[IC] High Castles, Ivory Towers

1955, Nazi-Occupied Los Angeles, Hollywoodland

Summer rolled in to the City of Angels same as it always did: hotter than hell. Perhaps it was a sign of the times, how the Land of the Free had lost her soul beneath the heel of a jackboot, ground up like a fag smoked to the butt, not that you could tell looking out the window. Then again, wasn’t that the nature of selling one’s soul to the devil?

Benjamin Carter always found himself waxing such depressing eloquence on his way to the office. His whole adult life was thrown into the Expeditionary Force, having bought the spiel hook, line, and sinker; be a man, be the best you can be! See the world!

What a crock of shit.

All Ben had to show for it was a tangle of tags and a case of medals that weren’t worth the metal they were stamped on. All the blood and guts for Lady Liberty to spread her legs for der fuhrer when he came a-knocking. The billboard across from Ben’s office window proclaimed the Inglewood Reclamation Initiative and ”realizing the American Dream with German engineering,” a flag waving overhead, the fifty stars replaced by the red, white, and the black hooked cross of the Reich. Ben’s tongue curled in distaste, resisting the urge to spit.

For once, he was thankful for the draft in the dreary office he called home, giving the slightest reprieve as the angry sunlight sliced through the shutters of Ben’s blinds. Slumping into his chair with the slightest groan of protest beneath his bulk, Ben shook out a cigarette from a case. He’d just put iron on the Calhoun case, pulling an all-nighter taking photos too spicy for Hustler even before the Reich’s puritanical publicists got a hold of the media. It wasn’t dignified work, but it kept the lights on.

Ben Carter, Private Investigator, had barely hung up his hat and lit up his smoke before his phone rang. Steely, stormy blue eyes flashed to the headset, rattling in the cradle with an equal measure of frustration and bone-gnawing exhaustion. The phone, like everything else, was kraut-made. On that principle alone, Ben let the damn thing ring.

As expected, it rang again, and Ben took his sweet time pouring a healthy sniff of scotch from the bottle he kept in his desk. He sampled the woodsy aroma appreciatively, sampling a taste and taking a puff from the cigarette pinched between his fingers.

Nothing like a Glenlivet for lunch, he mused, appreciating a ghost of a good mood before whatever was on the other side of the phone snuffed it out. Dusting ashes from the fag, Ben snatched up the phone,

“Carter PI,” Ben said, voice as smooth as a mile of gravel road.

“Good day to you too, Mister Carter,” came the chiding voice of Mrs. Abernathy, his landlady and the closest thing Ben had to a secretary, even if she did go through all his mail. She was an older broad who had her hayday in the roaring Twenties. If she was to be believed, she was once a fine catch in a flapper dress, not that anyone would know now.

“Missus Abernathy, charmed as ever,” Carter lied with his native country-boy drawl, raising a hand to his face to rub his eyes. “How may I help you today, ma’am?”

“Your rent is late. Again. You have until the end of the week to get it square before I find a tenant more stable, let alone respectable,” Abernathy sneered. It was the same old song and dance. Ben did a job, got stiffed on expenses, and barely skirted by. It beat the fancy pension of a policeman wearing those damned armbands, anyway. Who said integrity had a price?

Ben took another long drag on his cigarette before answering. Biting the old bat’s head off over the phone was an exercise in futility, anyway. “Of course, I apologize, ma’am. I’ll get you squared up before then. Is there anything else?”

“Matter of fact, there is,” Abernathy crowed.

Christ alive, here we go… Ben seethed inwardly, rolling his eyes.

“There’s a gentleman here to see you, Mister Carter. Do you want me to send him up?” She asked in a manner that didn’t really imply a question.

“I actually just started my lunch hour, Mrs. Abernathy, perha– “

“Of course, Mr. Carter, I’ll send him right up,” Abernathy interjected. There was a shuffle of a hand over the receiver on the other end, “Mr. Carter says he’ll see you right away, sir. Fifth floor, first room on your right. Mhm. Guten tag, mein herr,” she called, sounding like everyone’s sweetheart great aunt. Why didn’t she ever talk to Ben like that?

“Make yourself presentable, you bum. No need to thank me.” Ever the one to get the last word in, Abernathy hung up with an ear-stabbing ring. Taking a deep breath, Ben surveyed his office. Lined with bookshelves and filing cabinets with no shortage of overflow, it was a cluttered and stuffy mess, enough to give any self-respecting librarian a conniption, but Ben knew his way around it. Reverse Filing, he called it. Bits and bobs from his last case hung on a cork-board on the far wall, emptied scotch bottles lined along the windowsill as improvised vases for wilting flowers. Faded photos from his tour in the Mediterranean hung in cheap frames, showing a younger and far prouder Benjamin Carter, back when his life meant something, and he had friends that didn’t rely on money.

Ashing his cigarette again, Ben rummaged through his drawers for a bakelite comb, smoothing his bedraggled blonde hair. He straightened his tie and tried to tug the rumples out of his shirt to little avail. He could hear the shuffle and stop of shoes up the stairs, then saw a silhouette fill the frame of the smoked glass that marked Ben’s office.

The knock was soft, but authoritative. Deciding to roll up his sleeves to hide the slept-in look of his shirt, Ben placed his comb back, fingers brushing the handle of his 1911. It was illegal to own, and he knew it. That didn’t stop every greaser, gangster, spick, and kraut from packing a heater of their own.

“It’s open,” Benjamin called, eyeing the door expectantly.

[Lady Selune]

A haggard fellow would enter the room. He was not old, his gait was that of a middle-aged man, but life had not treated him well. His face was wrinkled, a few of his hairs had already been shocked grey, and he walked with a noticeable limp; a war wound, no doubt. His salt-and-pepper hair was tightly combed back, and he wore a custom tailored Hugo Boss suit; the kind of suit that only wealthy boche wore. Boss himself had, of course, passed away several years ago, but Germany's victory had cemented the brand as the go to for menswear, be it for the Schutzstaffel or the Stockbroker. He looked around at the mess, sniffed once at the cigarette smoke in the air, and approached the seat.

"Herr Carter." The man spoke with a strong German accent, and now that he did, his face was not difficult to place. Ludwig Schultz; Wermacht officer turned politican after an honourable discharge from the British Front. Supposedly his limp came from a mills bomb he hadn't quite been quick enough to avoid. Now however, rather than dodging grenades, he instead dodged social faux pas. "I have heard... Despite appearances, you are a very competant man." His eyes were sunken into his skull, although they were keen and piercing. Dangerous eyes.

"I know not if you follow showbiz news, but I'm afraid it's very pertinent to me." He straightened himself up. "My wife; Jacqueline Schultz, is an up and coming actress, just secured herself her first leading role in one of the new pictures." He looked down to the cigarette smouldering in the ash tray, before working a hand into an inner breast pocket and working free a small plastic cylinder. Unscrewing the lid, he would shakily tip out a flat, round tab and knock it back into his mouth, swallowing it dry. An all-too common sight with ex soliders; the boche love for narcotics had a side effect of a very dope-dependent peoples.

"Now, you must understand," the official would say as he screwed the lid shut again. "I do not actually suspect her of doing anything wrong. In fact, considering the circumstances, I commend her for her frankness in her dealings with me. You see, she is almost three decades younger than me, and so, when she is constantly between the sets and the fancy Hollywood parties, people begin to talk." He gestured vaguely with his hand.

"I don't care for what they say, but there others that do. I need you to follow her, take some photos of her about her daily business, show that she is merely doing what the other degenerates in the unfortunate industry she has found herself in do, and then send them to me. I shall do the rest." He pulled at a middle finger, the joint cracking softly. "For your work, you'll be handsomely rewarded. Whatever your usual pay is for this sort of thing, I'll double the number of reichsdollars."

[StormWolf]

The office door squeaked as it opened, a fine start to what was surely going to be a stellar first impression. Whatever Ben had suspected would be coming through his door, the sharply-dressed and world-renowned Ludwig Schultz came in right after 'little green men from the moon'. The picture Ben still held in his head came from his Army days, which aged far better than the weary kraut did. If it wasn't for the knowledge of just who and what the man was, he had an almost uncle-like demeanor. Ben regarded the man silently as he hobbled over to the desk, taking in every detail. He would be a terrible investigator if he didn't notice the bum leg, and a brief bubbling of something dark within Ben Carter's core had his finger caress the slide of his heater.

Only a kraut would have the audacity to insult a man in his own office, Ben thought bitterly. Ben met the older man's dangerous gaze with one of his own, a faint twitch pinching the scar on Ben's cheek; courtesy of a Kraut rifle butt. Swallowing his bile as well as his pride, Ben gestured to the seat across from him, hand drifting from the pistol in the drawer to a notepad. Leafing to a clear page, Ben snatched a fountain pen from the catch-all tray on his stationary.

"All of my energy goes into my work, Mr. Schultz. The appearances are that of a dedicated professional who simply can't afford a maid," Ben said tightly, putting on his best professional guise and mustering a tight-lipped smile. Ben, unlike the woman now in question, was no actor. His smile had all the appeal of a tiger's. Still, Ben firm hand made the nib of his pen dance across the notepad in his own messy shorthand.

For the most part, Ben remained silent as the aged German explained his desires for a case. Not so much out of professionalism as out of propriety. The wrong word would see this prize catch out of his reach. Kraut War-Hero-Politician money spent as well as the rest, and rent was overdue. Schultz's liberty with price was noted with two giant dollar signs in Ben's notes, as if he'd need reminding.

"You wouldn't be the first man run afoul by the Hollywood tabloids, Mr. Schultz. It's where journalism goes to die, so naturally they're all vultures," Ben drawled in a steady pace, every word as gentle as a New York slugger upside the head.

"I charge five dollars an hour, plus expenses, though this first consultation is free of charge," Ben said, hating himself for being so goddamned honest. "Though my average rates don't generally presume that I'm racing against the likes of Hearst. Do you know the name of the studio that Mrs. Schultz has signed on with, sir? The more candid you are with me now, the less I'll have to dig on the clock. It'll save me time, and you your money." It almost hurt to say, but it was that integrity that kept Ben apart from the krauts, wasn't it?

"A photo and her projected itinerary too, if it isn't too much trouble..." Ben finished, his pen making and audible thud of punctuation before knitting his calloused fingers together atop his desk.

[Lady Selune]

"Vultures serve an important part of the natural world, Herr Carter. Tabloid journalists are more akin to mosquitos." Once the other man had finished talking, Schultz would reach again, this time drawing out a small polaroid picture. It showed a smiling woman, likely in her early twenties holding a wine-glass cocktail in one hand and gesturing wildly with her other one. She was unmistakably beautiful, even in black and white; in fact, her and fellow actress Marilyn Monroe could have been sisters, were it not for Jacqueline's much darker hair colour. On the reverse of the polaroid were details. Jacqueline Schultz. Maiden name Jacqueline Fosters. Employed at the Glamour Hawk production company, currently working on the set of a new film. "The title of the film is under confidentiality clauses at the moment," Schultz would say after a short while. "So that's the best I have for you. If you want the itinerary... I'll see if I can't extract one at some point, but know that my pockets are deep enough to not mind the extra expense."

The pair would quietly stare at each other for a little while, Schultz answering any further questions, before the elderly German drew out a pocket watch and examined it. "I've taken up twenty minutes of your time, have I not?" It was a question, but not one that needed an answer. He would retrieve his wallet, place two reichsdollars down onto the table, turn, and limp his way out of the door, shutting it carefully behind him.

The steps would fade away into the distance as the man walked down the stairs, leaving behind the two notes and the picture of his target. Say what you would about the tendencies of Germans in this new world, but their money didn't lie; the one-reichsdollar bill still held George Washington's face on one side, but on the other, the bald eagle clutched a shield blazoned with the swastika, 'In God We Trust' had been replaced by the Nazi slogan of Ein Volk, Ein Reich, Ein Fuhrer, and the unfinished pyramid had, at last, been finished, to show the completeness and perfectness of the German regime.

[StormWolf]

You would know all about carrion-eaters and blood-suckers, wouldn't you? Ben thought with another wayward twitch of his eye as he watched those knobby knuckles venture into the folds of his Boss jacket. Instinct roiled inside of Ben, rousing a pinch of tension between his broad shoulders. Instead of a gun, a knife, or another bottle of pills, Schultz procured a photo. Ben had expected a picture in a wallet or a locket, not this. It was overly-professional and eerily banal for what Ben normally encountered in his line of work.

Taking the photo, Ben studied the woman - Jacqueline - for a long moment with the faintest furrow of his brow. Photo grain did no favors for anyone's looks, but the dame's brilliant smile still shone through. Young, beautiful, and full of life, by the look of her. Te kind of gal who could brighten a room. And married to a fellow old enough to be her father, Ben reminded himself.

His hard blue eyes saw the play of noon-day light over the photograph, noting the faint impressions on the other side. Turning the polaroid in hand, Ben scribbled a few more notes. It was something he'd discovered in is grade-school days; Ben had a mind like a steel trap once he wrote something down. As soon as he scribbled it somewhere, even if he never saw the note again, he'd remember every detail.

"You've given me a lead, Mr. Schultz. That's enough," Ben said, slipping the photo into the pages of his notebook before regarding the older kraut in a long span of silence. Of course, the man had to drive the nail home and flex his wealth and the depth of his resources. When Schultz leafed two bills casually onto the desk, Ben's mouth quirked as he started to say something, but the kraut was already leaving. Ben had said the consultation was free, but when money was of no consequence, a display of theater was worth more than the money itself.

Ben waited for the door to shut and to hear Schultz's hobbling step descend the stairs before burying his face in his hands. Stubble rasped against Ben's rough palms. The photo of the dame peeked at him from the pages of Ben's notebook, taunting, daring him to pick up the money, and by extension accept the job. After a deep breath and a moment's contemplation, Ben took the crisp bills and shuffled them into his pocketbook.

"After lunch..." Ben muttered to himself, and drained his glass.

* * *

Parked across the street from the Glamor Hawk lot, Ben surveyed the property and the milling busybodies coming hither and thither, flocking like tropical birds. After a solid meal and a chance to freshen up on the kraut's dime, Ben felt fresh as a spring sprig. Dressed in one of his nicer light grey suits, Ben fanned himself with his stetson fedora while he cased the joint. The paparazzi was already out in force, drawn like flies to stink. Was Ben any better, though?

With that chipper thought, he drained the last of his coca-cola and snatched up his little Nikon camera. In the years since the war, the dinky little thing had gotten more use than Ben's pistol or his Ford. Such were the times. The car door groaned as Ben stepped onto the sidewalk, settling his hat onto his head and his camera into his coat pocket. The Glamor Hawk could pass for a military compound if not for all the glitz and glam. A tall gate flanked by walls and hedges, designed to keep prying and predatory eyes at bay. They couldn't make it easy on me, could they? No siree, Ben grumbled inwardly as he casually tread the sidewalk, counting his steps as a means to measure the length of wall.

Traffic paused as pedestrians crossed the intersection like milling ants. Ben could probably make it if he ran, but discretion was the finer point of valor in the preliminary leg of the investigation. Haste always made waste. Fifty feet of wall on either side, single guard at the gatehouse... Ben's eagle-keen eyes darted from detain to detail, drinking it all in, looking for a weak point in the Hawk's perimeter. His attention had been consumed, drawn to a pinpoint when he suddenly felt a crash against his chest,

"Hey! You stupid mook, look where you're going!"

Snapping his attention to the sidewalk, Ben's expression fluttered from terse to apologetic as he saw a short, round man throw up his hands in fury at the handful of office material that had just been dumped on the sidewalk. Ben hissed and breath,

"Sorry about that, mack. Here, allow me," Ben took a knee to shuffle the papers together as neatly as he could. Blocks of typewriter scratch were red-lined and blacked out, notations for revisions on scenes and dialogue. A script...? Ben thought, then eyed his golden ticket. Amid the papers and folders, there was a laminate Glamor Hawk Staff badge.

Haste makes waste, indeed, Ben thought to himself, compiling all of the surly little fellow's materials together, deftly slipping the badge from the bottom of the pile up his sleeve.

"I'm real sorry about that, mister," Ben said, laying on the drawl. The red-faced writer sneered and snatched the stack of his work back.

"Yeah, yeah. Thanks for nothin', Huckleberry. Stupid fuckin' hick." Ben just tipped his hat to the fellow as he stormed off, smirking softly. City of Angels, indeed. Waiting to be in the crowd that meandered across the cross-walk next, Ben clipped on the staff badge, and hoped. He tipped his hat to the gate guard, who gave no further regard than a cursory glance to the badge before nodding Ben in before returning to his crossword. Tucking his hat back down, Ben made the most of his long stride to cover ground in the busy lot. Now that he was inside, Ben just needed to move from building to building, looking for one dame among the rest. Keeping in mind that stellar smile, he imagined it wouldn't be too hard.

[Lady Selune]

It was known that Herr Hitler was not a very big fan of smoking, and the regime was, by and large, one that by and large, attempted to stamp out tobacco consuption. Although prior to and during the war smoking had spiralled out of control after it, with their control tight around the throat of the world, the anti-smoking campaigns had become far more prominent. Cigarettes were packaged with scary looking drawings of cadavers, the Hitler Youth would tell off indiviudals smoking on buses and trams, and now, as he approached the gate for the Glamour Hawk studios, a prominent sign had been put up. Rauchend verboten! | Smoking Forbidden! Then, a smaller sign had been added below looking much less official and only in English. Outside of designated smoking areas.

Perhaps then, it was a surprise (or, indeed, maybe it was the opposite of a surprise,) that the first person Ben saw inside the facility was standing outside, a hand-rolled cigarette between his fingers. He was wearing the denim overalls of a literal blue-collar worker, one loop down to show his grease-and-oil stained shirt. He would look at the man, frown, look down to his staff badge, then roll his eyes and return back to his cigarette.

The studio itself was a sprawling thing, but there was method to its madness. There was a gigantic warehouse-looking building in the centre of the compound, likely where filming was occuring, and then various other facilities for the non-stars. Although Glamour Hawk wasn't one of the Native American Big Fives, it was part of the growing German-backed American film industry, and 20th Century Fox had already been throwing money behind its productions. Such large studio oversight naturally lead to a bigger and more impressive operation than some United Artist poverty row indie film, and it also meant that not a single individual of the dozens that moved around were any darker than a light tan. As if to rub this in, the 'For Coloureds' water fountain was not only noticably worse quality, but actively in disrepair, having clearly not being used for months, maybe even years. Along the back side of the complex as far away from the street as could be possibly arranged, a series of trailers had been located, one of them a hive of activity, men and women streaming in and out.

If one had to guess, that would be where any talent would be found.

[StormWolf]

Being so removed from his element, it took a deliberate effort of will for Ben to not stick out like a sore thumb. Existing on the outside of such environs, there was a mystique that surrounded movies - a magic. It was perhaps a comfort for a salt-of-the-earth man like Ben to see an average, blue-collar working man lighting up a smoke in spite of the Reich's disapproval. Leave it to Fritz to tell you what to do, what to think, and what to feel with every step you took.

The handy-looking man seemed as disinterested in Ben as he was disdainful for what was probably "another yahoo" doing whatever it was they did. As he meandered, Ben couldn't help his inherent curiosity in passing enclosed set within the warehouse. He couldn't see much - the back-end of some grandiose set piece, and a perturbed looking technician shooed Ben away with his clipboard. Doing his best to look meek, Ben grimaced and mouthed a "sorry" before moving on. He hadn't seen his mark on set, limited as his view was.

Continuing in a purposeful pace, Ben kept a count of his steps and the route he took from the entrance. A habit he developed in forming a sort of mental map of "unfamiliar enemy territory." The disrepair of the Colored facilities wasn't lost on Ben. Inglewood was getting cleaned up, which meant that the Reich was driving out whomever they considered undesirable. It was the way of the world, now. Ben shrugged to ease out a sudden knot of tension that twisted between his shoulder blades when he found the trailers, all set up like little aircraft, and Ben's pulse quickened.

Bingo, he thought, eyes pinching against the glare of the California sun off the aluminum fuselages of the trailers. Reaching into his coat pocket, Ben ratcheted the lever of the little Nikon, priming it to snap his first shot. Mingling with this sort of crowd was never easy for Ben, or any sort of crowd. Given his size, stature, and overall bearing, he was pretty easy to pick out. During the war, it was always the damned buzz-saws that swept his way first. The Jerries didn't like a giant with a gun anymore than the Italians did.

The smell of fresh food, the sort that was made on the spot and far too rich for Ben's blood, drifted to his nose and made his stomach grumble fiercely. What the hell, he figured. As long as I'm here, I might as well be comfortable. It was mostly finger food, cocktail party stuffings, but far fancier than Ben had ever experienced. Then again, a handful of peanuts or a street dog didn't exactly set the bar high. Even the napkins were nice. Piling a tiny plate with a sampling of everything he could fit, earning a glare from one of the cook staff in the process, Ben continued to aimlessly wander, at least that's how he looked. Drifting like an autumn leaf between pockets of stars, staff, and busybodies, Ben found a spot in the shade to lean against a warehouse wall. The little Nikon was hidden beneath the plate of food, partially veiled by his napkin.

It wasn't exactly a sniper's nest, but it was the best he could do under the present circumstances. Eyeballing the trailers again, he scanned for Jacqueline's name, or her smile, over the swirling crowd.

[Lady Selune]

"Jacky, Jacky, Jacky!" Came a call from the busiest of the trailers. A tall, dark haired woman would storm out with a shorter, portly man carrying a stack of papers in one hand and wildly gesticulating with the other shortly after. "I know you're upset doll, but it's really not as bad as it looks! You won't even actually be naked for the shot, it'll just look like you are to the cameras. Nothing explicit, I swear." The man's thoroughly awkward smile would fade as the woman turned towards him, and it was clear, if the loud 'Jacky's' hadn't already, that this was his target. No smile though; oh no, she was spitting mad right now.

"Don't you 'doll' me you overpaid twerp! I'm... Not going to do that! Do you have any idea what the tabloids are going to do to me if it 'seems' like I'm naked in a set?! Why does it have..." The woman would press two of her fingers against the bridge of her nose, sighing deeply. "Besides, doesn't this go against the Reich censors for decency?"

"... Well, since this is based off of a German folk story we get some more leeway, and we'll be able to get it designated as 'demonstrating feminine physique' rather than have it be slapped with a degeneracy charge." The man would reach with one hand to touch Jacqueline's arm, only for the starlet to swat it away angrily. Even annoyed she was still pretty; her lips were in a tabloid-perfect pout, and she reached for one of the small little sandwiches set out with precision few people managed when they were sewing.

"I won't do it. I can't do it, my husband'll kill me. You gotta rewrite it somehow Jerry. You're the writer for chrissakes, how come you can't change the writing?" She chewed on the sandwich slowly once she had said her piece, only for 'Jerry' to sigh and run a hand across his sweaty locks, rapidly rubbing the slickness off onto his long-suffering trousers.

"Alright, alright. I'll talk with Donitz. He should understand, he wasn't the biggest fan either, we'll get a rewrite done." He stopped and put a hand on his hip, a shorter, pudgier mirror of Jacqueline. "Means no shooting for the rest of today. Fack's sake. Studio's gonna kill me if we keep having these delays." 'Jerry' would turn and hurry off, leaving most of the rest of the staff milling around.

"Well, if we ain't filming, I ain't sticking around. I'll see you all tomorrow." The woman would duck back into the trailer, emerge with a handbag and a light jacket to go along with her summer dress, and move confidently through the crowds of people, clearly heading for the exit.

[StormWolf]

The stormy tirade drew more than just Ben's attention as the portly man scurried after the dame like a pug looking for a handout. A hush of whispers and muttering bemusement drifted through the heated California air, loud enough to mask the click of a camera's shutter. Ratcheting the lever, Ben snapped another, and another; a slideshow of Mrs. Schultz's ire and discontent.

Jackpot, Ben thought with the faintest smirk of self-satisfaction. Easy money for the books. Tilting his head to watch the woman move and lend an ear to the conversation between Jacqueline and the writer. It was no small wonder that she got into films. She was a looker and then some, putting the pin-up gals his fellow soldiers ogled on the long boat ride to Italy to complete shame. She was art in motion and living color, all pale skin, bright eyes, red lips, and hair like dark silk.

And killer gams... Ben thought, appreciating the woman's shapely legs as she stormed back into her trailer for a moment. Ben took a gander at another photo of the trailer, snapping the number. Deftly slipping his camera back into his jacket, Ben polished off the last fingerling sandwich on his plate as he crossed the warehouse plaza and avenue just as the surly starlet was making her exit. Keeping his hat low, Ben kept pace in a casual stride, letting his long legs make up the difference at first, but quickened as the crowd failed to pay the same deference to Ben's bulk as they did to Jacqueline's sheer force of presence.

As he moved, Ben catalogued the information he gleaned from the spat between talents. Jacqueline was just as concerned with the paparazzi as her husband, fiery enough to stick up to the writers and directors of the studio in her first picture. A kraut-fable, no less. At least it wasn't some post-war propaganda. From the sound of things, Ben didn't presume that Mr. and Mrs. Schultz spoke much about their day jobs over dinner, but if the writer, Jerry, was any indication, this wasn't the first time that the esteemed Mrs. Schultz raised some cane over the production. The gal was smart and knew what she was worth to the studio, and shrewd enough to put pressure where it counted.

Ben found himself smirking, a dimple flashing at his cheek as he followed the steady staccato of the starlet's heels. Now all he had to do was tail the broad and see what her haunts were outside of work. There was no evidence or indication of on-set indiscretion, but Mrs. Schultz was an actress. If she wanted to, she could slip on a different demeanor like a shawl if she wanted to. Mr. Schultz, the luck bastard, wouldn't be satisfied unless Ben dotted every "i" and crossed every "t" in his investigation. As it stood, this was quite a haul for a first day of work.

Keeping several paces behind, Ben followed Jacqueline out of the exit, tipping his hat to the gate guard before snapping off the badge and slipping it into his pocket. Ben paused for a moment, shaking out a cigarette from his case and lighting up with a flick of his lighter. It allowed him to keep eyes on his mark and put some distance, just in case she got wise to her tail. A cool breeze from the Pacific brushed against Ben's cheek lazily, as if ushering him on in the wake of the starlet. Taking a long drag, the pale smoke curled along ahead of Ben as he resumed the casual chase.

[Lady Selune]

Jacqueline left the studio, took in a deep breath of warm California air and then... Slip into an alleyway. Now this? This was interesting. Looking down both ways of the street to make sure nobody was watching, she would sidle into an alcove and tighten the buckles on her jacket and pull up the collar. Then, to complete the look, she would draw out a wide-brimmed hat from her handbag, shake it a little to puff it out to its correct size, and tug it down low so it covered much of her upper face. It wasn't a perfect disguise, not by a long shot, but it was enough for her to be reasonably safe she wouldn't be randomly accosted in the street, even if it was slightly less stylish than was expected of her.

The heels were something of a giveaway, but it wasn't as if she could change them on a whim; she had to stuff enough things into her bag already. Walking out the alleyway calmly, she would cross the street briskly and take up a position in the shade of a palm tree, looking intently down the road. Or, to be more precise, down the rails. If there was one thing you had to commend the regime on, it was their dedication to transit. The American Highway system had never seen more support than it had now, and even the LARy lines were quicker, quieter and more comortable, and it was this line that Jacqueline was clearly hoping to hop onto.

When the streettram came along, she would hurry towards it, and in a display that was as impressive as it was dangerous hopped up and onto the rear of the open streetcar as it slowed to make a turn. She had a weekly pass in her purse should the conductor question her; but a long time ago she had found that waiting around at stations was just begging to be recognised. Besides, she was young and fit, why not enjoy a little excercise and fun? Normally, such an act would have thrown off a casual paparazzi, but a private detective might just know that this particular line happened to be heading west, to Santa Monica, and that if one was quick enough, they could head off anyone headed towards the coast as they made the changeover from the Hollywood lines to the Santa Monica lines.

[StormWolf]

When Jacqueline ducked into the alleyway, Ben kept on walking a few paces, snuffing his cigarette and slipping a nickel into a newspaper stand. The fresh press was the same crock of shit that Ben had come to expect from propagandist media - everything is fine, nothing has been better than they are now under your glorious leadership. Turning the brim of his hat to the sun, Ben leafed through the paper absently. Just another John waiting in the heat for his commute.

Seeing movement from the alley in his peripheral vision, Ben tracked his mark, now in one one of those wide-brimmed sun hats that the European women so enjoyed. It was only natural, Ben suspected, for the wife of a kraut politician to dress like she belonged on the other side of the pond. Everyone who was anyone going anywhere dressed the way the cultural committee wanted. What Ben found peculiar was that she was traveling alone. Ben would have expected attaches and hangers-on stretching all the way to San Fransisco, but here Jacqueline was, running solo through the streets of Los Angeles.

"Curiouser and curiouser, Missus Schultz," Ben muttered to himself, watching her hop on the street car. Folding his paper and tucking it under his arm, Ben crossed the street with the next gaggle of pedestrians to return to his car. He was in no particular rush. Cable cars could only follow their particular routes at their strictly mandated speeds. Everything had to run on time, all part of the 'grand machine'. Pulling out from his parking spot on the curb, Ben cruised at a casual speed as he followed the rails.

It wasn't long until he was a few car lengths away from the same cab that Jacqueline has hopped on, so generously numbered and labeled. Eyes pinched against the glare of the sun, Ben continuously searched for the ostentatious hat that Jacqueline had hidden herself under. It was somewhat brilliant, he had to admit. So overt, it was covert.

Tailing a mark was inglorious, but such was the job. Ben followed the line for as long as his mark was aboard. When they came to stop at an intersection, Ben snapped a picture of the trolley, sure to frame the numerical designation and the destination of the line. He could see her hat in the viewfinder of the camera like the pale bloom of an edelweiss.

[Lady Selune]

She continued along the line until it stopped just before the changeover to the Santa Monica trams. The transition at the station was quick and quiet, done as fast as posisble to avoid anyone paying her too much attention. This one had already filled up before she had arrived, and so she stood intead looking out of the back at nothing in particular as the cable car made its way closer and closer towards the scent of salt and the sound of gulls. Of course, she wasn't exactly heading towards the beach, and this was made all the more clear by the exact route she was on; this particular line went towards the industrial part of the city, nowhere near the warm sunshine and sweet cocktails that you'd expect a starlet to head towards.

Dismounting from the tram at one of the stations, she would briefly take her hat off and use it to waft some cool air her way, and then set off again. Her high heels clacked out a steady rhythm as she walked through streets, flanked by cranes and dockworkers, until at last she would stop in front of what seemed, at first, to be another utterly unassuming seafront cargo area. The Germans had standardised international shipping almost instantly, and the flock of embossed eagles on the side of each and every one of the 40ft long crates was just another testament to the regime that now held sway over more than half the world.

"Johnny!" Jacqueline would look at one of the burly Americans standing by the door, a warmth in her voice that had been entirely hidden when she had been at the Glamour Eagle. "I thought you had today off?" She would lean back slightly, even as the man laughed and gave her a gentle poke in the chest.

"And I thought you were working today doll. That makes two of us not doing what we were supposed to do." He would toss a head towards the site, nodding at her. "Anyway, good that you're off. Vince was hoping you'd show up at some point this week. He's just in his office."

"This week? I thought he'd have more trust in me, gosh. I come every week, he should know that." She gave the broad-shouldered worker a smack on the shoulder, striding past the gate that was held open for her as easy as you please, before turning towards a small building squatly sat in one corner of the yard, windows thrown open in a vain attempt to combat the heat.

[StormWolf]

Continuing to play his part of the shadow, Ben gradually changed lanes to keep after his mark. It was little surprise that the trolley was jam-packed. The deep blue waters of the Pacific would be a pleasant sixty degrees or so around this time of year, a great place to beat the heat and spend a fine summer day basking in the sun, or boating, for the more affluent. Ben had removed his hat and shrugged out of his jacket, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as the automobile became more reminiscent of an oven. Drifting his eyes from the road, Ben fiddled with the climate controls on his vehicle, pushing the fans to their limit. By the time he looked back up, he was gazing directly into the dame's eyes.

There was a moment of brief apprehension as Ben's large fists tightened on the wheel in a white-knuckle grip, but the woman seemed lost in thought, gazing into that far-away middle space that only she could see. Letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding, Ben flexed his fingers out with a satisfying pop of joints. Watching Jacqueline disembark from the tram, Ben continued down the avenue to park in the sparse shadow of a palm tree. The entire while, Ben kept his eyes on his subject - from his periphery vision to the reflection in his car mirrors.

Nestling his hat back over his head, Ben swung himself out of his vehicle with an appreciative sigh for the caress of the breeze coming off the sea. Folding his jacket over his arm, Ben doubled back to the path Jacqueline had taken. Leaning in the afternoon shade of a boardwalk storefront, Ben slipped his camera from the coat pocket and snapped a shot of the John Jacqueline conversed with. They seemed cordial enough, but no more familiar than a pair of chums might be.

It was a challenge to eavesdrop over the sound of the warf and the sea, but the occasional nugget drifted to Ben's trained ears. Fumbling for his notebook, Ben scribbled on a fresh page. At a glance, he was just a freelance photographer stuffing a reel for a publication.

Johnny; bouncer? Vin- Vinny? Vanessa?? He circled Johnny's name and connected it to Jacqueline's with a line, repeating the process with the unknown third. He'd have gotten the whole name if it wasn't for that goddamn shipping horn. When Jacqueline passed through the gate, Ben found himself facing a rough decision. Johnny was a burly brute with a physique that reminded Ben of a gorilla. Ben wasn't close enough to tell, but he'd bet hard cash that the fellow had the pitted knuckles and cauliflower ear of a seasoned pugilist.

"Aw, hell..." he muttered, scratching at the scar on his chin with the soft rasp of freshly-shaved stubble. If he confronted Johnny, chances were that Ben would get his bell rung if they fought clean. That was why Ben carried a set of knuckle dusters in his pocket. The office that Jacqueline entered was in the open, making a stealthy approach a challenge. Taking a deep breath, Ben pinched at his nose. He needed a photo of this other character, and an idea of their name. Something to build up the case, especially when it was just starting to get interesting. He snapped a photo of the squat little office, just in case he needed to circle back for a late-night B & E.

Ben shook his head, dragging a calloused hand down his face. He wouldn't need to know about this other character. He just needed the photos. He wasn't doing a full dossier for the OSS, for Christ's sake. Taking a deep breath and puffing out his cheeks, he mirrored Jacqueline's path to where he could see through the windows flung wide against the heat and to welcome the same brisk and salty breeze that Ben was enjoying. He didn't have an extension for his shutter, so his zoom would be less than ideal, but he had a piece of a name, a location, and after a few clicks, he'd have... a fuzzy approximation of a face.

[Lady Selune]

As Ben rotated for a better view, Jacqueline would swagger into the office and toss her handbag down onto a chair. Stretching out a little, the man sitting behind the desk would offer a chuckle, standing up and stretching out in turn. He was young; perhaps a year or two younger than Jacqueline, far too young to have served as anything but a boy scout in the war, but built like an athlete. The California sun had given his skin a lovely bronze tint to it, and his hair was a slightly washed out brown, as if he frequently spent time in the sun which, considering his likely vocation, wasn't that unusual. The clothing he wore was a little nicer than the usual blue-collar apparel though, and the watch on his wrist was flashy enough to reflect the sun back out the window.

"Jacky. How lovely to see you darling."

"And you as well. Don't sell yourself short." The actress would sprawl herself out across a chair, rummaging through her handbag once she was comfortable. She drew out a case of cigarettes, not a packet or a bundle, but a snakeskin-leather covered, silver waterproof snap-closed cover with store bought ciggs contained within. She would draw a single one out, twirl it between her fingers and offer it to Vince, who would shake his hand and reach down into a drawer and pull out a cigar to match her light. She drew out a matchstick and handed it over to the man. Vince would light his cigar and offer the match back, but it would snuff out before she could light her own smoke.

The pair would look at each other for a second, and then laugh, Jacky standing up and leaning across towards the well-built manager. They would touch the tips of their smokes together, Jacqueline would breathe in, and her own cig would light in what could almost have passed for a kiss before the pair of them had sat back down, pleasant silence passing as both of them filled the interior of the room with tobacco smoke.

"So. Johnny says you wanted to see me," she would say at last.

"Oh yes." Vince grinned eagerly. "We've got something for you to take to the boys at the Glamour Hawk. Europe isn't all jackboots and Hitler salutes. The Limeys especially; those boys put up almost as good a fight as us, and their rightful rulers are still alive and well, outside of the grasp of the war machine. We've got some news from their underground cells, and we think it could be a big boost to the boys to hear what others are doing to kick Fritz in his damned balls."

[StormWolf]

Oh, to be a fly on the wall of that room. Ben was, despite the nature of his work, not a professional spook. He'd sell his left nut for the super-spy gadgets from the pre-occupation pulp novels that the Nazis hated so much. A bug to hear just what they were talking about, rather than trying to read lips, and doing a miserable job of it.

Still, Jacqueline and this John in the office seemed to be pretty chummy, but nothing scandalous. Sure, she lit a smoke off of his, but that wasn't anything inherently nefarious. Ben snapped a photo of that momentary closeness anyway. The little rendezvous felt more like a pair of old business partners talking about a deal rather than a sweltering tryst between lovers. Ben supposed that wasn't outside the realm of possibility. Hollywood types have been getting "party aides" from the docks for decades, and despite what the Krauts liked to think that everything marched to their tune, the Nips enjoyed their cut on the opium trade.

Could that be what was going on? Jacqueline didn't look the type, with her sophistication and charm, but the prettiest vipers were usually the deadliest. Snapping a few more photos, Ben watched the scene with a growing sense of sensational curiosity. Not merely for the prospect of some grandiose silver-screen plot, but just how interesting his mark was.

Here Ben was expected another titty-shoot and a quick buck, but this Jacqueline had shown him that she was as smart as she was pretty, and had the moxie to back it all up. Where was she when he cut the perfect picture of a man in uniform? It seemed a damn shame for her to be stuck with the ball and chain that was her husband... but then again, everyone needed to eat. Mr. Schultz was their mutual meal ticket, after all.

Satisfied with his photos for the time being, Ben would do what he did best: wait and watch. He figured that he'd need to resume his part as the lady's shadow once she made her departure.

[Lady Selune]

"Here." Vince reached back into his desk and took out a large pile of papers out, setting them down on his desk. Jacqueline would stand up, brows furrowed, tapping a little ash off into the tray on her friend's desk as she did so. Taking the thin, flammable paper sheet into her hand- it reminded her of a piece of bible paper more than anything else, she raised it up to look at the news with a critical eye. Talks of the Home Guard detonating rail lines, a Milice official brutally assassinated in France, a Polish ex-fighter pilot stealing a bird and taking out a hangar's worth of planes almost by his lonesome before he had been intercepted, even one particularly daring tale circulated by the Free BBC about a resistance fighter scheduled for hanging whisked away from the assassination by a resistance cell and smuggled to Canada. Morale-boosting stuff indeed, even if she knew the brutal reparations inflicted in response weren't being recorded. Nobody needed to be told that the communities where these events had taken place would have suffered mass hangings, civillians rounded up and any adult male unlucky to be picked out dragged in to have their fingers smashed and eyes gouged out by the Gestapo.

"I'll get hese to the right boys." She nodded slowly. "They'll spread them about." Her nods picked up in confidence. "I assume they're the edible ones?" She rubbed her finger and thumb together to tease out the crease of this paper. Unsurprisingly, she almost tore through it without trying.

"You'd be right. They go up like a flash and you can swallow them in just a few seconds if needs be. Not good for rolling with, but we thought that to be a minor sacrifice. This way, you can get rid of it even if they're kicking the door in." He would demonstrate, taking the sheet from her hand and holding the corner up to his cigar. In an instant the edge had caught, and barely two seconds later the whole thing was but a fine powder in his fingers, which he would sprinkle down onto his desk and sweep out with a hand onto the floor.

"Handy," was all the response would be, nodding slowly. Reaching into her bag, she withdrew a large tote and placed the papers into it, before setting the tote down onto the ground and turning towards the window. "It's gonna be real hot in this room if I close the blinds." There was definite lamentation in her voice.

"It's for the best though love. Don't know who could be watching." Vince would rise up from behind her and reach for the metal beads, tugging them down until the slats had rotated and the view to the inside had been blocked off. Once it was closed, hands would reach clothing, and it would be a good hour until Jacqueline would emerge, pristine appearance only slightly ruffled and tote-bag in hand.

[StormWolf]

Things just kept getting better and better. Flash-burning paper? What secret could be passing hands and going up in, smoke, Ben wondered. The shutters rattled as quick as Ben could mash the button and crank the lever. There was a sort of iron-clad resolve in those picture-perfect features, something that, in Ben's experience, was much rarer than people thought.

He watched a bushel of those papers slip from those slender fingers to Jacqueline's bag, and he wanted nothing more than to see what they said in that moment. The mystique was almost worth working for the old Nazi politician. Almost. It would be a relief to cover something, anything but another celebrity sex scandal, and for the pay, Ben could feel the excitement and the relief crackling in his fingers like electricity.

Seeing her in the windows, framed by the frame and the viewfinder of Ben's camera, there was a look in those eyes like jewels that made Ben's heart sink. The anticipation turned to ashes in his mouth as sure as if it was that flash-paper in Jacqueline's purse, grimacing as he snapped a series of photos of the fellow's face and the shuttering of the blinds.

Well. That was that, it seemed.

Sweeping his head hither and thither to spy for any other possibly photographers, spotters, or voyeurs, only to find nothing, Ben sighed and sat himself on a nearby crate and fetched a cigarette from his pocket. A long and dejected draw filled his lungs. Another day, another dame, another goddamn scandal. It wasn't like Ben could blame her. It surely would beat getting frisky with that teutonic mummy that was her husband.

An hour and a several cigarette butts later, the groan of distant sea-rusted hinges drew Ben's attention. Well, the foreman had stamina, it seemed. Ben huffed in a wry bemusement as he snapped one more photo of the lady and her slightest dishevelment before stuffing the camera away and tugging his hat low, ready to tail her wherever she went next.

Rolling out ahead of her a ways, looking the part of a fellow just off the clock, Ben walked in the meandering swagger of a life-long Californian, helping himself to another smoke as he rolled through a mental checklist of his photos. He would, of course, need to see how many came out in development and where this wild chase took him next. For the time being, if even one in every three photos was solid enough to use, that was nearly a whole roll of evidence.

If he wanted to milk Mr. Shultz for all the Deutschmarks he was worth, Ben could just sit pretty on the most incriminating photos until the time was right. While he had a nose for this kind of thing, there was more to he story. The papers, in particular, stuck to Ben's thoughts like fly paper.

There wasn't much more to do but play it safe. No need to ruin a fellow's life over an incomplete narrative. While Mr. Schultz didn't seem the sort to lay hands on his wife, the man was still a Nazi, and a highly ranking, decorated one at that. Ben felt that if he provided these photos as they were, the foreman would vanish under the worst circumstance. He may be a lucky son of a bitch, but being green at the gills with a distant envy was no means to condemn the man to an incinerator.

[Lady Selune]

If Ben had been expecting some continuation that would give some answers to the mysteries of the flashpaper and the determined expression he had seen, he would be sorely mistaken. Instead, she would do the expected for a Hollywood starlet in Santa Monica- hit the beach, enjoy the sun for a few hours, and then retire back to her house, catching the same tramline back the way she came. Ben would be left to either camp outside the house until the well-engineered BMW of his current employer pulled up, or return to his darkroom to develop what pictures would come out.

The next day as well was almost unanimously dull. Almost, as the tote bag would make a reappearance, and if Ben had been particularly on the case, he would have noted her handing it off to the same denim-clad smoker that had so dismissed him the first time he'd entered the Glamour Hawk studios. The man would nod at her and vanish, and then onwards nothing more would be seen of the mysterious flashpaper pages, the starlet returning to filming as smoothly as could be. After all, a rewrite didn't mean that there wasn't other scenes to be filmed.

[StormWolf]

When the sly vixen had returned to her den, he paused for a moment on the street outside her drive, his road-weary car a blemish among the fine BMWs and Rolls Royce machines that came and went. The house was a castle in its own right, and Ben imagined a small army of staff tending to every need as soon as Jacqueline and her husband showed the slightest glimmer of discontentment.

What a life.

Grinding out the butt of his cigarette on the asphalt, he ducked into his car and drove off. He had a long night ahead of him yet. Ben had all but sweat through his shirt and hadn't eaten a nibble since lunch. He was hungry, tired, and had a knot in his back as large as the San Andreas fault. He could go for a fat steak and a long shower, but he had photos to develop. Instead, the PI stopped by a diner for a cold cut and the liquor store for a fresh bottle of bourbon.

What would have constituted a guest bathroom in Ben's office had been retrofitted into a dark room, the door fitted with enough locks to make any meandering client think twice before trying the knob. Dark red lights bored into his eyes, making them ache as much as the fumes did. It was at times like these that he detested his thoroughness. The photos came out well enough; far more than he'd anticipated. Hung up on a line like so much drying laundry, Ben was daunted by those dark lips and bright smile into the measly hours of the morning.

By the time he'd finished developing the photos and dragged himself into the shower, it was nearing the witching hour in the city of angels. For how ragged the landlady rode her tenets, Ben figured the water heater should be working when he needed it. Alas, Ben's shower was brief as it was brisk, but perhaps a cold shower was just what he needed.

A few glasses of bourbon later and Ben passed out on his measly cot. His rest was fitful, dragging him back to the mud and blood of the war, as it always did. A merciless ray of sunlight stabbed Ben in the eye to rouse him in the morning. Rolling out of bed, naked as a jaybird, the veteran planted his face in his calloused hands and breathed deep. Old wounds ached, his head pounded, and he felt empty in more ways than one.

Another day, another dime... Ben thought, shuffling tiredly to brew a fresh pot of coffee. He stared at his reflection in the dingy mirror with dismay; the circles under his eyes were more profound than the day before, his cheeks rough with stubble. Only one of those he could help, so after a quick shave and slurping down a cup of coffee with his bacon and eggs, Ben got back on the case.

Thankfully, Ben still had his staff badge for the GHS in the glove compartment of his car. Flashing it to one of the guards on the lot, Ben even got to park his car behind scenes. That alone would save him some time, and give him a few extra minutes to go through his notebook while his finished off the rest of the coffee pot's contents from his thermos. It was gas in the tank, and feeling jazzed enough from the french roast, he made his rounds.

The Glamor Hawk was even more impressive when coming in through the backlot, seeing the techies practicing their craft in sculpting setpieces, checking props, or doing makeup. Talk about movie magic. Sure enough, Jacqueline was back to her own proverbial grindstone, looking radiant as she was the day before. He spied her passing a note to... Jerry, was it?

It was a slower day at the studio, as relative as that was. People milled about their business as usual, but it looked like several crews had gone elsewhere to shoot. Probably at the beach or in the brush-laden foothills inland, that could so easily pass for Italy or Greece. As such, a tall drink like Ben would stand out with his camera. There was little else to do for now but make a gamble, so Ben, in his infinite wisdom, rolled the dice.

"I take it you talked him out of the forest nymph scene, then?" Ben asked lowly after clearing his throat on approach to the starlet. He was dressed in a fine summer suit, or at least as fine as he could afford. A linen shirt with matched khaki suit and slacks with an army-brown hat. All in all, it made him look more like a big-game hunter than some studio peon. Looking Jacqueline in the eyes, he offered a genteel smile and thrust his chin after the stout chimney of a man that had received the flash paper.

"If I talked at him the way you did, they'd have tanned my hide. Ben," he said, offering his hand. "Ben Carter."

[Lady Selune]

Jacqueline turned towards the man with some surprise on her face. It wasn't often someone you didn't know approached you and started talking to you out of the blue, especially in this new world where everyone could damn you to a bullet in the back. Nonetheless, after she heard his words she would let out a confident laugh, pearly-white teeth gleaming in the night. "Wasn't a forest nymph, but yes, yes I did manage to talk him out of that particular bit of foolishness." She would offer her hand out as he offered his name, a warm smile still across her face. As she shook his hand with a firm yet dainty grip, she would introduce herself as well. "Jacqueline Schultz, a pleasure to meet you Mr. Carter." She paused for a second. "And yes, one of the advantages of 'star power,' such as it is, is the fact that you can make a stink and they'll either handle it or be left with the smell in their nose for far too long."

She analysed the man carefully, looking him up and down. He seemed... different to the usual lot. He wasn't wearing fancy clothes, nothing tailored to him, all store bought, and he spoke like a red-blooded American, but she was sure she knew most of the film staff by now and he certainly didn't seem like some studio executive. "So, Mr Carter, what is it exactly you do around these parts? I can't say I've had the pleasure of making your acquaintance before, or even seen you about if I'm perfectly honest."