“I’m trying to change careers,” I said.

“From what to what?” Layla said.

“I was in retail,” I said. “Eventually I’d like to work at an auction house, but I want to understand how the art market works.” I swam a few strokes, hoping to end the conversation. When I raised my head again, Layla was still watching me. Pearson had switched to a straight-backed chair. His calves were thick and muscled. He seemed in no rush to enter the water.

“Take it from a collector’s daughter,” Layla said after a moment, “the art market doesn’t work. It’s the most dysfunctional economy on the planet. There’s no rhyme or reason to why one painting makes a thousand and another ten million. People do make money, though, gobs of it.”

“That would be the very definition of a functioning economy,” said Pearson.

“You know what I mean,” Layla said.

Zania dived to the pool bottom again. I could feel the vibrations of her body underwater. No sounds came from the house. Where was Erik? When were the other partygoers coming?

“Art-making is not an economically viable career,” said Pearson. “But the art market is booming. People like our wonderful host can afford hilltop pools on what they earn extorting people.”

“Nelson supports artists,” Layla retorted. “Name someone who has done more than he has.”

“Incoming!” Erik sprinted onto the deck and jumped in over Layla’s head, soaking her. After a moment, she shrieked and leaped after him. The center of the pool shimmered and tossed, Erik careening about with a lunging, desperate joy, as if he were trying to splash away his drunken dread. Layla laughed, but covered her mouth like she was frightened. I retreated to the edge.

“You should come in,” I said to Pearson.

“I dislike pools,” he said agreeably. “Prefer oceans.”

“Where do you swim?”

“Anywhere in the Atlantic,” he said, then shifted in his chair. “There I go again, whining about the West Coast. I’m the worst kind of transplant.”

I asked who else was coming that night.

“A lot of LAAC people,” Pearson said. “Maybe a couple of other gallerists. Maybe even Janis Rocque. The grande dame herself. What do you bet she shows up rocking a navy pantsuit?”

I swallowed my irritation.

“Wow, Janis Rocque,” I said. “Do you go to parties like this a lot?”

He laughed. “You’re too sweet for this business. Look at them.” He gestured at Zania and Layla now both tackling Erik, snickering, dragging him under. “You want to be like them?”

I WAITED UNTIL BOTH DOWNSTAIRS bathrooms were occupied with people changing from their swimsuits to find Zania and get directions to the bathroom upstairs. “There’s only one hall, three rooms. Bathroom’s the first left. Can’t miss it,” she told me, digging her small fingers through the paper sacks of takeout.