1. Never Trust a Stripper With Her Clothes On

Nobody comes to Hollywood to get all mixed up with the cops. That kind of thing happens just when you least expect it, such as when you are twenty-six years old, smoking hot and fast asleep on a sheepskin rug with your mouth wide open.

I was crashing with my crazy stripper friend Rita in a sweet little rent-controlled bungalow off Fountain and Highland. She'd started taking an adult education class in boudoir photography and liked me to nod off all made up like a two-dollar whore. Then she'd snap practice shots to PhotoShop while she sat at her desk all night tweaking.

It wasn't a bad gig, all in all, although lately she'd gotten a little antsy about me ponying up a few bucks for living expenses. The only regular income I had at the time was a small residuals check for a television commercial I'd done for Check-Into-Cash. I was the hot blonde in the red Porsche acting all pouty until my fat boyfriend hands me a fresh roll of bills. Story of my life, really.  Show me a broke jerk with a fancy car and I get stupider than I look.

Anyway, the phone rang and it was George, my fast-talking office pimp from the temp agency over on Miracle Mile. "You got any problem working around weapons?" he asked. "I can get you double time on a short-term typing job if you're comfortable with criminal activity in the workplace."

"Porn?" I said.  "You got the wrong girl." I glanced at my open-mouthed image on Rita's computer screen -- now enhanced with a crudely digitized dildo, Perez Hilton-style. My pops always said never trust a stripper with her clothes on. I hit the delete key. Delete, delete, delete. Delete!

Rita bolted upright from a dead sleep. "That's it!" she declared. "You're moving out." She got up and started stuffing my scattered clothes into a paper bag from Trader Joe's. Rail thin under a huge mane of red hair, she looked like she was on fire. I always wondered how she didn't scare the crap out of the poor bastards who dared asked her climb on board for a lap dance. Maybe that was the whole point, to take your punishment like a man before going home to the wife and pretending the thrill wasn't gone.

George yammered on over the phone about some records clerk opening with the Los Angeles Police Department. "Doesn't that sound glamorous," I said, dodging a rainbow of dirty underpants.

"You know how many girls would jump at this thing?" he insisted. "It's at Hollywood Division, night watch.  Maybe not the best part of town, but at least you'd be free for auditions during the day."

"I need exposure, George," I pleaded, locking myself in the bathroom. "What ever happened to getting me into one of the studios? I'll do anything. Any. Thing."

"Get in line," he said flatly. It occurred to me a guy in his position must get all kinds of nasty offers, from girls who might actually follow through on them.  "Look, kid, I like you, but I got a lot of calls to make.  You should know the city offers a very good benefits package -- medical and dental."

Medical? Dental? Why didn't he say so in the first place? I allowed myself to fantasize for a moment about medically necessary therapeutic massage, doctor-assisted weight loss -- maybe even a new set of veneers. All of this would require a bit of acting, naturally, but wasn't that my thing? "Of course, you will have to pass a background check," George informed me. "Is that going to be a problem?"

My heart sank. A long pause.

"Come on, Cherry.  It's not like you've been convicted of a minor vice crime.  I mean, have you?"

"Define minor," I said.