{"product_id":"scavenger-hunt-isbn-9781400032549","title":"Scavenger Hunt","description":"Philip Marlow and Lew Archer would recognize a kindred spirit in Jimmy Gage, reporter for \u003ci\u003eSLAP\u003c\/i\u003e magazine, troublemaker by trade and inclination, and the hero of Robert Ferrigno’s sinuous new crime novel. While taking part in a Hollywood scavenger hunt, Jimmy meets Garret Walsh, a bad-boy movie maker in the truest sense: He’s just been released from prison after serving seven years for the murder of a teenaged girl. But Walsh claims he was framed and is writing a screenplay to prove it. He wants Jimmy to help him peddle it, sight unseen. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe next time Jimmy sees the director, he’s floating face-down in a koi pond and “The Most Dangerous Screenplay in Hollywood”  has disappeared. Is Walsh a casualty of bad habits or has somebody crossed him off a list? And is Jimmy next? Combining nerve-shredding suspense and heat-seeking satire, \u003cb\u003eScavenger Hunt \u003c\/b\u003eis an addictive read.“Ferrigno can make you afraid, he can make you laugh, and he can keep you turning the pages.” \u003ci\u003e–The Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Captivating. . . . Momentum that doesn’t let up until the last page. . . . \u003cb\u003eScavenger Hunt\u003c\/b\u003e boasts a surprising, fast-paced plot and a host of memorable characters.” \u003ci\u003e–The Oregonian\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A nicely plotted tour through the dense fringes of Hollywood, with an occasional torque. . . .  Ferrigno is a nimble pro. . . . Assured reading pleasure.”  \u003ci\u003e-–Houston Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A brisk trot through SoCal’s odd and entertaining landscape, informed by a mix of unpretentious smarts, muscular prose, and darkly funny observation.” \u003ci\u003e–Seattle Times\u003c\/i\u003eRobert Ferrigno is the author of six previous novels, including \u003cb\u003eFlinch\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003cb\u003eHeartbreaker\u003c\/b\u003e, and \u003cb\u003eThe Horse Latitudes\u003c\/b\u003e. He lives with his family in the Pacific Northwest. View his website at www.robertferrigno.com.Chapter 1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSeven years later\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“God, I hate blondes,” said Tamra Monelli. “What’s the big whoop about\u003cbr\u003epink nipples anyway?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What’s a blonde?” said Jimmy, standing with his arms around the Monelli\u003cbr\u003etwins, Tonya and Tamra, as Rollo checked the viewfinder of the camera,\u003cbr\u003emaking sure the hollywood sign was perfectly positioned behind them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTonya giggled and pinched Jimmy’s bare ass.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Last week we lost a part in a slasher film,” complained Tamra. “Three\u003cbr\u003ecallbacks, and at the last minute the director decides that the\u003cbr\u003ehigh-school shower scene is a blondes-only zone, because, and I quote,\u003cbr\u003e‘Blood contrasts better against white skin, and besides, blondes look\u003cbr\u003emore innocent. That’s why everyone wants to fuck them.’ Innocent?” She\u003cbr\u003ecupped her breasts, her nipples dark as anthracite. “Do these look\u003cbr\u003eguilty to you, Jimmy?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Smile.” Jimmy Gage showed his teeth to the camera, dropping his hands\u003cbr\u003eto discreetly hold down his erection as the twins pressed against him,\u003cbr\u003ewarm and naked and perfect. Jane was going to flip when she found out\u003cbr\u003eabout this.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRollo hit the auto-timer and rushed back, making sure they were all in\u003cbr\u003ethe frame. The rickety hollywood sign was behind them, paint peeling,\u003cbr\u003ecovered in graffiti, the letters dangerously canted from the last\u003cbr\u003eearthquake. California Stonehenge. The timer clicked, the flash blazed,\u003cbr\u003eand a Polaroid slid out. Item number six on the scavenger hunt list of\u003cbr\u003eseven: nude group photo at a recognizable L.A. landmark. “I still don’t\u003cbr\u003elike this place, Jimmy.” He glanced around at the debris that littered\u003cbr\u003ethe ground, winced at an air-conditioner half-buried from the impact.\u003cbr\u003e“All kind of bad shit happens here.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Bad shit happens everywhere.” Jimmy checked the backdrop of dark\u003cbr\u003esandstone bluffs above them; the hollywood sign was built near the top\u003cbr\u003eof a ridge, higher hills looming overhead. Dropping bowling balls off\u003cbr\u003efreeway overpasses was passé among young wannabees. Today’s future lifer\u003cbr\u003etook pride in hauling heavy objects up onto the bluffs and dropping them\u003cbr\u003eon the sight-seers below. A couple of months ago a tourist had been\u003cbr\u003eflattened by an empty fifty-gallon propane tank.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRollo scooted over to where the camera was perched on a broken Styrofoam\u003cbr\u003ecooler, a nervous, twenty-year-old filmmaker with thick round glasses\u003cbr\u003eand a Trotsky goatee, wearing only a pair of two-tone bowling shoes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Monelli twins stretched and preened in the warm night air, smooth\u003cbr\u003eand sleek as weimaraner puppies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRollo watched the twins, fanning himself with the Polaroid to speed the\u003cbr\u003edevelopment. “Do you think I look okay, Jimmy? Physically, I mean.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’re a credit to the human genome.” Jimmy slipped on black pants and\u003cbr\u003esteel-tipped welder’s boots, a powder-blue ruffled tuxedo shirt\u003cbr\u003ecompleting the ensemble. He was tall and lanky, somewhere in his\u003cbr\u003emid-thirties, with dark tangled hair and an open smile. If you didn’t\u003cbr\u003eknow better, you’d think he was just another laid-back hipster–until you\u003cbr\u003enoticed his eyes, saw the edge there. A reporter for SLAP magazine,\u003cbr\u003eJimmy was a troublemaker by trade and inclination, with fast hands and\u003cbr\u003etoo much curiosity for his own good. Fight or flight, it made no\u003cbr\u003edifference anymore.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Do I really look okay?” Rollo examined the Polaroid, then stepped into\u003cbr\u003ea pair of tie-dyed shorts, almost falling over as he hopped on one\u003cbr\u003eskinny leg. He reached for his Hawaiian silky, an original aloha shirt\u003cbr\u003efrom the 1920s, museum quality, worth more than the VW van he drove. “I\u003cbr\u003emean, if you were a woman, would you find me sexually attractive?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sexually? So we’re past ‘physically’ now?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yeah, it was sort of like a rolling stop. So would you? If you were a\u003cbr\u003ewoman?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m not really in touch with my feminine side.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRollo glanced at the twins cavorting among the broken TVs and shattered\u003cbr\u003emicrowave ovens. “I think I should start working out or something. Maybe\u003cbr\u003eget some B-twelve shots. Or human growth hormone. They say you can get\u003cbr\u003ecancer from that stuff, but it takes a long time. Five or ten years at\u003cbr\u003eleast.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“At least.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRollo glanced up at the bluffs. “We should get out of here.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe four of them had spent the last few hours driving around Los Angeles\u003cbr\u003etrying to fill the scavenger hunt list that Napitano had passed out at\u003cbr\u003ehis party. Antonin “Nino” Napitano was the autocratic publisher of SLAP\u003cbr\u003emagazine, a smash-mouth monthly with a no-corrections, no-apologies\u003cbr\u003eeditorial policy. Vanity Fair had perfected the art of the Hollywood\u003cbr\u003eair-kiss, fawning yet dignified, but SLAP’s kisses drew blood, its\u003cbr\u003eeviscerating profiles and critiques sending the rich and famous\u003cbr\u003escuttling for their spin doctors and libel attorneys.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInvitations to Napitano’s lavish parties were sought after by bit actors\u003cbr\u003eand screenwriters with a P.O. box instead of an office, potential rock\u003cbr\u003estars, and models-of-the-moment. Scavenger hunt winners had their faces\u003cbr\u003esplashed across the “Shock of the New” section of SLAP’s next issue, a\u003cbr\u003eguarantee that their phone numbers would be on speed-dials all over the\u003cbr\u003ecity. For a month, anyway. Jimmy didn’t need the ink–he was Napitano’s\u003cbr\u003efavorite, the only writer who stood up to him–but Rollo and the Monelli\u003cbr\u003etwins could use all the help they could get.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRollo tugged at his goatee as he stared at Tamra posing inside the giant\u003cbr\u003eletter O, back arched, her belly bronze in the moonlight. “Too bad\u003cbr\u003eJane’s not here, Jimmy. I’d like to scope out the goods.” He saw Jimmy’s\u003cbr\u003eexpression and took a step back. “Jimmy’s girlfriend was supposed to\u003cbr\u003ecome to the party,” he explained to the twins, “but she stiffed him when\u003cbr\u003eshe heard I was on the guest list. She’s some hotshot detective with the\u003cbr\u003eLaguna PD; real pretty too, but she doesn’t like me.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Jane got a call from the assistant DA. One of her cases is going south.\u003cbr\u003eThat’s why she had to back out of the party.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m glad she didn’t come,” flirted Tamra. “Out of sight, out of mind,\u003cbr\u003ethat’s my motto.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Why doesn’t Jane like me?” asked Rollo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“She says that every time you come by, she feels that she should count\u003cbr\u003ethe silverware afterward.” Jimmy grinned. “I convinced her to cut you\u003cbr\u003esome slack, but bringing the palm tree to her dinner party–that finished\u003cbr\u003eit.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You know what that tree was worth?” sputtered Rollo. “Dwarf sago palms\u003cbr\u003eare protected, man. I could have sold it to a collector for a thousand\u003cbr\u003ebucks.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“He dug it up from a botanical garden,” Jimmy told the twins. “He\u003cbr\u003earrived at Jane’s door with this palm tree in a shopping cart. All these\u003cbr\u003elawyers and cops standing around drinking martinis, and here’s Rollo\u003cbr\u003epushing the cart into the living room, wheels squeaking, dirt falling\u003cbr\u003eall over the carpet.” He shook his head. “I told you to bring flowers.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The greenhouse was locked,” explained Rollo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You told us you were a director.” Tonya looked at her sister.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I am,” said Rollo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“He is,” said Jimmy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJimmy and Rollo were the only people in L.A. who were convinced. His\u003cbr\u003eoddball documentaries devoid of commercial potential, Rollo financed his\u003cbr\u003efilms with assorted scams and hustles: counterfeiting Disneyland\u003cbr\u003etickets, peddling hot electronic gear, hacking into databases to improve\u003cbr\u003ecredit histories. He was a gawky high-school dropout with an IQ over 140\u003cbr\u003eand barely enough common sense to keep himself out of jail, and though\u003cbr\u003ehe slept with a night-light on, he had risked his life for Jimmy and\u003cbr\u003enever mentioned it afterward. They were friends.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRollo bent down and tossed Tonya her panties, the black silk rippling\u003cbr\u003ethrough the air like a fleeing octopus. “We should go. The last item on\u003cbr\u003ethe list is the hardest.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Where we going to find an Oscar?” said Tamra.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A real Oscar,” said Tonya, spinning her panties around one finger. “No\u003cbr\u003ebest-costume or best-song crap.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Major-category gold,” finished Tamra. “That’s what the rules said.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJimmy reached into his pocket and answered his phone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“How goes the hunt, dear boy?” cooed Napitano. “Did you get the\u003cbr\u003erubbing?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJimmy could hear music at Nino’s end, and the tinkle of glassware.\u003cbr\u003e“Yeah, we got it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Splendid. Some of the other players had difficulties with that one.\u003cbr\u003eLegal difficulties.” Napitano clucked his disapproval. “Most of the\u003cbr\u003eteams saw ‘A tombstone rubbing from a silent film star’ and headed\u003cbr\u003edirectly to Forest Lawn, even though it’s after hours. Arrests have been\u003cbr\u003emade, Jimmy, it’s quite tragic.” He hummed softly. “I was wondering,\u003cbr\u003ethough, how the police knew that there was going to be a mass scaling of\u003cbr\u003ethe gates.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I have no idea.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Bravo. ‘Admit nothing’–if that’s not on your family crest, it should\u003cbr\u003ebe.” Napitano was chewing something. “Which star’s tombstone did you\u003cbr\u003evisit?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Rex the wonder dog. The pet cemetery in Encino is unguarded.”\u003cbr\u003eNapitano’s laugh was a blubbery wheeze as Jimmy broke the connection.\u003cbr\u003e“Get dressed. We’re being watched.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRollo craned his neck toward the bluffs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Don’t look,” said Jimmy. “Just move.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Monelli twins shimmied into their matching black dresses.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRollo squinted. “I don’t see–” A portable TV crashed onto the ground\u003cbr\u003eabout ten feet away, exploded in a spray of glass. He screamed, grabbed\u003cbr\u003eat his ankle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWar whoops sounded overhead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Head toward the van,” Jimmy said quietly. A cinder block thudded into\u003cbr\u003ethe weeds right beside him. “Don’t run.” He watched Rollo race toward\u003cbr\u003ethe van, arms folded over his head, the Monelli twins right behind him,\u003cbr\u003ewobbling on their high heels. Jimmy smiled and ambled up the path, hands\u003cbr\u003ein his pockets, waiting for a grand piano to land on his head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRollo didn’t even wait for Jimmy to close the door to the VW van before\u003cbr\u003epeeling off. No one spoke for a long time. They were almost at the I-5\u003cbr\u003efreeway before Tamra finally broke the silence. “So whose Oscar are we\u003cbr\u003egoing to borrow?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRollo veered into the carpool lane. “It’s a surprise.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“So is a cerebral hemorrhage,” said Jimmy, suspicious now. “Who are we\u003cbr\u003egoing to see?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRollo cleared his throat. “Garrett Walsh.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Motherfucker,” said Jimmy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I knew you weren’t going to like it,” said Rollo, accelerating.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Who’s Garrett Walsh?” said Tonya.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“He made that kinky movie from a long time ago. Firebug,” said Tamra.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Firebug won two Academy Awards,” said Rollo, easing through late\u003cbr\u003eevening traffic. “It was his first movie, a cheapo thriller full of\u003cbr\u003etwists and reversals, with lousy distribution and no stars, but Mr.\u003cbr\u003eWalsh walked away with two Oscars, best director and best screenplay.\u003cbr\u003eEven Tarantino didn’t pull off a double play his first time out.” A\u003cbr\u003esilver Lexus cut him off, and Rollo leaned on the horn. “And it wasn’t\u003cbr\u003ethat long ago. Nine years, big deal.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“He murdered a teenage girl,” said Jimmy. “Walsh was only released from\u003cbr\u003eprison a few months ago.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Heather Grimm,” said Tamra.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Who?” said Rollo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The girl he killed,” said Tamra. “Her name was Heather Grimm.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Seven years for murder–he should have gotten seventy,” said Jimmy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I remember now, we were in junior high when it happened,” Tonya chirped\u003cbr\u003eto her twin. “There was a picture of her in Entertainment Weekly. She\u003cbr\u003elooked like a cheerleader.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Blonde, of course,” the twins said in unison, clasping pinkies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Where else are we going to get an Academy Award, Jimmy?” said Rollo.\u003cbr\u003e“It’s not like there’s a black market in them.” He considered it. “At\u003cbr\u003eleast not for the major ones.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You sure you know where we’re going?” Jimmy asked a half-hour later.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRollo squinted through the cracked, dusty windshield. The VW’s lights\u003cbr\u003ebarely illuminated the winding, two-lane road as the van lurched its way\u003cbr\u003eup Orange Hill, second gear slipping. There was a restaurant on the\u003cbr\u003epeak, and houses strung along the ridges of the Anaheim foothills,\u003cbr\u003emillion-dollar crackerboxes with views of the ocean ten miles away. On a\u003cbr\u003egood day at least.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJimmy stuck his head out the window to get a better look. The air\u003cbr\u003epollution cut off the stars, and it was the myriad glittering lights\u003cbr\u003ebelow that looked like the Milky Way, the rakish, cocked neon halo atop\u003cbr\u003ethe A in the angels stadium sign shining brighter than Polaris. It was\u003cbr\u003eas though the world had flipped over, and they were not moving higher\u003cbr\u003ebut lower, into the darkness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I ran into Mr. Walsh at the Strand’s midnight movie a few weeks ago,”\u003cbr\u003eRollo said to the twins. “He was getting–”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What is this ‘Mr. Walsh’ crap?” said Jimmy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I was the only one who recognized him,” continued Rollo. “He didn’t\u003cbr\u003ewant company, but I followed him to his car afterward anyway. It\u003cbr\u003ewouldn’t start, which I thought was a good omen, because it was three\u003cbr\u003ea.m. and he didn’t have money for a tow truck.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Walsh should have called O.J. and asked him for a lift,” said Jimmy.\u003cbr\u003e“Killers helping killers–it sounds like a bumper sticker.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“How could he not have any money?” said Tamra. “Firebug did over seventy\u003cbr\u003emillion domestic. That’s a cost-return ratio of almost fifty to one.\u003cbr\u003eHe’s got to be sitting on a pile.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJimmy turned around and stared at her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What?” said Tamra. “I majored in business at community college.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Mr. Walsh was pretty nervous that night,” said Rollo. “Pretty drunk\u003cbr\u003etoo. He kept asking me to run red lights and dodge through alleys. I\u003cbr\u003ethink he was scared we were being followed. Fans can be pretty\u003cbr\u003eaggressive.” The van lurched, and he fed it more gas, then suddenly\u003cbr\u003eveered off the main road and onto a barely visible gravel path, the\u003cbr\u003ewheels spitting up stones. “Mr. Walsh told me to stay on the paved road,\u003cbr\u003ethen had me drop him off in front of this big house. He said it was his\u003cbr\u003eplace, but I watched him in my rearview as I pulled away and saw him\u003cbr\u003epretending to unlock the gate.” Rollo grinned. “He’s a tricky guy. I\u003cbr\u003eguess you have to be when you’re famous.” The van hit a pothole, and\u003cbr\u003eRollo’s chin banged against the steering wheel, but he was so pleased\u003cbr\u003ewith himself that he didn’t seem to notice. “So I started back down the\u003cbr\u003ehill, then cut my lights, parked on the shoulder, and waited. Sure\u003cbr\u003eenough, ten minutes later I see Mr. Walsh walking up this path. I tagged\u003cbr\u003ealong on foot. He had to stop a couple of times to throw up, and I\u003cbr\u003ethought once he heard me, but now I know where he lives. Smart, huh?”","brand":"Vintage Crime\/Black Lizard","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305287733477,"sku":"NP9781400032549","price":15.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781400032549.jpg?v=1767736180","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/scavenger-hunt-isbn-9781400032549","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}