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The industrial hum of the elevator mechanism groans behind the plaster walls of the eighth floor, a shuddering vibration that Perry feels right in the soles of his expensive leather shoes. When the doors finally scrape open, the air on the seventh floor hits him like a damp towel—smelling of industrial carpet cleaner, stale tobacco, and the distinct, metallic tang of sheer, unadulterated panic.
He steps out, his sharp eyes instantly tracking the wet, erratic footprints tracking down the dim hallway. He follows them straight into the bathroom of room 714. The scene inside is a low-budget horror movie directed by a maniac. Harry Lockhart, a man Perry has known for exactly fifty-two hours and who has already aged him approximately ten years, is dripping with sweat, his cheap suit jacket discarded on the tile. He is currently leaning over the porcelain rim of the bathtub, wrestling with a massive, awkwardly shaped bundle wrapped in a floral hotel bedsheet.
Perry leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. He lets out a slow, heavy breath. "That it?" Perry asks, his voice dripping with dry, clinical exhaustion.
Harry snaps upright, nearly slipping on the slick bathmat. His hair is sticking to his forehead in frantic little spikes, his eyes wide and bloodshot. "No," Harry snaps, gesturing wildly at the shrouded lump. "No, that’s the corpse from the last guy who stayed here. It’s a courtesy amenity, Perry. They leave a mint on the pillow and a dead guy in the tub."
"Fuck off," Perry says smoothly, not moving an inch. "Was there a gun?"
"Yeah, it's right here," Harry says, his hands shaking as he points to the heavy, dark steel resting on the porcelain sink basin. He wipes his sweaty palms on his trousers, stepping toward Perry, his voice dropping into a desperate, rapid-fire whisper that perfectly encapsulates the terrifying reality of a New York thief trapped in a Hollywood nightmare. "Perry, these sons of bitches made us. They made me. I've been in this town for exactly two days. Two days! And somehow they know who I am, they know what I look like, and they know exactly where to find me. Come on, we gotta move!"
Perry doesn’t blink. His expression remains a mask of cynical disbelief. "That’s impossible."
"Yeah, well, it’s totally nuts, but it’s happening!" Harry insists, his voice cracking slightly on the high notes as he grabs one end of the heavy sheeted bundle. "Help me with this!"
Perry sighs, stepping into the cramped bathroom. He grabs the other end of the sheet, the dead weight of it settling uncomfortably in his grip.
"Back stairway," he commands, his mind already mapping the blueprint of the building. "Move."
The corridor is an endless blur of faded wallpaper and flickering fluorescent lights. The two men run, their breathing heavy and synchronized, carrying the wrapped body between them like an incredibly macabre piece of luggage. The sheet shifts, a stiff arm threatening to poke through the linen, forcing Harry to readjust his grip with a muffled yelp.
"I forgot to tell you," Harry pants, his boots thudding heavily against the carpet. "Harmony's alive."
Perry doesn't even look back at him, his focus entirely on the fire exit door at the end of the hall. "What?"
"Harmony. She's alive," Harry repeats, his voice strained under the weight of the torso. "And she thinks her sister was murdered. Like, legitimately murdered, Perry."
Perry slows his pace just enough to throw a look of profound, unmitigated irritation over his shoulder. "Come again?"
Harry stumbles, nearly dropping his end as they reach the heavy steel door of the stairwell. "Never mind! Just—forget I said anything. Focus on the dead guy!"
They burst into the stairwell, but the logistics of the hotel quickly turn against them. The stairs are narrow, the turns too tight to navigate with a six-foot corpse without making enough noise to wake the entire block. They stand on the landing, breathing like racehorses, staring down the dark, spiraling concrete.
"We can't carry it down," Harry gasps, leaning against the cold wall. "We'll get caught on the fourth floor by some maid, or a guy coming back from a bender. How do we get it out of the hotel?"
Perry’s eyes scan the damp concrete enclosure. His gaze lands on a faded, stenciled sign further up the stairs, pointing toward a heavy door with a panic bar. It reads: Roof Access. Perry looks at Harry. Harry looks at Perry. No words are spoken, but a mutual understanding of absolute desperation passes between them.
Minutes later, they are standing on the gravel-strewn roof of the building, the crisp December air in Los Angeles hitting their overheated skin. Below them, the alley behind the Los Angeles Theater is a dark, narrow canyon of brick and shadows. A single rusted-green dumpster sits directly below them.
"On three," Perry mutters, his fingers digging into the knotted sheet. "One. Two. Three."
They heave. The body launches over the parapet, a pale, spinning mass against the backdrop of the L.A. skyline. It plummets through the darkness, aiming straight for the center of the dumpster. Thuck-CRASH. It misses the open top by inches, striking the hard, rusted edge of the metal bin with a sickening, metallic echo before bouncing hard off the rim and landing with a dull, heavy thud directly onto the asphalt of the alley.
Harry stares down, his jaw dropping. He buries his face in his hands. "Fuck me."
Perry adjusts his cuffs, staring down at the disaster with a completely straight face. "Maybe later."
They tear down the back stairway, gravity working with them this time as adrenaline carries them down the concrete flights. They burst out of the alley door into the chilly night. Perry wastes no time; he sprints to his sleek, dark sedan parked at the curb, hops in, and guns the engine, aggressively backing the car down the narrow, brick-walled alley until the rear bumper is nearly touching the crumpled floral sheet.
Harry is completely spazzing out now, pacing a tight circle around the corpse, his hands fluttering through the air like frantic birds. Perry gets out of the car, initially moving with a calm, methodical purpose to go along with the madness, but Harry’s neurotic energy is filling the alley like toxic gas.
"See, these dudes tonight," Harry says, his voice climbing an octave as he points a trembling finger at the sky, then at the body, then at Perry. "They see two assholes out of nowhere. We just appear. What do they think, Perry? What goes through their sick little minds?"
Perry pops the trunk, the lid clicking open with a crisp, mechanical snap. "They think we know something," he says, his tone level, trying to inject some grounded logic into Harry’s spiraling psyche. "They panic. They got a body, they've gotta dispose of the evidence. It’s basic cleanup."
"In my shower?!" Harry yells, throwing his hands up. "Come on! You said real life, Perry! You said this isn't the movies!"
"They were setting you up, dummy," Perry snaps back, his patience finally wearing thin. He grabs the dead man’s ankles. "It happens in real life all the time. Welcome to Los Angeles."
"They're not setting me up," Harry groans, grabbing the shoulders of the sheet, his strength fueled by pure panic. "Shut up. Just shut up. You change your tune every five minutes, I swear to God—"
They hoist the body, muscles straining as they prepare to shove it into the cramped confines of the trunk.
And then, the world turns red and blue. The slow, rhythmic pulse of emergency lights reflects off the damp brick walls of the alley. A black-and-white LAPD cruiser is rolling past the mouth of the alley, its tires crunching slowly over the debris on the street. Perry sees it instantly. His internal radar, honed by years of navigating the worst corners of the city, locks onto the danger. Harry, buried in his own neurosis and holding the upper half of a murder victim, is completely oblivious, still muttering under his breath. Perry has less than half a second to make a choice. A gamble.
"Kiss me," Perry commands.
Harry doesn't even look up from the sheet. "What? No, no, no—"
Perry doesn’t wait for a consensus. He drops his end of the body, steps across the narrow gap, and grabs Harry by the lapels of his shirt. He pulls him forward with a sudden, violent jerk, burying his mouth against Harry’s. Harry freezes, his entire body going rigid as a board. His hands instantly come up, palms planting firmly against Perry’s chest to push him away, a muffled, outraged protest bubbling in his throat. But Perry holds fast, shifting his weight to anchor Harry against the side of the car, keeping their faces locked together.
Then, Harry’s eyes dart to the side. In his peripheral vision, he catches the slow, predatory crawl of the patrol car, the silhouette of a cop staring directly down the alley toward them. Something shifts in Harry’s brain. The aspiring actor, the guy who had spent the last forty-eight hours trying to memorize lines and mimic hardboiled detectives, suddenly takes over. If I'm going to be an actor, Harry thinks with a surge of desperate clarity, I'll give it all I've got.
Harry stops pushing. His hands grip Perry’s coat instead, pulling him closer. Perry’s eyes widen slightly against Harry’s cheek—a flash of genuine, unscripted surprise from the otherwise unshakeable private eye. But the shock doesn't last. The tension in Perry’s jaw melts, transforming instantly into something heavy, deep, and remarkably hungry.
The kiss deepens, and Harry’s mind suddenly takes a massive, uninvited detour into the past. The smell of cheap aftershave, the taste of peppermint, the cold metal of the car—it completely blows open a vault in his memory. Suddenly, it is 1982 again. He is back in Indiana, hiding under the wooden bleachers during a varsity football game, the autumn wind howling outside while he and his best friend, Chook Chutney, frantically make out in the dark. Oh, Harry thinks, his brain short-circuiting as Perry’s mouth moves against his with a practiced, devastating rhythm. That's a memory Perry just unlocked with his tongue. And Christ, it is a very talented tongue.
"Do you know the cops are looking for you, Harry?"
The voice is loud and sharp, echoing off the brick walls like a gunshot. Harry pulls away so fast he nearly hits his head on the trunk lid, gasping for air. His lips are flushed, his chest heaving as he looks down the alley. Standing there, looking entirely unimpressed and wearing a coat that looks far too stylish for a dark alley, is Harmony. She is staring at them, her arms crossed, completely convinced that Harry is a brilliant, undercover detective operating on some higher plane of reality.
"They are?" Harry squeaks, his voice cracking. He tries to smooth his hair down, looking anywhere but at Perry.
"Yeah," Harmony says, stepping closer, her heels clicking on the pavement. "I sent them to the wrong room. I didn't know what else to do. I thought they were gonna bust you."
Perry, completely unfazed, smoothly steps back to the rear of the car. Without a word, he hooks his arms under the corpse’s torso and effortlessly hoists the remaining half of the dead man into the trunk.
"No, you did fine," Harry stammers, his brain still stuck under the bleachers with Chook Chutney while his eyes try to track Perry’s casual body disposal. "You did great. Perry and I, we're just—"
"Hiya, Perry," Harmony interrupts, offering a small wave.
Perry doesn’t stop adjusting the stiff legs of the corpse to fit the spare tire well. He just raises one hand, tossing her a casual, two-finger salute before slamming the trunk lid shut with a loud, definitive THUD.
"We're just running, you know, a game," Harry continues, his hands gesturing wildly again as he tries to build a cohesive lie out of thin air. "Perry, what do you call it? Help me out here."
Harmony frowns, looking between the two of them. "What are you talking about, Harry?"
"The old... Bring Them In and Push Them Out," Harry says, nodding aggressively, convinced he sounds incredibly professional. "That's what we're doing. Standard police work."
Harmony takes another step forward, her eyes narrowing as she looks at Harry’s slightly smudged lips. "What's going on? Why are you and Perry nacking on each other?"
Perry walks over from the rear of the car. He stops right next to Harry, leaning his hip against the quarter panel. He raises a single, dark eyebrow, a look of profound, malicious amusement dancing in his eyes as he waits to hear exactly how Harry is going to dig himself out of this particular grave.
But Harry is tired. Harry has had a very long three days. He looks at Harmony, then at Perry, and decides the truth is a lot less exhausting than inventing a new dialect of cop jargon. "He's gay, I'm bi, and we're both hot," Harry says flatly.
Harmony blinks. She looks at Perry’s expensive suit, then at Harry’s disheveled state. She processes this for three full seconds. "Okay," Harmony says, shifting her weight. "Before we do this... I have a little confession to make. I slept with Chook."
Harry’s entire demeanor changes in a fraction of a second. The exhaustion vanishes, replaced by a sudden, white-hot flare of indignation. "My best friend?! You said you were going to drop by his house and wave goodbye!"
"I was leaving for L.A.!" Harmony defends herself, throwing her hands up. "I was never gonna see him again! And he looked sad, Harry!"
"He looked sad?!" Harry yells, stepping toward her. "That’s your excuse?!"
"Yes, he did!"
"You slept with Chook Chutney," Harry says, his voice a mix of betrayal and sheer disbelief.
"Fuck!" Harmony groans, rolling her eyes. "For chrissake, Harry, it was forever ago. Come on, I was a completely different person back then."
Harry stares at her for a long moment. Then, his expression softens into something weirdly solemn. He steps forward and gently, almost pityingly, pats her arm. "You slept with Chook." He pauses, then turns his hand around, pointing a rigid finger directly in her face. "So did I. Don't sleep with Perry. Stop sleeping with the guys I sleep with."
Harmony’s mouth drops open. She gawks at Perry, her eyes wide as she tries to calculate the timeline of her entire social circle. Harry doesn’t wait for her response. He turns on his heel, opens the passenger door, and slides into the front seat of the sedan, slamming the door shut behind him. Perry stands in the alley for a moment longer. He looks at Harmony, a slow, incredibly smug smirk spreading across his face. He doesn’t confirm a single thing, nor does he deny it. He just lets the mystery hang in the cool California air.
With a final, mocking two-finger salute, Perry walks around the front of the car, slides into the driver's seat, and starts the engine. Harmony stands alone in the alley, watching the red taillights disappear into the L.A. night, thoroughly confused, while Harry stares straight ahead out the windshield, resolutely refusing to look at Perry’s grin.