Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to Pirates of the Caribbean or to The Man with Bogart's Face.

Pirates of the Caribbean:

Finding Johnny Depp

By

Runt Thunderbelch

Chapter 1: Hollywood

The life of an illegal immigrant to the U.S. is not an easy one. It begins with a wretched trip across the rocky terrain and frigid fjords of Sweden to Oslo, then by tramp steamer across the Skagerrak, North Sea and Atlantic, up the St. Lawrence Seaway, and across the Great Lakes to the frozen State of Minnesota. Dodging the relentless eyes of I.C.E., they make their way by bus, or bicycle, or foot across the amber waves of grain, through the majesty of purple mountains, down into the fruited plains, and finally to the fabled land of their dreams: Hollywood.

It was at that point, their lives go to Hell in a hand basket. That's when they call me. My name's Marlowe.

"Marlowe Detective Agency."

"You must help me!" the woman on the other end of the phone begged. She was gorgeous, I could just tell. "He's missing! Missing! And I'm afraid to go to the police!"

"Calm down, sweetheart. Who's missing?"

"My employer, Johnny Depp. Can you come right away?"

"Only if you give me the address."

She did. Then she volunteered her name (Olga) and the code to the front gate. We hung up.

I donned by fedora and my trench coat, slipped a .45 Colt automatic into my right pocket and a pint of Old Crow into my left, and then headed out to my first paying job in a long time.

Depp's place was set far back in the Hollywood Hills. I punched in the gate code and drove by '39 Plymouth up the winding driveway to the main house. When I rang the bell, no one answered. So I made my way around to the back.

Inga was there, reclining by the pool. She wore nothing but a microscopic bikini and an illegal amount of curves.

"Inga?"

"Olga," she said and gave me the once over. "Mr. Bogart?"

I shook my head. "Marlowe, Sam Marlowe."

"But you look just like - -"

"Yeah, ever since the operation, I get that a lot."

"Mr. er Marlowe, could I ask you something?"

"Sure, kid. Shoot."

"What color are my eyes?"

I gazed at the most enticing pair of blue orbs I had ever drooled at. "That's easy," I answered. "Blue."

"No, blue is the color of my bathing suit. Look up. Up. A little higher. There! Hi."

"Oh, uh, they're brown."

"Yes."

"You said something about Johnny Depp being missing?"

"Ja. He and Tim Burton spent last evening talking about their next project. After Mr. Burton left, I went to bed, but Mr. Depp stayed up to do so more work. When I got up this morning he was nowhere to be found."

"$200 a day, plus expenses."

"Excuse me?"

"That's what I charge."

"Oh. Mr. Depp will gladly pay that, once you find him."

"Why not go to the police? They won't charge you a dime."

"You see, Mr. Bogart . . ."

"Marlowe," I told her again.

". . .Marlowe, my immigration status is not exactly legal."

"Ah, I get it. Habla español."

"Nej, jag talar svenska."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. Would you like to examine the room where I last saw Mr. Depp?"

I twitched. To be honest, I'd like to have examined anything she wanted to show me. "Sure," I said.

With swaying hips, she led me into Depp's mansion and to one of the rear rooms. We went in. A large piece of machinery dominated one whole side.

"What's that?"

"The movie project Mr. Depp and Mr. Burton are working on is a remake of The Adventures of Mr. Peabody and Sherman. This is a mock up of what will be the Wayback machine."

I twitched again as I remembered the old cartoon show I used to watch as a kid. "That's the time travel machine used by the genius dog Mr. Peabody and his pet boy Sherman to transport themselves into the past?"

"Exakt."

"And Johnny Depp will be playing the boy Sherman?"

She shook her head. "No, Mr. Peabody."

"The dog?"

"Exakt."

I examined the control panel. "It's set for the year 1717. The place is Port Royal, Jamaca."

"That's where all the Pirates of the Caribbean movies are set."

I began poking around inside the transport portal. "No secret doors or anything, but there are some fingerprints on the wall. Someone's been in here all right."

"A button on the control panel has started to flash," Inga said. "Should I push it?"

Before I could reply, reality began fading away, and I felt myself falling, falling, falling . . .