Se parecen por la forma de sus ojos, she says, and then turns to Tomas: You do not seem so. But I can tell it in the shape of your eyes.

When he catches me looking at him he glares at me, and I look down. Even with the woman still rubbing her neck, Buster manages to rub her side against my jeans, and keeps pressed there, whimpering. The woman notices this.

This is your dog? she says to me.

I shake my head. No. It’s my brother’s. And my mom’s.

She smiles. But she goes to you when she knows her son will be leaving.

She’s only a dog, I say, then look down again. She can’t know he’s going.

The woman smiles. A mother knows.

She lets go of Buster’s neck, then reaches over again to scratch behind her ear—a last time—then starts up the stairs, leading us inside. Tomas goes first and I hesitate in the doorway, not knowing if he wants me to go in, but the maid turns to me and makes several rapid friendly waves for me to enter—as if I were silly for thinking otherwise.

I duck my head and follow.

IV

Most people wonder what sorts of homes celebrities live in, probably picturing something modern: white carpets and trendy furniture, marble gourmet kitchens, a view onto an exercise room with chrome equipment. But we find our celebrity in a dark room with wood-paneled walls and an old pool table with lions carved on its legs. Tomas runs a finger over the green cloth, and I do too. It is feltless and bare as silk. The table has no pockets. The man comes up to us, pulling his robe string tighter, and looks out the French doors at the canyon view. At its bottom rests a golf course covered with brilliant sand traps shaped like oval moons. There are hills and valleys of sunny grass surrounded by mansions. I knew none of this was here. The drapes are held back by gold ropes, their braidlike tassels dangling.

He turns back to us and I see that he does not have the mustache he has on the TV show. His hair is thinner—the shiny scalp shows through the blown-dry strands—and his skin is far tanner, almost leathery beneath his eyes. But his eyes are as alive and young as the cop character he plays. He studies us sharply.

So you’ve brought the dog, he says. He has some sort of a southern or western accent, which surprises me since in the movies he always talks like a blue-collar cop from New York City.

Yeah, Tomas says.

The man shakes his head. But there’s two. I don’t remember asking for two.

This one’s the mother, Tomas says. It’s her pup you’re going to get.