PART ELEVEN

Kitty sat at a table, outside a Star Bucks watching attractive people pretend not to see the homeless guy panhandling at the corner. She wondered where to go now that her apartment was gone. There was still the chance the Hollywood dream thing would come through. Modeling was still an option. She had good skin, great cheeks and a hard body she kept trimmed at the gym. The girls were still pert. Full enough that augmentation had never been a consideration.

Her cell phone rang. She looked at it, sitting on the little round patio table, beside her double latte with cinnamon and her low-cal chocolate eclair.

The two aging starlets at the table near the sidewalk looked over and glowered at her, then went back to complaining about their unfaithful husbands. They tactfully avoid admitting that they'd each fucked the other's spouse.

Kitty didn't recognize the number on her phone screen. She answered prepared to hang up if it was the Producer.

"Hello Kitty," the familiar voice from her past said.

"How'd you get this number?"

"You know we can do anything we want, Kitty."

She knew it was true. She'd seen her ex-boss casually comment about a situation on the other side of the world. The next day people were dead. Or wished they were.

"Slackbacker's causing trouble," her ex-boss said. "We need you! There is an envelope with money and a plane ticket to Toronto waiting at the Air Canada desk at LA International." He hung up before she could say no.

Slackbacker. That crazy fucking cross-dressing asshole. He'd ruined her career and killed her friends. Now she was being offered the chance to get even. Could she say no?