The Alias Men

by F. T. Bradley

  I groaned. Why couldn’t this just be easy?

  But there was no time to whine about it. I had to get to work, before Tour Guide Greg realized I was missing.

  I combed the rows of musty-smelling dresses, suits, and coats. There were clear plastic containers with shoes inside, stacked high on the shelves down one of the aisles. I didn’t see a safe, so I wondered if maybe the Dangerous Double was hidden in plain sight.

  “Hats, I need hats,” I mumbled. These Pandora missions were so stressful, I was turning into Grandpa, talking to myself.

  Finally, I found an area with big round hatboxes—this had to be it, right? But which one had the Chaplin hat, my Dangerous Double? Thankfully, each box was neatly labeled: Ladies, 1930s and so on. What was Chaplin’s hat again? I pulled the picture Black had given me from my pocket, and took a quick glance. Right—a bowler hat. That was what I needed.

  I was about halfway down the aisle with the hatboxes when I heard the faint sound of a door opening then closing at the other end of the warehouse, where I’d come in.

  I froze.

  “Hey, kid!”

  6

  THURSDAY, 2:51 P.M.

  “HEY!” GREG THE GUIDE HOLLERED AGAIN from the prop area. “You’re gonna get me fired. Nobody’s allowed to just run around the lot. Come out—I know you’re in here!”

  I wasn’t giving up now. Not when I was so close. So I hurried down the aisle, frantically looking for the bowler hat.

  And there it was! It even said on the little label: Chaplin Bowler. I couldn’t believe my luck when I opened the box and pulled out the hat.

  “I’ll find you, you little pain in the rear,” Greg said, sounding much closer now.

  I quickly stuffed the bowler hat inside my backpack. Then I hurried toward the door I’d come in through, and turned off the light.

  “Ah—looking for costumes, are you?” I heard Greg’s footsteps nearby. He must have seen the lights go off through the windows by the door.

  I should’ve just left the lights on. Now he had me.

  I saw the door handle inch down. I slipped between some poufy Mary Poppins dresses, hoping Greg wouldn’t find me.

  “You know, you might as well come out,” Greg called as he came in through the door to the costume department. “I already called security.” He closed the door behind him.

  I held my breath. These dresses could’ve used some dry cleaning, let me tell you.

  “Sterling Studios doesn’t tolerate trespassing, you know.” Greg sounded very close now. “You’ll go to kid prison, sport.” He stood right next to me. I could see his white shoes under the dresses. And he saw me, too. “Ha!” he yelled, and reached into the rack of dresses.

  But this wasn’t my first getaway, in case you’re wondering. So I darted deeper into the rack of dresses and then slipped out. Except one of those skirt hoops got stuck on the zipper of my backpack. And before I knew it, I saw the whole rack come down.

  Right on top of Greg the guide’s head. He struggled, and looked like he was being attacked by all those dresses.

  I laughed. It was funny, right?

  Then I saw two security guards opening the door to the costume department. And Albert Black was wrong—they weren’t surfer dudes. Sure, they were tanned, but they also looked pretty serious about their jobs.

  So I quickly turned around, and stared right at Greg. He had a hoop skirt stuck on his head, making him look ridiculous.

  But I didn’t laugh this time. Because the two guards approached behind me, and I knew there was no way out of this jam.

  I was busted.

  7

  THURSDAY, 3:00 P.M.

  THE GUARDS TOOK ME AWAY, RIGHT after they helped Greg wrangle that hoop skirt.

  “Make sure this kid never makes it back onto Sterling Studios property,” Greg huffed on his way out to meet the stranded tourists. “Blacklist him!”

  The guards had gotten there on bicycles, but they ended up walking alongside the bikes as we made our way to the small office building near the warehouse.

  “What on earth were you doing over there, kid?” the older of the guards asked me. He looked friendly enough.

  I shrugged. “Just curious, I guess.” I glanced at the guy’s partner, a tall skinny dude with thin reddish hair. He was carrying my backpack with the Dangerous Double inside. I didn’t really care what happened next, as long as I could complete this mission.

  “You know, we’ll have to call the authorities now,” the older guard said. We passed a group of guys, one with a folder, all of them giving us a sideways glance.

  “The police?” I said.

  I was thinking about calling Albert Black to bail me out, when this skinny guy walked up to us. His hair was bleached blond, he wore brown plastic glasses, and under a leather jacket I saw a Rolling Stones T-shirt. He walked kind of bouncily on bright orange sneakers.

  Whoever he was, this odd-looking dude made the guards stop in their tracks. “Mr. Floyd,” the older guard said.

  Floyd pointed at me. “Who’s the kid?”

  “Lincoln Baker,” I said. Mr. Floyd was obviously important, or otherwise no one would have let him get away with wearing that getup, so I straightened. “Everybody just calls me Linc.”

  “You’re brilliant, Linc,” Floyd said with a big smile. He had a British accent.

  The older guard cleared his throat. “Actually, Lincoln Baker here broke into the costume department warehouse. We’re detaining him until the police arrive.”

  Floyd nodded, like he was agreeing with the older guard. I guess I wasn’t so brilliant after all. But then Floyd shook his head and said, “Forget about all that. Let the kid go.”

  I smiled. “Yeah. That’s a great idea.”

  Floyd studied my face. “For the last two days, I’ve been watching every bloomin’ child in this city audition for my film. They’re all awful. But you . . .” He grabbed my chin and moved my face. Studied my profile from each side. “You’re just the kid I’m looking for.”

  “You’re casting him in your movie?” the tall guard asked.

  Uh-oh. “I’m not an actor,” I said. “So you’ve got the wrong guy.”

  Floyd shook his head. Pulled a pen and piece of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket. “It’s settled. Come to this address—my humble abode,” he said with a smile as he handed the paper over. “Seven o’clock. We’re having a little bash to celebrate a friend’s Oscar nomination, yeah?”

  If it got me out of this jam with Sterling Studios security, why not, right? “Um, okay.”

  “You’re perfect for the role.” Floyd tucked the paper in my palm. “Be there tonight and I’ll make sure my assistant, Larry, gets you the contract for your agent, Lincoln—what was it again?”

  “Baker.”

  “Lincoln Baker.” He smiled. “Marvelous.” He turned and waved his hand over his shoulder as he walked away. “Absolutely marvelous!”

  The guards looked kind of lost, there on the studio sidewalk. I glanced at the piece of paper in my palm. Stuffed it in my pocket.

  “Well, buddy,” the old guard said with a sigh, “I guess you’re a movie star.”

  I was about to object to this, when the tall guard handed me my backpack. “Good luck.”

  “So I can leave now?” I asked.

  The guards nodded.

  I smiled. I found the Dangerous Double—and got busted—but still managed to walk out with the hat. I saved my family, all in like an hour. It couldn’t have ended better than this.

  Albert Black would be thrilled, and now I could go back to my aunt and uncle’s place to spend the weekend with the Baker clan.

  Perfect ending to a perfect day, I thought as I walked past the security shack and back to the café. Albert Black was waiting for me at the curb, about to light one of his stinky cigars.

  “Back already, kid?” Black tucked the cigar in the breast pocket of his shirt. “They kick you out?”

  I shook my head, and couldn’t help grin
ning. “I got the hat!”

  “Shhh!” Black glanced around, but there was only some woman with a stroller trying to get inside the café, too busy to notice us. He relaxed. “Let’s see it.”

  I got closer. Unzipped the large compartment of my backpack. And reached inside to pull out the bowler hat. “Do we need to be careful?” I asked Black. “You know, so we don’t go invisible in the middle of LA?”

  Albert Black groaned. “You’re gonna wish you were invisible.” He pulled the hat from my backpack and shoved it in my face. “Read the label on the inside.”

  Made in China.

  “So what?”

  “This is a cheap knockoff Chaplin hat—made in the past decade, at best.”

  I felt my heart stop. “This isn’t the Dangerous Double.”

  Albert Black shook his head. “You got the wrong hat, kid.”

  “But there wasn’t another one. And it said ‘Chaplin Bowler’ on the box,” I added.

  “It was there when the costume department head died.” Black’s face went dark. “Maybe someone beat you to it.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “Did that terrorist group get the Dangerous Double?”

  Black shook his head. “They’re not in the US—not yet anyway.”

  “Some safe place, this warehouse,” I mumbled.

  Black said, “Word is, William Redding practically lived at that costume department, never even took a sick day. He guarded the Chaplin Dangerous Double. The costume department was a very safe place to keep it. Until he died, that is.”

  “So do I have to go back to Sterling Studios? This dude Greg really hates me, and there’s some strange director guy in orange sneakers who wants me to be in his movie.”

  Black pulled my arm. “Wait—what director?”

  “I don’t know.” I pulled away. “He said I was perfect for his movie or something. He had a British accent—Floyd,” I added, remembering the guy’s name now. “Weird dude.”

  “Nigel Floyd—he’s a famous movie director, kid.” Black smiled. “This might just work out after all. It’s possible someone on that Sterling Studios movie lot took the Dangerous Double before we could get to it. Security around here is obviously tight enough that it has to be a staff member. This person probably doesn’t even know about the powers of the Chaplin hat.”

  “So now what?” I stuffed the stupid bowler hat inside my backpack and zipped it up.

  “Floyd loves you.” Black smacked my shoulder. “This is a perfect way in. We can find out if someone took the Dangerous Double. Steal it back.”

  I felt a familiar feeling in my gut, the kind I’d had on my previous missions. Like Pandora just dropped a brick inside my stomach. “I have to go to this party tonight? I’m no actor,” I muttered.

  “You are now.” Black grinned. “Welcome to Hollywood, kid.”

  8

  THURSDAY, 3:30 P.M.

  I CALLED MY COUSIN, AND HE PICKED ME up outside the Perfect Frame Café. During the drive back, Mike and Willow argued about the right amount of butter on popcorn (Willow said none was best, while Mike thought popcorn should be drenched in it). All I could think about was these bad terrorist dudes. The Dangerous Double. The drone weapon that could kill everyone in Los Angeles.

  The thought of buttered popcorn made me feel sick to my stomach.

  As we got closer to Pasadena, I tried to come up with a cover story to tell my parents. How was I going to talk them into letting me go to some famous director’s house that evening? Twelve-year-olds don’t go to fancy Hollywood parties.

  As we walked up to my aunt and uncle’s place, I still didn’t know what to do. But thankfully, my dad and my aunt Jenny had their heads buried under the hood of a rusty car that was parked inside the garage. There were car parts strewn all over the lawn—a bench seat, a rusty battery, even the steering wheel wasn’t where it should be.

  “Dude, this is a disaster,” I whispered to Mike.

  Mike just shrugged. Willow made a face and disappeared inside.

  “Linc!” Dad got out from under the hood of the car and smiled. His face was smeared with oil, and his glasses had slid to the tip of his nose. “Isn’t she a beauty?”

  “She’s something.”

  Aunt Jenny came over and wiped motor oil on my cheek. “In a few days, this will be a mint 1940 Cadillac Town Car—just you watch.”

  “You gotta see the potential, Linc.” Dad put his hand on the rust-colored metal. “She doesn’t know it herself, but we’ll show her.” He always talked about cars like they were people. “Come on inside. We’ll go see Mom.”

  Mom looked up from her cutting board when we made it to the kitchen. The place looked like the vegetables had been in battle, and they were all casualties. “How was the tour?” she asked.

  I hesitated, and then decided my best bet was not something I would ordinarily do. Any other situation, I’d come up with a good story, something that Mom and Dad would buy. But instead I rolled the dice.

  I told them the truth.

  “Wait—you’re cast in a movie?” Mom stopped cutting celery. “By a famous director, no less.”

  “Nigel Floyd or something,” I said, adding a shrug.

  Mom frowned. “It sounds like one of your made-up stories.”

  “It’s the truth!” I argued.

  Dad jumped in, thank goodness. “Seems like a cool opportunity, Linc.”

  “So can I go?” I asked. “To this party tonight?”

  “Isn’t there paperwork to sign?” Mom frowned. “I should really talk to the director.”

  “No need,” I said quickly. “I can just bring the paperwork home. Floyd said he’ll have it at the party.”

  Mom pointed the knife at me. “You can’t miss the reunion picnic. I don’t care what the shooting schedule is. I’ll have to see this contract. Oh, and you’ll have to let me know where you are at all times.”

  “Sure, yeah.” I felt relief push away that brick in my stomach. “Can you put the knife down, Mom?”

  She looked at her hand, and then shook her head with a smile as she placed the knife on the cutting board. “I’m so . . . frazzled.” Mom sighed. “These picnics always turn into such a stressed weekend. I just hope my pasta salad tastes okay.”

  Mom’s pasta salad stinks, if you want to know the truth. But don’t tell her that. The only dish she can pull off is spaghetti and meatballs, and I’m pretty sure the meatballs come frozen and the sauce is from a jar. “You’ll be fine,” I lied. “So can I go to this party?”

  “As long as Mike agrees to join you, we have a deal.”

  Thankfully, Mike never got the memo about having to come with me to the party. I mean, joining me could mean just driving, right? So technically I wasn’t lying.

  “Sure, cuz,” he said when I asked him for a ride. “I’m heading to Santa Monica to hang on the pier with my guys. I can drop you off before.”

  After dinner, we took off from the house at six thirty and hit the highway. Willow wasn’t coming along this time, and Mike was pretty quiet until we took the exit to the 110.

  “So you’re gonna be in a movie, huh?” He smiled and nodded. “That’s super cool, man.”

  “Yeah.” Truth was, the idea of being on camera scared me more than being chased by bad dudes on a Pandora case.

  “Hey, think you can get me a spot?” Mike gave me his cockiest of grins.

  “I’ll try.”

  “That would be cool, right?” He nodded to himself. “Be in a real Nigel Floyd movie. Man.” He smiled.

  If I could, I’d give him my spot.

  We didn’t talk the rest of the way, and Mike turned the radio to some heavy metal. Not that I was listening. As we passed Culver City (no traffic, which was a miracle) and exited the 110 at the Pacific Coast Highway along the beach, I couldn’t stop thinking about the Dangerous Double.

  Who had it? What if this bad-dude terrorist group got ahold of it and used it to get into the conference and take the drone weapon?

  “H
ey, Linc.” Mike pushed my shoulder. “We’re here, man.”

  I looked up and realized we’d already arrived in Malibu and were driving up a winding road. Mike stopped a dozen yards from the double metal gates.

  “Can’t go farther,” Mike said, pointing at the gates. “Unless you take me with you.” He gave me a hopeful glance.

  I shook my head. “No, invitation only. Sorry,” I added, hoping I sounded like I meant it. I couldn’t risk Mike getting caught in the middle of the Pandora mission.

  Mike shrugged. “Call me if you need a ride back.”

  I got out and felt the cool breeze coming from the Pacific. It was getting dark, but I could still see the water below. This had to be the best place to live in California. I pulled the straps on my backpack tighter, feeling the compass swing on the clip, reminding me why I was here.

  I watched Mike’s taillights disappear, and geared up to go to this party. I took a deep breath and tried to clear my head to focus on the mission. Get the Dangerous Double.

  But then I saw a white van pull up and stop on the side of the road. The driver flashed the headlights—just once, but it was enough for me to know: Albert Black was here.

  When the cargo side door slid open, I was greeted by a face I hate more than anyone’s in the world.

  Benjamin Green.

  9

  THURSDAY, 7:00 P.M.

  THE WORST THING ABOUT BEN GREEN? HE looks almost exactly like me. Take away the cocky grin and the standard-issue black cargo pants and we might as well be twins. Only he’s a by-the-book, know-it-all junior secret agent, and I’m the exact opposite. Needless to say, I can’t stand the guy.

  “Get in, Baker,” he said.

  Since there was a red sports car waiting to pass the van, I did. It wasn’t until I got inside that I took a good look at Ben’s outfit. He was wearing a pair of blue swimming trunks and a green shirt with I Love LA on it.