“To the airport,” he told the driver, and took out his cell phone. “Yvonne, where the hell are you? It’s me. Call the plane and tell them I’m flying to New York in half an hour. Get the housekeeper and tell her to send my things. Call Dr. Vartan—tell him I want to see him at nine a.m. tomorrow. If they say he’s busy, call the chairman of the board of the fuckin’ hospital and tell him to tell Vartan that he’s seeing me at nine a.m. tomorrow. And call Clarice—you know what Yvonne, call Bulgari or Cartier—whatever the fuck—and send Clarice a bracelet. Better yet, call Fred Leighton—get something antique—that’s more personal. Spend around forty thousand dollars. Oh and one other thing, send something to that friend of Venice’s who got her foot blown off. Maybe three hundred dollars’ worth of flowers. That’s a terrible story. Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Yvonne, where are you? You’re supposed to be on call when the office is closed. I’m in the car. Call me.”

Barry sat back. He took out the magazines from the car-door pocket. The Starbucks incident, now called “the Latte Blast,” was on every cover. He glanced at the Hollywood trades’ Golden Globe edition. According to their predictions, it looked like if he rat-fucked the foreign press he’d do okay again this year.

Barry felt a surge of pain in his leg. Who knew a disease of the balls could make you feel like you had a clamp pushing down on your ankle. This doctor better fix this, Barry thought to himself, or I am taking all of Sloan-Kettering down with me. No one has had more movie premieres to benefit breast cancer, AIDs-related cancer, throat cancer, or skin cancer than me. They better show they’re fuckin’ grateful or there will be hell to pay.

Barry picked up Variety again and then put it down. The truth was, ever since he found out he was sick he couldn’t concentrate on business. He knew how to make money. He knew how to win Oscars. What he wanted now was to express how much love he felt. He knew he had a lot to share and had kept it hidden. Now that time could be limited, he wanted Clarice, his children, even that poor ballerina, to know how much he cared.

Barry rolled down the window and looked at the snowcapped mountain. He closed his eyes to rest and instead saw that young ballerina twirling without her foot at the top of the mountain as if she were in a snow-globe music box.