When I came back in the middle of the afternoon with the Sunday paper, she was on the couch with, I was surprised to see, a volume of Jane Austen from my bookshelf. I thought I would be uncomfortable with Lupe in my apartment, but she had a way of being quiet and keeping to herself that suited me fine.

“I’m hungry,” she announced, dropping Pride and Prejudice on the floor. She was still in the toreador pants and halter top. Barefoot.

There was no food in the apartment. I would have to take her out somewhere.

“Let’s go,” she said.

“You’re supposed to be in hiding, remember?” I grumbled without looking up from the crossword I was working.

“I gotta eat, don’t I? Everyone’s gotta eat.”

“Okay, let’s go,” I said, but not as reluctantly as I sounded. I unfolded my legs, got out of the chair next to the window and stretched.

“Like this? I can’t go out like this,” she complained. “Don’t you have something that would fit me?”

The black Raiders jersey I loaned her was enormous, hanging nearly to her knees and off one shoulder. She slipped the silver high heels on again. Payless Shoe Store brand, I noticed. All man-made materials. Without makeup she looked seventeen or eighteen. People stared at us as we walked over to the deli on Ventura Boulevard.

Lupe had an orange juice, a bagel with lox and cream cheese, extra onions, and a side order of buckwheat pancakes with real maple syrup. I was hungry, too. I couldn’t remember when I’d last eaten. I ate quickly without talking, without looking at her except for a few furtive glances. Finishing my eggs Benedict, I looked around for the waitress to bring me some more coffee. Lupe didn’t drink coffee. Bad for the skin, she said. She cited Gloria Swanson. The waitress came by our booth with the coffeepot, and Lupe asked for an order of rye toast, dry, with orange marmalade and strawberry jam. When the waitress brought it, Lupe carefully spread one slice with marmalade, the other with jam.

“I always save the strawberry for last.”

I didn’t know what to talk to her about. She told me some funny stories about her brother when they were growing up. She gave me the complete biographies of Jean Harlow, Lana Turner (actually discovered not at Schwab’s but at an ice cream shop across from Hollywood High) and Carole Lombard. Another silence fell upon us.

“You’re thinking of giving up,” she said out of nowhere. “I can tell. You’re not going to finish this.”

“Finish what?” I looked around at the empty plates scattered between us.

“Finding out who Cathy Vega really was.”