Every day before work, Matthew would stop by Lister's office to pick up the car keys and his assignment for the night. So when the receptionist told him where to go, he wasn't surprised. He headed straight up to the second floor, knocked, and pushed open the office door.
"Well, look who it is…"
As soon as he walked in, that loud, grating voice from the bald black guy rang out. "Our big movie star."
Every time Matthew came into this office, the bald guy would mock him. As usual, Matthew ignored him and headed straight for Lister's desk to pick up the night's assignment.
But the bald guy didn't stop. "Heard you went to another audition? What kind of film this time? Something like that last one?"
Matthew still didn't know how it had happened, but somehow word got out in the company about how he almost ended up in that kind of film.
"Naked star boy!" the chubby guy beside him burst out laughing. "You going back to shoot porn again, you idiot?"
"How much do those kinds of movies even pay?" the bald guy chimed in again. "Hey, hick! With your looks, if you just take your clothes off, I bet a bunch of rich cougars and gay dudes would pay you a fortune!"
Lister said nothing. Just like always, he sat back and watched the show, clearly enjoying the sight of that annoying black guy mocking the poor redneck. It was his favorite form of entertainment.
Matthew, holding a freshly bought magazine, stopped and looked at the bald man. The guy widened his eyes, curled his thick sausage-like lips into a sneer, and spat, "What are you looking at, dumbass? Did I say something wrong?"
Even the most patient man has his limits. Matthew wasn't exactly a saint either. After taking this crap for so long, he was reaching his breaking point. He almost snapped back with a certain "N-word," but held back when he noticed others in the office. That kind of slur could land him in real trouble.
"Not everyone's as mean, petty, and stuck as you are," he finally shot back.
"What did you say?"
The black guy looked like he was about to explode. "You Texas hick! You know where you are? This is L.A.!"
He rolled up his sleeves like he was going to throw hands, but after noticing he was half a head shorter and nowhere near as built as Matthew, he backed off. Instead, he grabbed his water bottle and took a loud, angry gulp.
Lister still didn't say a word. He didn't like the black guy, and he didn't like the hick either. Watching them fight was the best part of his day.
The bald guy slammed down half the water. "Keep dreaming, hick! Even if you stick around for fifty years, you'll still be a worthless chauffeur! You'll be an extra your whole damn life in Hollywood! You—"
He didn't get to finish.
Matthew tossed the open magazine onto the guy's desk. The page facing up was a full-page movie poster, with a block of text underneath.
It was the Premiere magazine he'd flipped through outside the Red Penguin offices. He couldn't be bothered to argue anymore. Fighting with an ignorant fool like that would just make him feel sick. Even if he "won," so what?
The bald guy looked down and froze.
It was a poster for some kind of historical epic. The background showed a horde of ragged barbarians. Standing front and center, towering over them all, was their leader—muscular, savage, and imposing.
But something about that barbarian's face, partially hidden behind a wild beard, looked very familiar.
Lister handed Matthew a file and some car keys. "You'll be driving the Ford tonight. Head to Malibu. You've been there before, right?"
Matthew glanced over the file and nodded. "Yeah. I have." Then he asked, "What happened to the last driver?"
"Quit!" Lister grumbled. "These idiots. They had a decent job and left to play the stock market! Bunch of fools headed straight for bankruptcy."
He waved Matthew off. "Now get going. Don't be late! And listen—this client's in a bad mood lately. No matter what happens, just suck it up."
"Got it." Matthew took the keys and file, didn't even glance at the stunned bald guy, and walked out.
In the drivers' lounge, he double-checked the file. Just as he thought—the destination tonight was Johnny Lee Miller's estate in Malibu.
Back in Lister's office, the bald guy was still staring at the poster, disbelief growing in his eyes.
"What is it?" the chubby guy leaned over. "That hick tossed you a magazine and now you're catatonic?"
He looked down at the poster and froze too. After a few seconds, his face twisted like he'd seen a ghost. He pointed at the poster and the caption beneath it. "This guy… this face… isn't that Matthew Horner?"
"No way!" the bald guy barked. "That's not him!"
Lister, curious now, walked over and picked up the magazine. Unlike the other two, he dealt with Matthew daily. One look at the poster was enough. That was definitely Matthew Horner's face.
He read the text beneath: Universal Pictures… $100 million budget… Directed by Ridley Scott… Co-starring Russell Crowe…
"Could it really be that idiot?" Lister rubbed his chin. "Is Matthew Horner about to make it big?"
"I said it's not him!" the bald guy shouted at the chubby one. "Didn't you hear me, dumbass?"
Now the fat guy was pissed too. "You blind or just stupid, you damn idiot?!"
"F@#$!"
The bald guy lunged, grabbing his collar. The fat guy shoved him hard, sending the bald guy crashing to the floor.
"Enough!"
Even though they were technically peers, Lister had seniority at Red Penguin and yelled, "What the hell are you two doing?!"
They glared at each other but didn't dare say more.
"That was Matthew Horner," the chubby one muttered, heading back to his desk.
The bald guy struggled to his feet, his face unreadable. He'd mocked that Texas hick for so long, and now that same guy was apparently the lead on a Ridley Scott movie? Front and center on a major film poster?
"No… no way that's him…"
The bald guy told himself over and over again—he simply refused to believe it.
Meanwhile, in the drivers' lounge, Matthew finished reading the magazine and leaned back to rest a moment. Then he remembered his assignment for the night and scratched his head.
Angelina Jolie had finalized her divorce from Johnny Lee Miller the previous month. Matthew didn't know the details, but the media said Johnny got taken to the cleaners—especially in the asset split.
Matthew suspected the tape had played a key role.
But the fact that he was still working at Red Penguin meant Johnny hadn't connected the dots yet.
"He must be seriously pissed," Matthew muttered.
One of the other drivers had told him that Johnny had been constantly calling Red Penguin recently, hiring nearly every model the agency worked with.
Tonight's party at Johnny's estate was supposed to be even bigger than the last one. Matthew had more passengers to pick up, too.
Once it was time to go, he started up the Ford van and left the Red Penguin building. He was headed for Westwood to pick up the first group.
But just as he turned off Hollywood Boulevard, he noticed a yellow Chevrolet in the rearview mirror.
It was following him.
Matthew took a couple of detours, turned a few corners—but the yellow Chevy stayed behind him the whole time.
"Who the hell is following me?" he frowned. "Could it be someone from Forbidden Tarot coming to collect?"
Or maybe…
He went through the list of people he'd pissed off lately—Johnny Lee Miller, that idiot Makin from Gladiator, Winona Ryder…
No, probably not Winona. He had leverage on her, and they'd signed an NDA.
As he was thinking, the van rolled up to a familiar house. He honked the horn, and the girl named Rachel came out, waving and shouting, "Give me ten minutes!"
Matthew waved back casually. Then he checked his rearview again.
The yellow Chevy was parked less than ten meters behind him.
The passenger window rolled down.
A black cylindrical object poked out—first aimed at the van, then turned toward the house…
And at that moment, a chilling realization hit Matthew.