“And another thing,” Brad said, “I’ve had the name two years longer than him.”

The guy went through Brad’s other IDs. Social Security, credit cards… They all checked out.

“But… the Owner’s Suite?”

“You know the site FindMeHere.com?” Brad asked. That’s mine. I’m worth twice what the actor’s worth.”

Brad scoffed. “You know, we—Brad Pitt the veterinarian, Brad Pitt the mechanic—we’re so sick of guys like you…”

Brad casually lifted a dome on the service cart. On the tray underneath was a camera.

“You always hassle us, just to try to get to him.”

The guy’s shoulders sagged. He was clearly in the wrong place, and was looking for a way to make a graceful exit. “The rags pay big for shots of Brad and Angelina,” he explained.

“You won’t even find Jennifer Aniston here,” Brad told him.

The guy apologized and pushed his cart into the elevator, disappearing behind the closing doors. Brad waited a moment, then made a call on his cell phone.

“The hallway is clear, Mr. Pitt…”