * * * *

Upstairs, the thief has retreated even further into his dark inner chambers.

The only illumination in the room is the blanket of pinpoints of lights

rippling across the ocean-scape of the city far below. Tears are

streaming down his face as well, as he sits scrunched up to the headboard

as far as physically possible, the bedclothes rumpled beyond recognition,hugging his knees to his chest with crushing force.

But his agonies are cut short by the sound of the front door opening. The

thief, thinking the detective has returned, rushes into the front room, still

naked. After it’s too late, he remembers he never gave her a set of keys

to the apartment. Before he can grab something to put on, the actor is

there, in the room, suffused with burning desire and barely contained

outrage. His voice is tripping with evil ecstasy as he described watching

50



the detective stumbling from the apartment, holding the remnants of her

horrible costume to her breast like a pathetic life buoy, trembling under

the weight of her sobbing. The actor can care less at this point whether

or not the thief shares his glee. It’s time to reap what he has sown. He’s

ready for his dreams to come true, or so he thinks.

Confusion meets lust and a fight ensues. The actor loses all control. He

goes ballistic. His white-hot temper is legendary, as much so as his

penchant for inflicting violence on those he believes are his property, his

whipping boys, his canvas of pain. He loves to hear the screams of

others at his own fingertips. Now is as good a time for a little release as

any. Scorched by rejection, the actor is about to kill the thief, when thethief grabs a heavy glass sculpture and smashes it down on the veteran

actor’s head.

The actor crumples, lifeless, to the floor. Blood gushes from his head,

washing across his cheeks in a crimson flood. The thief falls back,

spent, breathing as hard as his lungs can go. He’s knocked senseless by

what has just happened. He’s a thief, a purloiner of fine automobiles, not

a killer, not a murderer. Violence has never been his thing. Now,

seeing it so close and real like this is more than a little overwhelming.

He stumbles back to the bedroom, nearly falling two or three times. He

has never felt his legs so weak before. His eyes are turned, locked on the

motionless form on the floor, waiting, wanting to see it move. Lying

there in a pool of blood is the remains of the man who wanted to give him

everything, and wanted everything in return.

It takes a long moment before he sees the blood on his hands. At first he

can’t comprehend the connection, as though he’s looking at someone

else’s hands. These can’t be mine, he tells himself. But before long the

reality sinks in. The blood drying on the hands before of his eyes is real,

and the hands are his.

It takes all his concentration to regain his senses. A look of determined

relief washes over his face. He knows with the precision of a lifelong

51



thief exactly what he has to do.

Later, showered and dressed to the nines, he steps over the body cooling

on the carpet. All emotions for the former film star have vaporized. He

looks down at the body with ice cold detachment. To him, it’s nothing

more than a speed bump staining the actor’s fleecy white carpet a gooey

brick red. With nothing more to worry about, he leaves the apartment

apparently unfazed and ready for anything.

Well, that isn’t entirely accurate. He’s worried he might have stepped in

blood and ruined his exquisitely expensive Italian shoes. The image of

the still coagulating black pool of blood forming a glossy lake of tar around the actor’s head, making it look like a grotesque island lost in a

sea of licorice stabs him in the back of his head. He has to shake his

head violently to send the memory flying into oblivion.

Outside in the corridor, he takes a deep breath. He’s unmarked and

unscathed. His focus has returned, in spades. The unerring ability to

erase annoying and troublesome issues from his mind is the centermost

aspect of his psychological makeup. While everyone else around him is

running around in a panic, like headless chickens, he has always been

able to carry on as if he was the only man in the universe and had all of

time to do whatever is necessary. Very few people know of, or

appreciate the full dimensions of his cool nature, especially when the

world is crumbling down at his feet.

Back in the driver’s seat, so to speak, he knows his plan will best beserved with the acquisition of a new set of wheels. And they must be the

perfect wheels to compliment the lifestyle and image has become

accustomed to living. He’s come a long way from his devil-take-the-

hindmost, rough and ready, rag-tag days as a mere car thief. He checks

his reflection in the polished stainless steel frame around the elevator

doors. ‘Just look at me now,’ he says out loud to the new man in the iron

mirror. Feeling the soothing power of his new self in the shiny steel is

the final step in his mental preparations. He’s locked, loaded and ready

52



for action, as the elevator doors slide silently open to welcome him on

board for his descent into the night.

* * * * *

A splinter of his old reality shatters his calm when he steps out of the

elevator on the parking garage floor where his current, and soon to be

cars await.

The burglar’s girlfriend steps out of the shadows and takes two steps in

his direction. She stops, her eyes locked on him. Her face is bruised

and swollen, and smudged with dirt. The tracks of newly dried tearsstain the lovely tones of her complexion, even in the dim lighting. The

burglar is in the habit of beating his girlfriend to a near pulp the night

before an especially big job. Feeling his fists meeting her flesh and bone

is his final preparation for mayhem. After two or three seconds of trying

to be strong, she collapses to the concrete floor.

The car thief is caught on the horns of a dilemma. He’s torn between

stepping over her sobbing body, jerking with the spasms of pain and

torment, and walking away. Or leaning down and helping the girlfriend

to her feet. He wants very much to rush over to her and take her in his

arms. Vestiges of the unspoken thing between them are still alive and

well in his heart. His heart forces his hand. He runs over to her.

Gently, he lifts her into a semi-standing posture and leans her against the

nearest car. He does so so gently, in fact, the car’s alarm system is not

triggered, and the sirens don’t blare. Which would be especially bad asthe concrete walls and pillars form a cavernous echo chamber the whole

world can hear on a clear night like this one.

The girlfriend takes his tender touch as a physical admission of his love

for her and she kisses him hard on the lips.

At first, the thief tries to pull back, but something inside him makes him

give in to the heat of the kiss. He fears all is lost, when the sight of a

53



shiny new stretch Mercedes limo brings him back to the here and now.

He pulls back, his fingers still clinging tightly into her upper arms. He

tells her he has something important to take care of tonight. She

understands that to mean dangerous and illegal. The look in her eyes

takes him aback. He assures her that if everything goes as planned all

their problems will be fixed, permanently. But she has to go,

somewhere, anywhere, she just can’t come with him.

The girlfriend starts to get hysterical.

Just at that moment a party of happy residents, and their guests, steps off

the elevator. The group is obviously on their way out for a lively nighton the town. When they see the thief, someone they recognize as one of

their kind, and the poor crying wretch giving him some sort of trouble,

they pause no more than half the wink of an eye. This sort of thing is not

unheard of, and certainly none of their business. So why ruin a perfectly

good time ahead interfering in someone else’s affairs of the sheets?

The thief pulls the girlfriend into his arms and kisses her, hard, as though

making up for some imagined lover’s quarrel the wandering group was

too late to see and enjoy. He continues kissing her with his eyes

squarely on the party of nightcrawlers as they make it to their cars and

drive out of the building. Only then does he come up for air.

The girlfriend has stopped screaming. She can’t, she’s too dizzy. Her

eyes roll back in her head. Her hands fall lifelessly to her sides. Her

limp body threatens to slide off the car and topple to the floor once again.

The thief studies her closely. She’s been beaten pretty badly and she’s in

rough shape. It’s plain she’s not going anywhere on her own steam, not

without drawing too much unwanted attention to herself, and him if she

falls into the hands of some less than sympathetic cops.

He turns his body next to hers before she falls. He puts his arm around

her waist and tells her in hushed tones that she’s coming with him. He

54



tells her he’s going to drop her somewhere and asks her if she has a place

to crash for the night. It’s understood between them that it should be a

place where the burglar won’t find her. If she goes back to old apartment

in the morning, that will be all right. No one will be there, then or ever.

But he keeps this to himself. Instead, he repeats again and again that she

has to come with him to find a room for the night. He wants this to be

true.

The girlfriend blinks and swallows hard. A fresh tear has swollen from

the corner of her eye.

He pushes her back against the car and tells her to hold on as best shecan. Casually as a professional car thief, he strolls over to the sleek, gun

metal grey Mercedes. In the shake of a lamb’s tail, he has the door open

and the engine purring away. Only two short bleeps from the alarm

system announce his mischief. No one is the wiser.

The girlfriend is impressed with the thief’s display of criminal skill. She

pushes herself up onto her feet. Her legs hold. She pauses a moment

before she attempts walking to the car. Again, her legs are under her.

At first, it looks as if she’s going to circle the Mercedes and sit in the

front seat with the thief. But before she can get away from him, he

jumps out and opens the rear door for her. He bows with a great flourish

and announces that her car is ready, madam.

The look of confusion on her face prompts the thief to explain that it

would look more appropriate if she were his passenger and not her datefor the evening. In these circles, the chauffeur is never given the keys to

family limo for such petty social matters. She smiles and slips, with

some discomfort, into the spacious rear compartment. Smooth as

greased butter, they glide out into the glittering Bangkok night.

Within a matter of seconds, the burglar’s car falls into place in the thief’s

rearview mirror. The thief gives the girlfriend a quick glance. His eyes

are markedly hardened. He wonders if this was a setup and if her kiss

55



was a grand performance. It doesn’t appear as if she is aware of the game

of follow the leader going on around her. She looks as if she would be

only too happy to make the plush leather rear seat of the limo her

permanent address. He splits his focus between his driving, which must

be flawless, and the headlights looking back at him in the mirror. His

mood is ironclad. His elation will not be burst by the proximity of his

nemesis. He cannot wipe the grin from his face. He switches on the car

radio and cranks the volume to full blast. He starts singing as loud as the

radio. He has never higher in his whole life, including his short foray

into the world of recreational drugs and opiates.

The pillars under his emotional cloud is the secret he plays over and over in his head. The massive land yacht he is piloting effortlessly through

the tangle of city streets, carrying them to their separate destinies, is

equipped with a state-of-the-art anti-theft system. Which at this very

moment is beaming a constant stream of electrons to every police station

within a five mile radius, alerting the lumbering lawmen in no uncertain

terms that it, a monumental vessel of obscene opulence, is being operated

by a person or persons unauthorized to be doing so. And considering the

extent of the owner’s connections in the worlds of power and civil

authority, it best behooves the police to come to its immediate rescue,

post most haste.

* * * * *

The detective’s squad room is no exception. The alarm bells are

sounding. One of the more clever inhabitants stuffs a wad of paper between the bell and clapper, thereby handling the emergency in a timely

and efficient manner. But not before the wiry desk sergeant gets wind of

the racket. He calls the lady detective on her mobile phone.

* * * * *

The detective is stuck in traffic, supposedly on her way home from the

worst night of her life. The sergeant on the phone thinks it might just be

56



the fabled car thief, who has been lying low for a few months now. But

tonight, the wily rogue is back at his usual games, in spades. It’s curious

to both the detective and the sergeant that the thief would be unaware of

the silent alarm system and the ensuing army of cops it will bring down

on him. It’s very much unlike him to be looking for trouble in such an

amateurish way.

The news that the chase is back on helps to deflect her pain a bit, at least

for the moment. Without checking her mirrors, she pulls a quick U-turn.

She floors the throttle, burning rubber and sending up plumes of smoke in

her wake. These actions aren’t strictly necessary, seeing as how she

doesn’t know as yet what direction she’s supposed to be heading. But itsure felt good to do something she’s always dreamed of doing since the

first time she saw a cop car burn-out in the movies. The shocked

bystanders and fellow motorists stare after in complete amazement.

Such a display of wanton horsepower is a first for them as well.

She stays online with the sergeant who fills her in on details as they come

in. The thought that she might actually bag this bad boy wipes away the

last of her heartache. The second the sergeant gives her the whereabouts

and direction of the limo, the batteries on her phone run dead. She looks

at it with a mixture of annoyance and mischief. She opens her window

and carelessly tosses the useless thing out into the street. She hears it

crash to the pavement behind her speeding car and smash into a thousand

tiny pieces as she starts to close the window.

She stops rolling it up and opens the window all the way. The coolevening air feels good caressing the side of her face. It helps wash away

some of the burning emotions left over from the thief’s apartment. She

pictures him in her mind’s eye, crumpled into a tight ball in the darkest

corner of his glorious bedroom, weeping uncontrollably for the stupidity

of his callousness and the loss of the only true woman who will love him

forever for who he really is and not for his fame and fortune.

When her mind clears a little, a sudden pang of recognition stabs her in

57



the gut. The limo seems to be heading straight for the movie studios.

The very same studio complex she was at earlier this evening.

Something is very wrong and she has to take a long and deep breath of

fresh air, and hold it until she’s about to pass out to control her worst

suspicions. She hates to admit it to herself that there have been tiny

worms wiggling in the back of her mind about the thief and his

miraculous, mysterious appearance into the world of riches and fawning

love from millions of adoring fans.

Out of normal curiosity, she ran a background check on the thief. When

it came back blank as a white sheet of paper she put that down to the fact

that the name he’s using is a stage name, and not his birth name. At anyof hundreds of opportunities she could have swiped a glass or a comb and

sent it off for fingerprint analysis. But her love for him forbade her from

this most dastardly of deeds. Something he mentioned in passing lead

her to think he is from a small village somewhere in the north, near the

borders with one of the nation’s neighbors. On more than one occasion

she’s had to suppress her uneasiness about his apparent lack of family

and education. Those are two subjects he avoids talking about with

consummate skill. Of course, pushing her curiosity to the back of her

mind is an easy thing to do when those amazing eyes of his were wrapped

so tightly around her heart.

She pulls into a gas station and jogs inside. She flashes her badge and

tells the clerk she has to make an emergency phone call. The hard edge

in her voice leaves no room for argument. The somewhat nervous clerk

pulls the phone from under the counter and places it in front of her. Ittakes her a couple of thundering heartbeats to remember the number to

her precinct house. After all, it’s programmed into her cell phone, which

is now strewn along some forgotten boulevard somewhere out in the dark.

The clerk eyes her suspiciously until a paying customer walks up to the

counter. As soon as the clerks glaring eyes are off her she remembers

the number and dials. When the sergeant answers, she tells him to call

off the troops, tells him to hold them back until she has a chance to check

out the circumstances first. Considering the thief’s skills, it’s highly

58



likely this is a false alarm or screw up with the alarm itself. Best to wait

and see, she assures the nodding desk sergeant. He agrees.

* * * * *

Behind him, the chief of detectives has been eavesdropping on the

conversation and trusting his gut instincts, nods his assent to the sergeant

who tells the lady detective that she has made a good point. If it does

turn out to be the thief, he cautions, don’t do anything until backup

arrives. They’ll be waiting for her call. She agrees.

* * * * *

If it weren’t for the view of the world moving past outside the car’s tinted

windows, the Mercedes glides so smoothly it’s virtually impossible to

sense movement. The thief is at the pinnacle of his emotions. He’s

flying high on the rush of adrenaline surging through his veins. The idea

of what is about to go down, his feelings for the lady detective, the music

cranked to the max, the dazzling array of city lights in downtown

Bangkok, makes his high so intense he completely forgets about the

burglar’s girlfriend sitting quietly in the shadows of the back seat. The

only thing on his mind is his plan.

The girlfriend sits in stony silence. She can’t take her eyes off the back

of the thief’s head. A feeling of dread has wrenched her stomach into a

knot. She knows the burglar is following them with a carload of the

toughest thugs he could find. She knows something bad is going tohappen pretty soon.

The limo takes the last turn and pulls to a stop at the studio gates.

They’re closed due to the lateness of the hour. Normally, during

working hours the gates are open. The two guards are quite accustomed

to seeing such grand autos arriving at all hours of the day and night, so

they snap to it. The first one out of the guard shack walks over to the

driver’s window and leans down to inquire the nature of their business.

59



To his knowledge, none of the studio bosses is on the lot, or expected that

evening. But surprise visits are not uncommon, so this should be a

routine greeting. When the window glides open, it takes the guard a

second or two before he recognizes the thief. He can’t stop himself from

asking why a shiny new movie star is driving such a car.

The thief explains that the girl in the back is a very famous, very

eccentric French film actress who has an urgent appointment with the

head of the studios. It is vital that he meets her before she flies back to

Paris. The guard nods knowingly and signals them through. The gates

swing open and the Mercedes glides inside.

The gates begin to swing shut. Just as they are about to close, a second

car comes screeching around the corner and crashes headlong into them.

The gates are bent and twisted off their hinges and fall open at odd

looking angles. The guard who spoke with the thief is thrown back and

knocked to the ground while the invading car has to spin its wheels in

reverse, trying to get itself untangled from the mangled wrought iron

gates.

The second guard rushes out of the shack. He runs over to help his mate

and tells him the studio boss is out of the country, so there can be no such

appointment. The first guard grunts and jumps to his feet. He’s glad to

be uninjured, even though his uniform is soiled and torn. He pulls his

gun and starts shooting.

* * * * *

The thief pulls the long car up behind the studio office tower where he

knows the money is waiting. Locks mean nothing to him. He’s inside

the back hallways in no time at all. With all due deliberation, he makes

his way up to the top floor, toward the office suite of the studio’s owner.

He chooses to pay no heed to the girlfriend following close on his heels.

Maybe if he ignores her long enough she’ll give up and go away, he

smiles to himself. But she doesn’t make it easy.

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The girlfriend is making a tiny, soft whimpering sound, an uncontrollable

unconscious reaction to the danger. The sound of it is beginning to

annoy the thief. He hisses at her to shut up or he’ll lock her in a closet

and leave her there. In blissful silence, they keep moving.

* * * * *

At the gate, the first guard has managed to shoot out the back glass of the

car. The gets free, lurches back and swerves dangerously, nearly going

out of control.

Just then, the lady detective screeches to a stop in her car, just behind the

two guards.

Startled and frightened, they both swivel around. Believing they’re

being attacked from behind, they open fire.

The detective is in her private vehicle, with no police markings or

flashing lights to alert the guards to her identity. So they have no way of

knowing that she isn’t part of these weird circumstances, movie stars

driving stretch limos filled with French starlets, crazed madmen crashing

into their gates and now this. It’s all too much for them to comprehend,

what with guns being fired and all.

The detective ducks down behind the dashboard. She scrambles for her

purse, spilling all its contents on the floorboards. In her frenzy, sheknocks her revolver under the passenger seat where she can’t reach it.

She curses her clumsiness out loud. She searches her spilled things for

her cell phone, but again has to curse herself. This time for her stupidity.

She feels a degree better when she remembers the batteries were dead

anyway. But this doesn’t fix the fix she’s in.

As quickly as they began, the bullets ricocheting off her car stop. She

hears gunshots coming from somewhere else, and not at her. She

61



pavement. She’s breathing as fast as her lungs will take in air. The rush

of full-blown panic, on top of her survival instincts kicking in, the intense

thrill of gunplay, combined with the emotional wreckage from earlier and

the dread certainty that the thief is somehow at the heart of all this have

exhausted her. She feels as if she’ll never be able to lift her arms off the

dirt, let alone get up and walk away from here. It’s too much for her

wounded mind to bear, but she must.

She leans over and asks the guards if there’s a phone in their shack.

Without waiting for an answer, she tells one of them to call a number.

Before she repeats the number, she decides she should do the calling.

She finds her badge and flips it out onto the tarmac. It lands open andface up. The guards see she’s a cop and help her to her feet. Slowly,

dizzily, she follow them to the little building they call their office. In all

this, the two guards don’t say a word. They’re pretty much overwhelmed

as well.

The call made, she takes a quiet moment to reload her pistol. She’s a bit

upset with herself for not carrying more ammunition. One of the guards

pulls a clip from his personal bag under the counter, but it’s immediately

apparent the bullets are the wrong caliber. They smile at each other.

* * * * *

The burglar pulls his car to screeching halt when he spots the limo. He

and the remaining two men enter the building through the back door,

which is still slightly ajar. The burglar doesn’t take the time to questionthis little stroke of luck. He’s never been lured up a garden path before,

and doesn’t suspect anything.

* * * * *

Crouching, the detective makes her way through the now familiar

landscape. When the lone gunman trips on something in the dark, he

falls to the ground in a loud clatter of metal. The detective spins, her gun

63



up, the flash of muzzle fire illuminating her face like a lethal strobe light.

The gunman is hit in the chest. He slumps forward and falls across the

tangle of metal that brought him down. He’s wounded, but still alive.

He quickly loses consciousness. The detective checks his pulse and

pockets the man’s gun. Assured he won’t be running off any time soon,

she leaves him there.

When she finds the two cars awash in the beam of soft yellow light

streaming from the open door, she stops. She has to lean against the

building to catch her breath. She checks the gunman’s pistol. It’s

empty. She throws it to the ground with the distinct clatter only gunsmake when they fall. Her momentary fascination is split open by the

distant sound of police sirens floating through the air. The sound carries

the promise of help soon to arrive. Maybe too soon for her liking.

She decides not to wait. Carefully, she slips into the building. The

hallway is empty.

* * * * *

In the semi-dark penthouse, the thief has located the safe and has

managed to get it open. There, inside where it was meant to be, it is, all

in neat little bundles, each wearing its own little paper waistband, all

stacked in neat little piles in neat little rows, is a stash of money the likes

of which neither the thief nor the girlfriend has ever laid eyes on before.

It takes their breath away. The interior of the safe is illuminated, makingthe display that much more spectacular.

Without realizing what she’s doing, the girlfriend slips her hand into the

thief’s. It’s another of her instinctive reactions. This time, to the sight

of so much cash money, all in one place, and so close they could reach

out and touch it, if they wanted that is. Right there, in front of them, so

much potential happiness, lying there, waiting to be taken away, waiting

to be theirs. Neither of them hears the burglar slip into the room behind

64



them. It’s extremely hard for them to look away from the loot.

The burglar stops just in side the doorway. He leans back against the

doorframe. He sees the two of them, standing across the room, facing

away from him, staring at what he takes to be the grand prize they’re all

after, hand in hand.

Hand in hand.

Calmly, he raises his gun. Without even a split second’s delay, he fires

one shot, straight between his girlfriend’s shoulder blades. The bullet

explodes from between her breasts in an eruption of blood. She dropslike a stone.

Bits of flesh and blood splatter everywhere. The thief is hit with his

share. He hits the deck, but there’s nowhere to hide from the burglar’s

hand cannon.

Just then, gunfire breaks out from behind the burglar, who was not

expecting company. He spins around.

The thief dashes for the boss’s desk. Once upon a time he thought the all

glass edifice to power was a thing of breathtaking beauty. Now he

wishes it was an old-fashioned oak monstrosity with enough drawers that

surely one would be big enough, and deep enough to hide him from the

crazed killer somewhere behind him. Cringing behind polished and

beveled glass is not the most effective way of avoiding detection byarmed murderers.

When he can, he wipes the blood and viscera from his eyes. He can hear

sirens, faintly, approaching outside the glass wall quivering with his

reflection. He’s not sure if they’re still a long way off, or that the gawd-

awful building is just so high it makes the sound seem that way. He’s

damn sure not happy to be looking at himself in the wall, as it were.

65



The burglar looks back over his shoulder to make sure he hasn’t lost track

of the thief. Their eyes meet in the wall of shiny black glass. But his

interest can’t linger, he has to return to the business at hand. Whoever it

is out there has already taken out one of his men. The third has decided

that escape is the better part of survival. His footsteps can be heard

running down another hallway, then clumping down the stairwell. The

remaining labyrinth of corridors and offices are all dead quiet and

blackened for the still of the night. Or so it was meant to be.

Back in the office, the thief looks down to discover a small nickel-plated

pistol in his hand. At first, he has no idea how it got there, then he

remembers seeing it in the safe alongside the cash. He must havegrabbed it before he dived to the floor. He smiles at his own bit of

cleverness, then starts shooting at the burglar. The little gun has a

surprising kick for something so petite.

The burglar fires a potshot at the thief without turning to look. He has to

keep his eyes glued to the mystery man in the hall who has trapped him

alone in the office.

The thief fires twice more.

The burglar, enraged at this interruption, turns to kill the thief once and

for all. When he does, the thief fires and the bullet hits the burglar right

in the eye. As the burglar falls, slipping down the doorframe as his legs

give way beneath him, his hand spasms and the gun in his hand goes off

one last time.

The detective is hit in the stomach. She looks down at the blood gushing

from the black hole in her belly as her knees begin to buckle. She falls

to the floor where she is, in slow motion. Her gun falls from her hand

and ends up buried under her legs, out of reach for the helpless

policewoman. She can’t take her eyes off the growing spot of red

soaking the front of her blouse. The last of her strength is draining away

with her lifeblood, like runoff after a cloudburst. A calm, peaceful look

66



comes across her face. She feels warm inside, as if she were lying in her

bed back when she was a little girl, snug in her favorite blanket, getting

ready to slips off into a deep relaxing sleep.

Without knowing where, or how, they came from, a pair of feet wearing

gorgeous shoes appear in front of her eyes. The shoes are so stunning,

she refuses to blink or look away. Everywhere else in her field of view,

the floor is littered with spent cartridge shells and guns. Her interest in

them is strictly clinical, like she’s outside watching a zookeeper counting

his animals. She makes no moves to reach for one.

The feet walk away. When they get far enough from her, she can seethey belong to the thief, her thief, her lover, her only lover. Her heart is

crushed. She begins to sob silently.

The thief, having emptied the tiny silver gun he grabbed from the safe, is

now picking up gun after gun, looking for one with a bullet left in it.

When he sees that they all look to be empty, he throws them down in

disgust.

In a final gesture of bravado, the detective tries to get up. As she does,

she rolls onto her back. Her entire front is soaked with blood. The gun

under her legs is revealed. She tries reaching for it, but the thief is too

fast for her. As her fingers strain to clutch at her revolver, the thief

snatches it away from her. He checks the chamber.

The thief smiles at the irony of it all.

Slowly, deliberately, he walks over to where the only love he’s ever felt,

and his potential captor lies bleeding on the parquet floor. He stops in

front her. Standing, he towers over her. He raises the gun straight at

her.

Hearing his approach, she rolls her head to the side. The beautiful shoes

have reappeared. Such handsome footwear. Such a shame. At last she

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blinks her eyes. The pain in her eyes, dried in spite of her tears, is

searing. Such beautiful shoes. What might have been . . .

The gun’s hammer makes a pair of sharp click, like two loud claps of

nearby thunder, as it’s being pulled back into full firing position.

The detective closes her eyes. In a whisper, she asks him not to kill her.

Cut to black.

* * * * *

Back at the apartment, the actor begins to come to. His head is

pounding. When he tries to lift it, he’s stopped. He can’t pull his head

up from the floor. His hair is matted in the fuzzy dried pool of blood that

comes into his peripheral view. He and his magnificent locks are caked

to his poor ruined carpet. He cries out in rage at the idea of it being so

spoiled. Such beauty wasted, destroyed, lost, and at prices very few

people would believe possible. The thought of his ruined rug rips his

heart to pieces.

With a considerable amount of pain and screaming, he finally manages to

free himself. More than half the hair on that side of his head has been

ripped out by the roots. Ridges of blackened dried blood are pasted

down his face like some asymmetrical space alien. He can’t open his left

eye. He sits up, exhausted, heartbroken and crying. The pain from his

head almost causes him to swoon once again. To keep from passing out,he attempts to stand. But his legs have left the building, so he resorts to

crawling.

He makes it over to the couch, where he pulls himself in a great display

of courage. Only one problem, no one is in the room to applaud his

magnificent efforts. Forgetting that quickly enough, he realizes he needs

serious help. He nearly falls to the floor time and again as he makes his

way to the apartment door, then out into the hall.

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Not wanting to besmirch the glistening clean walls of the corridor outside

the lover’s den where he once dreamed of raptures unbound and

splendors that will never be with the most gloriously perfect beauty of his

wanton life, not to mention the indignant condemnation he would receive

from his neighbors for spoiling their pristine environment, he musters his

remaining reserves of strength and stumbles to the door two down from

his own. Managing the most heart-wrenching prat-fall of his long and

illustrious career before the camera, a fall worthy of an Oscar of its own,

he lets his body collapse, with full sonic effect, against the polished teak

and chrome door.

His performance in the hall succeeds in sending the apartment’s occupant

into a complete shrieking frenzy. Flitting and flapping in every direction

but up, the tiny frail jittery little man in the apartment finally opens the

door.

The very old, very shriveled up wisp of a man appears looking straight

ahead. At first he doesn’t see the actor prostrate on the floor at his

gristly old feet. He pulls his robe tighter around his pencil-thin frame.

He attempts to take a step forward and kicks the actor in the ear. The

actor shouts in mock pain. The old man jumps back in total shock.

The actor is lying there, splotches of raw white skin all over his scalp,

splotches of dried blood everywhere to be seen, whimpering like a mangy

street dog out in the rain, looking at the ugliest feet he’s ever seen in his

life. He doesn’t say anything, though, because he is more than familiar with the ugly feet and their owner. This is hardly the first time he’s been

in such proximity to them in the past, for a veritable plethora of reasons.

He knows his appearance and performance are guaranteed to win the man

over.

The little man is less than bowled over at the lump of flesh at his door,

once again. He asks in a bored tone what kind of a mess the actor has

gotten himself into this time, then calls him a faggot. He wheels about

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and retreats into his apartment. He comments over his shoulder that he’s

seen the actor in worse shape and that if he wants to come and clean up,

well do so, damn it. He curses the actor for messing up the corridor, still

without turning back to see if the actor can stand or not.

The actor calls him ‘Girl’ and asks for help. He genuinely needs it.

The little man breaks down his mask and rushes back to help the fallen

actor. He bends down and with all his tiny might, he helps the poor

bedraggled, much deflated actor inside. This is by no means the first

time this scene has been played out.

Fade to black.

-- FIN --

* * * * *

But not quite.

Final credits begin to roll.

* * * * *

The final credits roll all the way to the copyright. The screen goes black,

when suddenly a hospital room appears.

The detective’s sister is helping the detective into a wheelchair to wheel

her out of the hospital.

When the two emerge on the hospital steps, into a glorious sunny day,

skies bluer than blue, a gentle breeze tossing the detectives hair, they

stop. Waiting for them outside are the detectives from her station and

the Chief of Detectives, to welcome her back with a cheer.

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* * * * *

Meanwhile, the actor has moved into the apartment down the hall to rest

and recuperate out of the limelight, as it were, and not for the first time.

His neighbor is nothing if the essence of discretion. There’s a full size,

full color framed poster of the thief hanging over the bed on the wall in

the bedroom. The actor rips it down, smashes the glass into a million

splinters and tears the poster in as many pieces before breaking down in

tears.

* * * * *

The inmates in a minimum security prison are being let into the dining

hall for lunch. The thief, dressed casually in his prison uniform, is sitting

down for a hearty meal. He’s surrounded on all sides by his fellow

convicts. He stares at the awful food on his tray, unable to put the sight

of all that money out of his mind. He sighs and picks up his fork. No

one around him cares one bit.

Fade to black.

– FIN –

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Extracted Story Treatment

The film opens:

A somewhat handsome looking, young man is strolling casually down a

busy, noisy street somewhere in the heart of Bangkok. No one notices

him sweeping the area with his eyes, scanning the endless column of

parked cars, looking for a likely target. He sees what he's looking for, a

bright shiny, brand spanking new BMW sports coupe. He wants it, andhas the skills to make it his. As his years of training have taught him, he

has to keep an eye out for the enemy, the cops.

Sure enough, a group of four of them are standing around in an informal

group, shooting the breeze, way over on the opposite of a busy, four lane

thoroughfare, packed with cars zooming in every direction but up.

After calculating the odds, he walks straight to the car and in half the blink of an eye, the door is jimmied open and the engine is fired to life.

What he didn't factor into his criminal equation is the local reaction to the

alarm. Vendors and shopkeepers begin pouring out their stores at the

sound of the car alarm and start pummeling him with all manner of flying

objects.

Two of the cops start trying desperately to duck and weave their way

across mid-day traffic, while the other two are mounting their police

motorcycles. The thief abandons the car and takes off running as fast as

his legs will carry him, down the side street the car is parked on. As he

zigs and zags through the normal straggle of pedestrians and window

shoppers, he sees a large crowd of gawkers up ahead, looking intently at

something beyond them. He decides they're the best cover at hand, like a

tree hiding in the forest. When he looks back over his shoulder, the men

with the guns and badges are huffing and puffing, running in hisdirection, and they see him looking at back at them.

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The thief slams headlong into the mass of bodies, jamming and

shimmying himself deeper with all the strength he can muster. The thief

bursts out the front of the crowd, and directly into a film production being

shot on the streets of Bangkok. He thief isn't watching where he's going

when he crashes straight into a group of actors playing a scene for the

umpteenth time. They're all knocked to the ground. A mature actor in

the middle of the group is sent flying, like a stunt man. The other actors

in the scene, have to hide their faces to keep from being seen smirking.

The actor, the star of the film, shoots them a look that would freeze

vodka.

The director yells 'CUT!' The film's producer comes flying out of his

chair in a flaming rage when he gets to the scene of the crime. He

glares, nose to nose, at the intruder like he wants to rip out his throat.

His shouting is louder than a car alarm. The crowd roars with glee.

The thief is paralyzed with fear. Everyone else quickly backs away.

Except the star, who has regained both his feet and his loathing for the

producer. His killer instincts are driving him to come to the aid of the

clumsy interloper. When he actually sees the young car thief, he is

instantly taken with the boy's smoldering goods looks, and the air of

danger that radiates from him.

The actor launches a diatribe of invectives at the producer, who

completely ignores the star, until he hears a threat he is very familiar

with, and just as afraid of. The star, the hero of the film, demands that

the boy be written into the film immediately, or else he'll walk off the setand right out of the production. The producer is instantly shocked into

silence. He knows that the aging screen idol not only means what he

says, but has the clout to make it happen. He retreats, slinking away in

defeat from this battle. As he passes, the producer snaps at the director

to reset the shot and shoot the scene again, pronto!

The star coos at the thief, virtually quivering with lust, asking him if he

needs anything. Thinking quick on his feet is one of the thief 's best

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qualities. He asks for a moustache. Oh, and becoming a movie star

would be pretty cool too, he adds just for the fun of it. In an instant,

wardrobe, makeup and props are all over the boy, outfitting him with a

completely different look, not to mention arming him with a rubber

AK47. Before he's called to his mark, the star winks at the thief, saying

he'll look into the second request.

An assistant director yanks the thief by the arm, talking a blue streak as

they cross the street, telling him where he is to stand and how he's

supposed to fall when he's shot. A few hands reach out from the crowd

to pat him on the shoulder. He barely comprehends when the director

shouts "ACTION!".

Meanwhile, the four policemen have joined up to watch the action.

When the director yell 'CUT!' they elbow their way onto the set. They

walk right past the thief. After all, how could it be that a working actor

can be a bad guy on the run? Cool as can be, the thief takes a drag from

his cigarette and watches as the cops make a cursory search the location.

After a couple of minutes, the cops leave. The thief takes a deep breath.

When the director finally wraps shooting for the day, the thief watches,

mildly curious, taking a minute or two to consider his next move. He

lives wherever he drops his hat, so he's in no hurry to go back out on the

streets. He lights another cigarette and lets his mind drift along with the

flow of the work going on around him. His reverie is shattered when a

hand firmly clamps onto his shoulder from behind. He's startled, sure it's

the cops.

The voice of the star sets him somewhat at ease, wanting to know if it's

true, that he arrived on the set running from the police. The thief shrugs.

He asks if the thief has a place to stay. Again, the thief just shrugs. So

the star offers to help him break into a legitimate business, showbiz that

is, and offers him an apartment to live in if he needs a place to stay for a

while. The thief turns to look the star in the eye, and shrugs. As they

walk off the set, to an awaiting limo, he assures the kid that he is sure to

74



be a big star, with his help, of course. He wants to touch the boy so

much, he's actually trembling with desire, but he resists the temptation.

The apartment turns out to be high up on one of the top floors of a

towering spike of polished steel and blacked out glass, with a panoramic

view of the cityscape that is truly breathtaking. Humble it ain't. The

thief is even more at a loss for words at the idea of hiding out here.

* * * * *

A somewhat pretty young lady walks into the police station and asks the

desk sergeant to point out the way to the Chief of Detective's office. Atfirst the gruff little man behind the ratty old desk that serves as his

fortress bristles at her request, assuming she's just some bit of fluff off the

street with a petty complaint he's more than capable of dispatching. The

girl insists with an air of impatience and boldness that prompts the desk

sergeant to leap from his rickety wooden chair, sprint around his desk and

come face to face with the audacious tart demanding entrance to the

holiest of all sanctums, the detective's room up on the second floor.

Thanks to the icy stare she has learned to affect to cover her true

emotions, the little sergeant can't see just how petrified she is inside.

The stony hardness in her eyes serves its purpose, and moments later

she's standing in front of another desk, this time with a genuine look of

terror on her face. Without a word from either, the girl hands her papers

over the desk to the Chief. The girl is the first female police officer to

graduate from university with a degree in criminal justice, and thus thefirst of her gender to earn the rank of detective. And now she's standing

here, praying like hell that her knees don't give out. She concentrates on

remaining upright.

The Chief, a lethally quiet cop from the old school, grudgingly accepts

that she's going to be one of his flock of misfits, so he shows her around

the squad room. In the blink of an eye, a thick, dog-eared, coffee stained

file is dropped with a weary thud unceremoniously on her greasy, much-

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scarred new desk. Everyone turns their backs on her. No one says

hello.

The case concerns a car thief, personal data unknown, who graduated

from the occasional joy ride in a hot-wired tuk-tuk in the rice lands of the

rural northern provinces, to boosting nothing but top of the line

automobiles here in the capital city. He's been at it for the better part of

ten years without a single arrest despite his MO of only stealing cars in

broad daylight while they're parked on busy, downtown streets. She

knows she will either earn her bones with this case. Or else she’ll end up

at the bottom of the food chain for the rest of her days as the city’s first

lady detective.

Her first day on the job finally over and done with, the detective runs to

the shelter of her apartment as fast as her little car will carry her. Inside

at long last, she drops her bag with a hard thump and lets herself crumple

to the floor. Her sister is in the kitchen fixing dinner, while her young

niece is sprawled on the nice cool hardwood floor, coloring a picture in

her latest coloring book.

This has been the absolute worst day of her life, being stuck with a dozen

surly gorillas who would be just as happy to eat her for lunch as have her

run away in terror. She lets it all come flooding out, tears turning to

sludge on her cheeks, her hands lying lifeless at her sides like a couple of

dead fish, the pain in her lower back threatening to burst into open flames

at any second. Without looking up or missing a stroke, the little girl in

the hallway gets up, walks over and settles herself in the detective's lapand again, not a word spoken, and the crayons are moving briskly back

and forth, spreading bright colors inside the lines on the book's pages.

* * * * *

When he hears the sound of a door opening in the next room, the thief

wakes up with a start. He quickly throws back the rumpled red silk bed

sheets and leaps from the huge circular bed, searching for his clothes.

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He's confused and a little frightened. Pulling up his pants as he enters

the main living area of the magnificent bachelor pad, the thief looks up to

see the actor, grinning like the Cheshire cat, dangling a set of shiny new

car keys, on a diamond key chain, from his well manicured fingers.

Downstairs, in the underground parking garage, the thief finds himself

standing in car booster heaven. One night alone in here, among a virtual

menagerie of the finest and most expensive motoring machines ever

crafted by the hand of man, and he could be one of the richest men in all

of Thailand. The actor mistakes the thief's obvious excitement as being

for himself, especially when he silently points to a sparkling, brand new

Beemer coupe. The thief is fully aware of how the game works, and isnot in the least hesitant in reaching for the keys. The actor looks

somewhat crushed when the thief says he'd like to take his new wheels

out for a test ride, rather than going back upstairs to celebrate the start of

his new life with the crest fallen star.

The movie-going world knows the star as a rough tough macho action

hero, who never hesitates to go up against the most dastardly of villains,

the more the merrier, master of all weapons and forms of man-to-man

combat. The actor's reward, the prettiest girl in the film is his dewy-eyed

love slave. Little does his network of loving fans realize where his eye,

and heart, truly wanders.

* * * * *

The thief wheels his new ride into the alley where he normally stashes his purloined cars before he can dispose of them. He is unaccustomed to

driving a car he hasn't stolen. He chuckles at the fact that he has never

owned a car of his own in his life, or applied for a driver's license either,

for that matter. Setting a car alarm, as opposed to dismantling one, is

another first for him.

Outside the chipped and scarred door of the cheap crib, he takes a deep

breath, holds it a beat and a half, and then lets it out in a stream through

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his pursed lips, like he's blowing an unseen trumpet. Very much the

same way he performs his pre-theft routine whenever he goes out to

snatch another car. He long ago lost the ecstasy of love he felt for cars

that made him want to steal them in the first place. Now it's strictly a

matter of cash flow and the economic realities of life. A lump of

loneliness has been slowly growing in his gut, like a tumor, for the last

few years. His hand moves to the doorknob. Slowly he twists it. The

door swings inward. He steps inside.

The odor of rancid cigarette smoke and spilled liquor in the filthy rooms

is almost nauseating. Not a sound, no music, or footsteps, or snoring,

nothing disturbs the dry smoky air. His clothes and junk are still heapedin the corner where he left them. He looks around for something to carry

them in. His host's girlfriend's oversized canvas purse is lying on the

floor in the front room.

The guy who rents the place is a hardened criminal, a lifelong burglar,

armed robber and strong-arm man. The only person he really cares about

is himself, not even his girlfriend, if the truth be told. She is his

property. He carries a loaded gun at all times, and isn't the slightest bit

hesitant to use it, especially if he suspects someone is trying to make off

with something that belongs to him, including his girlfriend.

Just as he reaches for the bag, the door swings open. In walks the

girlfriend. The thief takes the old purse and turns for the bedroom. If

she's happy to see him, she doesn't show it. Feelings have been growing

between them for a while now, even before he moved in with her and he boyfriend. He's known her for a while, but in all that time he's never

made a move on her. She asks him if he's leaving. He grunts a quick

answer. When he finally makes it to the door, eyes meet eyes, briefly,

but lips never move.

* * * * *

The star treatment begins in spades. The senior actor has succeeded in

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casting him in the role of a spoiled Thai boy, from an extremely wealthy

family in Bangkok, who has just returned from England where he flunked

out of all the finest schools Britain has to offer. He must be completely

transformed, from the street to the penthouse. It's not easy for him. It

goes against the grain of his basic nature, but slowly he begins to show

signs that he might just get the hang of it. Hour after hour, in studio after

studio, hair, makeup, wardrobe, elocution, dance classes, which they

insist are essential for learning to fall the right way when he's hit by

gunfire, the pampering and massaging of his image and mannerisms goes

on and on, from morning to night. The thief perseveres, happy to be out

of the line of fire for the time being.

* * * * *

A week later, on her drive to work, the new lady detective gets an idea

about where to start on the case. She has decided that the illusive car

thief is hers, and hers alone. If the thief was last seen running hell-bent-

for-leather down a tiny side street, straight into a movie production

company shooting scenes for an upcoming feature film, then vanishing

into thin air. It stands to reason that someone connected to the movie

company had to have seen something, heard something, or knew

something. She decides the company headquarters are the best place to

start her investigation.

Her secret sin is her obsession with all things to do with the movies.

After the death of her mother, the small movie theater in her village was

the only oasis of calmness and comfort available for her and her younger sister. People who know and love her describe her as a star-gazer

extrordinaire and a movie nut of the first order.

She can recount every detail of every thing that ever happened to her, in

complete and excruciating detail. That not only includes movie trivia,

but every moment, of every day of her life, almost all the way back to her

birth. Her incredible faculty for remembering everything, down to the

tiniest detail, is the reason she was recommended for the detective squad

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in the first place.

When the guard at the gate asks what business she has with the studio,

she flashes her detective's badge. The guard gives her quick salute and

steps back. She gets a tiny flash of pride at his reaction to her display of

authority. Her sister derides the studio as 'the temple of glitterati and

tinsel', but for the detective, it feels more like walking into a dream

factory. She has to struggle triple hard controlling her nervousness as

she mounts the front steps. She swallows, hard.

Upstairs, the detective is bounced from office to office, like some hapless

ping-pong ball, from make-up studio to sound stage, from wardrobe to props, post production, pre-production, and all point in between, back and

forth and back again. She winds up feeling dizzy, like a shuttlecock in a

mad hatter's game of badminton. 'Yeah I was there . . . well, maybe I

was there . . . let me just check my schedule . . . oh I'm so sorry, my girl's

out right now . . . I'll get right back to you . . . I'll call you . . . we'll do

lunch . . . wait, on second thought I was having lunch with Cee El that

day . . . yeah I'm sure about that . . . but I'll confirm that with you the

second my girl gets back . . . so if you'll excuse me . . . blah . . . blah . . .

blah de blah'. 'Gotta run, sweetie, I'm running late . . . I'll call ya soon as

I can, bye now.'

After being numbed into a virtual stupor by all the non-talk one woman

can bear, the detective's brain is almost fried to a crisp. She decides to

pick one last door on the corridor she happens to be on, drop in

unannounced and see what line of crap they'll try to feed her. She flips acoin in her mind, grabs the first doorknob she comes to and walks inside,

bold as brass.

The office is a living biography, the actor's life as observed in object d'art.

The walls of the outer office are plastered from floor to ceiling with

glossy photos, original ad artwork and one sheets from movies starring

her favorite actor, 'the Asian James Bond'.

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She hears someone moving about in the inner office. The door is open

only a crack, making it impossible to see who it is. She is expecting

another of the endless parade of overworked, underpaid office girls in

jeans and tee shirts to appear, when a figure she recognizes stops a few

feet in front of her. She can't believe she's standing there, in that room,

only inches from the icon of her fantasies.

Accustomed with such behavior, the actor is content to get the ball rolling

and attempt to revive the bambi frozen in the headlamps of his gaze. At

first, the actor is the ultimate in suave and gallant, turning his charm on

full blast. The very air around him seems to shimmer. His silky smooth

patter is working like magic until she reaches into her handbag, exposingher service revolver, pulls out her shield and musters the courage to

identify herself. As quickly as the actor's charm can be switched on, his

bitchy nastiness is much quicker to surface, like a stiletto knife flicking

open.

She's been his biggest fan as long as she can remember, and is more than

taken a little aback by the sudden shape-shift in his demeanor. What was

it that could incite the beloved screen idol into becoming so instantly

vicious, filled with such intense venom for her, is a complete and soul

withering mystery to her.

Now, standing here, in his very own offices, face to face with the person

he dreads and despises the most, a police person, the whole sordid affair

of his boyhood criminal past as a bicycle thief is suddenly brought back

in full four color Technicolor. His head is starting to spin. His high blood pressure is pounding in his ears. The mark of guilt branded on his

fragile psyche is threatening to pull his legs right out from under him.

He stumbles over to the chair behind his girl's desk and slumps down in it

like a wet sack of potatoes. He clenches his hands together in front of

himself on the secretary's desk. He fixes his eyes in a straight line and

stares at them hoping against hope that when he looks up the demon of

his nightmares will have disappeared like a bad headache after a couple

of those wonderful pills the doctor his last lover recommended gave him.

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The idea of this tiny little cop lady, standing there all high and mighty,

come to make him pay yet again for his worst sins, has not only incensed

him, it has also done what hundreds of armed assassins and murdering

psychopaths have failed to. She has completely knocked the stuffing

right out of him. He has to press his knees together painfully hard to

keep his bladder from exploding all over the room.

Meanwhile, the detective is in a complete state of confusion. She can't

take her eyes off the man at the desk, her idol, her hero, glaring his hands

as though he might at any instant jump up and pummel her into a pulp,

the way he has so many times to the bad guys of the world.

t.b.c.

Monday, July 05, 2004

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Star Thief Final

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