I was with my girlfriend, Roxi, at a restaurant called Fred 62.

A weird name for a place with great food. I'm sure the restaurant had all sorts of history, too, although I didn't know it. But I was willing to bet that guys like Cagney and Hudson and Rooney all had eaten here at one point or another. Maybe Elizabeth Taylor had gotten shit-faced drunk in a back booth. Or John Wayne had punched out some asshole for asking too many lame questions. Maybe. I didn't know, but the place had an old Hollywood feel to it. Ancient vinyl booths. Old wood paneling. Old posters. Hip energy. And set right in the heart of Los Feliz, itself just north of bustling Hollywood.

"I think David Schwimmer is eating behind us," said Roxi. She sounded very excited.

"You mean Ross?"

"Yeah, Ross. And don't say 'Where's Rachel?'"

"Where's Rachel?"

"Dumb ass."

But she was right. At least I think she was right. Behind a head of neatly trimmed dark hair flashed the occasional profile of the Friends' star. He was with a beautiful woman, and they were sitting across from another beautiful couple.

"I think you're right," I said. "It's all very exciting."

"You don't look very excited."

"I live and work in L.A. I see stars all the time. So far, I have yet to see one of them levitate or turn water into wine."

She pouted. "You're such a party-pooper." But even as she said those words, I saw her brain turning. Steam practically issued from her ears.

"Oh, no," I said, catching on. "He doesn't want to read your screenplay."

"But he's a director now. This could be my big break."

"I doubt it."

"You don't believe in me?"

"Oh, I believe in you, but I doubt this is your big break."

She pouted some more and seemed to refocus on her menu. "It's a good screenplay."

"I know," I said. "I read it." Which was mostly true. I had skimmed it. I found that focusing on anything for too long was nearly impossible these days. It's hard to read words when you still hear your son screaming.

The waiter came by and took our order. I got a big breakfast sandwich, minus the ham, even though it was after 9:00 p.m. Roxi liked the sound of it and ordered the same, plus the ham. In fact, she made the waiter put my displaced ham on her sandwich.

He wrote everything down like it all made perfect sense, and when he left, Roxi asked me what I was working on. I told her about it, or as much as I knew.

"Wild," she said.

"About as wild as it gets."

"And you're doing it all for free?"

"Not quite. For two tacos."

She shook her head sadly. "You give away too much of your time. You could be doing paying work, you know." She next held up her hand, stopping me. "Wait. I already know what you're going to say."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah," she said. "You're going to tell me that it's not about the money, that it's about helping those who can't help themselves, about making things right in the universe."

"That, and I want those tacos."

"You can't help everybody, Spinoza," she said, using my last name like most people do.

"Nope, but I can sure as hell help some."

"But this case is...gross. You're looking for a corpse, for Christ's sake."

"And giving a young man peace of mind, and perhaps setting him up for the rest of his life."

"Because his birth mother left him an inheritance."

"An inheritance that is rightfully his."

"After the DNA testing confirms it," she said.

"Right."

"So how does one look for a corpse?"

"No clue," I said, as the waiter came by with our food. My breakfast sandwich looked glorious. Huge and leaning and dripping with hollandaise sauce and ripe avocado slices. Roxi's looked even bigger, with her two fat slices of ham.

"Do me a favor," she said, as she picked up her sandwich. "Let's not talk about corpses while we eat."