“Okay, Squidward,” Sam said, laughter in his voice. “Yes, you’re right. The what-the-fuck was strong in that room, and I swear to God, I could not look at Wig-Milt without going a little bit blind. And yes, that might’ve been due to extenuating circumstances, but I abso-fucking-lutely believe he was wearing a wig. And not like a tasteful hairpiece, BW. I know we’re in Hollywood where bald equals old equals nope. I accept that we’re gonna get a lotta wigs while we’re here, and I’m not a hater. I swear.” He put his hand over his heart. “Letwig-wearers wear their wigs, I’m fine with that. But this wasepic. Picture, if you will, if Milt the Junior had a dog—a big dog—who ate his wig and shat it out, and Milt woke up—probably out in his front yard after he’d stumbled home from a weeklong trip to Reno, okay? Milt crawls inside, doesn’t shower or change, looks at his calendar and saysOh, yeah that meeting with the team from Troubleshooters and Dead Milt’s asshole lawyer is in ten minutes,so he glances around through his bleary eyes, spots his shatted-out wig on the floor, rinses it off—half-heartedly—in the kitchen sink, sticks it on his head—possibly backwards—and drives to the meeting.”
“He’s our client, be respectful,” Jules said, even though he was laughing at Sam’s description, too.
“Respectfully,” Sam said, “his wig looked like his dog ate it and shatted it out. He kinda smelled like that, too.”
“Please tell me there are photos.” Robin laughed as he looked from Jules to Sam and back. Jules was rolling his eyes, but he was still laughing, too.
“Oh there are photos, because I knew you would ask.” Sam happily pulled out his phone again, scrolled to his photos app, and showed the screen to Robin, swiping through a series of three.
“Oh my God,” Robin said as he took Sam’s phone and zoomed in.Thiswas the client? Sam was not kidding. The man looked like... his dog ate his wig, yup. “Oh,my God. Please tell me he paid you upfront.”
“He gave us a very large retainer,” Jules confirmed. “In advance, via ACH. It sits securely in the company account.”
"What. Thefuck!” Robin said.
“’Xactly,” Sam said.
“Although, okay, actually, if I squint I could make this make sense,” Robin said, again flipping through the photos that Sam had covertly taken. “I mean, when you take all ofthe potential PTSD and mental illnesses into consideration... This is, after all, Milt Devonshire Junior, the son of the ultra famous, known-to-be-an-asshole TV producer, with all of that crazy-ass paparazzi bullshit that followed both of them around, 24/7. If I lived through what he’s lived through, I might look like this, too. But after being Milt Devonshire Junior for all these awful, painful years, how does he not want those tens of millions, like, hasn’t he earned it? Except he’s the one who hired you to find the woman—a stranger to him—who’s gonna inherit the bulk of the estate...?”
“Enormous quivering what-the-fuck, right?” Sam said. “The wig is weird and hard not to focus on, butthat’sthe biggest what-the-fuck of all.” He dropped his Texas drawl as he imitated someone with a flat, California accent. “I really want to find her. The money’s hers. I don’t want it.Wig-Milt’s gotta be lying about that.”
“Nah, I believed him,” Jules cut in. “He really does want to find her. Emily. The lawyer, Harper, definitely doesn’t though.”
“Yeah, Harper,” Sam told Robin. “Whew. He’s his own separate orbiting moon of weirdness. He clearly despises Wig-Milt, plus he’s hiding something.”
“Itwaspretty strange,” Jules said. “If Harper hates Wig-Milt—and I’m only calling him that to be consistent—but if he hates him so much, and it sure seemed like he did, why did I get the sense that if he had his druthers, he’d contest the new will? Which would mean that everything would go to?—”
“Wig-Milt,” Sam said, picking Dave’s list up off the table and riffling through it again. “It’s a definite mystery.”
“I’m gonna check with Troubleshooters’ legal department,” Jules said, “get some advice from Martell Griffin on what would happen if Emily doesn’t turn up. There must be some way to proceed, you know, legally, if she’s not found. Itwould be good to know exactly what that entails, because I was picking up from Harper a very solid sense that we’re getting in his way.”
“Ditto,” Sam said. “Although wearegonna find her.” He tossed the list of Emilys back on the table and laughed, albeit a tad grimly. “Even if we have to knock on hundreds of doors. Damn, I’m hungry. And we haven’t even touched on the note.” He stood up. “Let’s remember to show Boy Wonder the note after dinner. I’m ordering pizza.”
“There’s a note?” Robin asked.
“Dead Milt wrote a note to Emily Johnson, but left out her address. Or any other identifying information,” Jules explained.
“But Rob speaks fluent Hollywood,” Sam pointed out. “Maybe there’s something there we mere mortals don’t see.” He held out his hand to Jules. “I need your car keys.”
“To order pizza?”
“I’m gonna go pick it up. I hate it when they bring it and it’s cold.”
Robin looked from Jules to Sam and back and it was ridiculously clear that Sam was making himself scarce to give them a little alone-time.
“You really don’t need to—” Robin started to say, but Jules surprised him by speaking over him. “I put ’em on the table by the front door.”
“Thanks. I’ll be back in... oh, probably around forty.” And with that Sam left the room, and then the house, as the front door closed solidly behind him.
And there they sat on that sofa, still wrapped in each other’s arms.
Keep it light, keep it upbeat... Robin pulled back to look into Jules’s eyes. “FYI, after looking at those photos, I’m on Team Wig.”
Jules laughed. “Sam’s not always right.”
“Sometimes he is.”
“It’s fun to work with him again,” Jules said. “That’s for sure. To be honest, this doesn’t feel that different from, you know.”
