Exhibiting a touch of surprise, the actor remarked how pleasant it was to see Prentice. Then he made a friendly inquiry into Prentice’s welfare (an inquiry that is best met with a generous affirmation and the word adieu). But in his elevated spirits, Prentice leaned upon his cane and began to harken back; at which point, this actor-of-the-moment played the part of someone who had forgotten his billfold in his car, stranding Prentice in the lobby with his days of yore.

At the front desk, it was evident from the attention that Simone and Christopher paid to the shuffling of papers that they had heard every word—as had the young socialite who stood by the elevator doors with her dog.

Prentice felt his face grow flush.

—I am expecting a package, he heard himself proclaiming to Simone, in the manner of one for whom packages urgently arrive. When it appears, send it to the pool!

•

AS PRENTICE PASSED THE elegantly scripted sign that pointed the way to the pool, he unleashed a spate of acrimony—not toward his old supporting cast member, but rather toward himself. For what had he expected? To be embraced and invited for supper? So that they could speak of olden times—when their positions were reversed? At the peak of his fame, had not Prentice been strolled upon and cornered in lobbies by fading acquaintances? And had he not performed stage-left exits of his own?

Having descended the twenty-six steps at too quick a pace, Prentice found that he needed to catch his breath, so he headed toward a chair at the pool’s edge. Gratefully, the terrace was empty. The cool October air had driven the starlets and cabana boys into their respective retreats.

But just as Prentice was about to reach his chosen port, from the corner of his eye he glimpsed a figure slip behind a hedge. Feeling his heart rate leap, Prentice bypassed the chair and made for the rear gate. But the shadow, having deftly crossed the terrace, now ducked behind an adjacent cabana. In a state of panic, Prentice looked for a fellow guest or chambermaid, and failed to see the ice tea table directly in his path. He tripped and fell to his knees. The force of impact tore his pant leg. He began to heave, knowing that above all else, he must regain his footing. With a flash of single-mindedness, he stood to his full height, but the terrace wheeled around him. And when upon the breeze he heard the whispering of his name, Prentice Symmons finally acknowledged the unacknowledgable—that it was time.

On this day, on this terrace, at this Trafalgar, they would meet. Without the exchange of a word, a single hand would extend into space and topple Prentice into the pool of the Beverly Hills Hotel where, hapless, he would thrash for a sliver of eternity, before sinking at last to the depths.

Oh, fateful day.

Oh, ignominious—

—Prentice?