HE clock struck twelve. The detective took a deep inhale of his already short cigarette. After a dramatic pause he let the smoke drift into the faces of the three people he had summoned.

The diner smelled of stale grease and java, the kind of place where drunks, insomniacs, and the very desperate spent their time. These three were the latter. They sat in the booth, opposite the man in the trenchcoat and fedora. Two men and a woman. Each received a call and each was told to meet at this diner. 11:55. Each watched nervously as a tired waiter poured them each a cup of hot, burnt coffee.

He gave them all a good hard look. He took a drag of his cigarette and let out a smoke-infused laugh.

“I got the holy trinity of Hollywood sitting right in front of me. A director with a film in financial danger. A fading starlet clinging to the glow of her youth. A scriptwriter whose material no one wants to read.”

The detective continued.

“Let me lay this out for you three,” said the gumshoe. “What we have here is a story as old as tinseltown itself… Which leads me to the topic of one dead wardrobe assistant. Name of Peggy Ann.”

The director, who had a large mustache and was graying at the temples, had been squeezing the edge of the table with his large hands. He spoke now.

“What happened to that girl was horrid, but what do you have to do with it?”

“I’m the one the recently-deceased hired to find her mother. Just here in the dark, trying to make a living.”

The scriptwriter was cleaning his glasses. 

“Listen to this one, junior,” said the gumshoe. “You’ll like it. It's got twists. I would’ve been a writer, if I weren’t cursed with the burden of practicality.”

The writer had a mess of unkempt hair he was fixing with a freshly sharpened number 2 pencil.

“I’ve read quite an extensive amount. Nothing surprises me.”

“Well, then, read my lips. See, I know why poor Peggy Ann was killed, and who killed her.”

“Now you listen to me!” the director snarled.

The gumshoe smiled. “You directors are all the same, yelling down at the mortals, loud and thunderous as if you were Zeus himself on Olympus. Anyways, you interrupted my story.”

“You.” He pointed to the woman.

“Pregnant out of wedlock, knocked up by a big director—this one right next to you, in fact. That was years ago when a man like him had a little more pull. He goes and sets up an adoption. Problem solved. You go your merry ways. But kids grow up and have questions about where they come from. Poor Peggy Ann is looking for her mother and hires yours truly. Lo and behold, dear old mom is working on a new picture with dear old dad, like nothing happened all those years ago. Peggy Ann is a wardrobe assistant—the family business is in her genes. She gets a job on this same picture, goes to mom and dad and tells them everything.

“But mom is married to a wealthy film producer. In fact he happens to be the financial backer of this film, and most certainly would pull the plug if he found out about this kid. Penniless ain't a good place to be in La La Land. You don’t want anything to do with the kid. Heartbroken, she threatens to tell the papers. Just like before, dad says he’ll handle it. Now enter our writer. He’s done a few rewrites. He's not good, but he is cheap.

“Dad gives Mister Down-On-His-Luck a chance to take care of the kid. Can write the next picture he says…a Faustian deal if I ever heard.”

The woman began to sob.

“You bastard! I had no idea you were going to kill her!"

She threw her purse up on the table and took out a handkerchief and dabbed her running mascara.

“Neither did I,” said the director. “I only told him to get rid of her.”

The writer went pale and the pencil snapped in two. 

“A misunderstanding, ” he quaked.

“Funny that. A writer should understand the context of a man’s words. Anyway,” he waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “You’re both guilty. But if you’d left me alone Peggy Ann’s murder would’ve gone unsolved. Forgotten. But one of you saw me as a loose end. One of you found my whisky and I made myself a death cocktail.”

He slammed his hand hard on the table.

“This loose end doesn't care about the victim. I care who poisoned me!”

“I guess there's only one thing left to do,” said the actress.

She reached into her purse and pulled out a small .22 pistol. She fired twice and both storytellers slumped, their blood pooling and dripping off the table.

The detective gave a low whistle. “It was you.” 

She aimed at his heart, tears on her face. 

“I had to clean up their mess. It wasn't personal. But I won’t go to jail. I won’t.”

He smiled. “No lengths you won’t go to.”

“There's just one thing I gotta know,” she said. “How did you survive the poison? It was enough to kill an elephant.”

The detective laughed, at first a light chuckle, but it grew and burst like a gut that filled all corners of the diner. 

She pulled.

The bullet buried itself into the leather upholstery of the booth.

He’d vanished, his voice echoing in the gunsmoke.

“That’s the funny twist, little starlet, the end no one saw coming. I didn’t. I’m a vengeful spirit. Like my dear old mother used to say, the devil dances at midnight… I guess he gave me one last waltz.”

The voice was gone and only the sound of her heart pounding and the drip of the other two men's blood on the floor.

She sat there shaking. She didn’t notice the flashing red and blue lights, nor the police as they escorted her into the car, or as they drove into the night in the city of stars.