It wasn’t much of a surprise to Roach that Ronnie Strong, Esq., was not in his law offices that day. The joke in the legal profession was that Ronnie Strong might have passed the bar, but he couldn’t pass a TV camera.
The production facility he used was a graffitied brick warehouse abutting a Chinese import distribution center in Brooklyn. Situated halfway between the old Navy Yard and the Williamsburg Bridge, it wasn’t exactly Hollywood, but then Ronnie Strong wasn’t exactly an attorney.
There was nobody stopping Raley and Ochoa, so they just walked in. The front office was empty and smelling of coffee and cigarette smoke that had fused with the water-stained Tahitian-themed wallpaper. Raley called a “Hello?” but when nobody responded, they followed the short hallway to the blaring sound of the same jingle the squad had recited that morning. “Been done wrong? Call Ronnie Strong! Been done wrong? Call Ronnie Strong! Been done wrong? Call Ronnie Strong!”
The door to the stage was wide open. Clearly, these were no sticklers for sound aesthetics. When the detectives walked in, they both took a quick step back. The studio was so small, they were afraid they were going to walk into the shot.
On the set, which was a rented motor boat on a trailer, two buxom models in scant bikinis wore props indicating some sort of accident. One had her arm in a sling; the other stood on crutches, although without a cast. That could have been a budget saver, although more likely it was to keep her legs visible.
“Let’s go one more time,” said a man in a Hawaiian shirt, chewing an unlit cigar.
Raley whispered to Ochoa, “Bet he’s the owner. He matches the wallpaper.”
Ochoa said, “It’s an unfair world, partner.”
“How so . . . this time?”
“Nikki Heat, she goes to a TV studio, it’s polished marble and glass in the lobby, green room with hot and cold running canapés, and what do we get?”
“Know what I think, Detective Ochoa? I think we’ve been wronged.”
“And, action!” called the director, and he added for clarity, “Go!”
Both actresses reached down into a bait box and came up with handfuls of cash. There seemed to be no concern that the one in the arm sling had full utility of the limb. She’s the one who smiled and said, “Justice is no accident.” To which the other held up her loot and shouted, “Been done wrong? Call Ronnie Strong!”
That was when Ronnie Strong himself, who looked something like an overripe pear in a toupee, popped up from the hatch between them and said, “Did somebody call me?” The girls hugged him, each planting a kiss on a cheek as the jingle played, “Been done wrong? Call Ronnie Strong! Been done wrong? Call Ronnie Strong! Been done wrong? Call Ronnie Strong!”
“And we’re clear,” said the director. And then for good measure, “Stop.”
Roach didn’t have to get the lawyer’s attention. Ronnie Strong had spotted them during the commercial, and both detectives would know when it aired that his side-stage eye line when he said, “Did somebody call me?” was directly to them. Such were the small perks of police work.
While the girls left to change into nurse uniforms, Ronnie Strong beckoned them over to the boat. “You want some help down?” asked Ochoa.
“No, we’re doing the next one in the boat, too,” he said. “It’s a nurses script, but hey, I rented it for the day. You guys are cops, right?”
Roach flashed ID, and the lawyer sat down to rest on the gunwale close to Raley. Rales couldn’t stop staring at the orange makeup ringing Strong’s white collar, so he concentrated on the hairpiece, which had a sweat curl in the front that was starting to expose the tape.
“You boys ever get hurt on the job? Suffer hearing loss from the firing range, maybe? I can help.”
“Thanks just the same, but we’re here to talk about one of your clients, Mr. Strong,” said Ochoa. “Esteban Padilla.”
“Padilla? Oh, sure. What do you want to know? Saw him yesterday, he’s still pressing charges.”