“That’s the town we live in, Alex. You didn’t grow up here, right? You’re from some wholesome flyover place—Nebraska, Kansas?”

“Missouri.”

“Same difference. Well, I was born in Baja Beverly Hills, my dad was an aerospace engineer, back then the studios had their influence but it was mostly about rockets and planes, real people making real product. Not the bullshit-purveying company town it is now. So good luck.”

“He’s no genius and she runs the show.”

“Supposedly he’s close to retarded—’scuse me, developmentally disabled. And living with Stupid, she’d need to run things, no?”

“She sounds like the perfect political spouse.”

“Ha! There it is—that acid wit Alexander occasionally allows himself to indulge in. I used to dig when you did that in school. Made me feel better about my own uncharitable cognitions. I used to dig our time in school, period. Western Peds, too, Alex. They worked us like galley slaves but we knew we were doing good every day and it was exciting, right? We never knew what each day would bring.”

“That’s for sure.”

“Like the time we were trying to have lunch, I remember like it was yesterday, we’ve got our tuna salad and our coffee on our trays, are about to finally take ten minutes and you get paged and this look comes over your face and you just leave. Later, I run into you and you tell me some patient’s father brought a gun onto the onco ward, you spent an hour talking him down.”

“Good times,” I said.

“They were, man. Especially ’cause I ate your tuna.” He laughed. “Imagine that, today—shrink gets a call, handles it, finito. Nowadays there’d be a mass panic, some gross overreaction due to protocol, and someone would probably get hurt. I did some of that shit myself when I was there, Alex. Crisis interventions no one heard about because they were successful. Those were great times.”

“They were, Len.”

“But get real and move on, huh? I do love my R8. How many miles on the Caddy?”

“Lost count by the third engine.”

“Beyond loyal, we’re talking commitment. Well, good for you. And great to hear from you, friend, we need to do lunch.”

CHAPTER
39

I trolled gossip sites and the links they sent me to for personal sightings of Prema Moon and/or Donny Rader.

They’d been highly visible until four, five years ago, showing up at clubs, screenings, premieres, charity events, shopping sprees. Audiences with heads of state. But the two hits I found covering the last eighteen months featured Prema only, both times in L.A.: World Affairs Council symposium on African famine, Banish Hunger luncheon where the actress received an award.

Time to give my personal conduit to Glitz-World another try. Robin was sweeping her workbench. Pads for applying French polish sat in a wastebasket. The flamenco guitar hung drying.

“Gorgeous.”