I stood up and walked to the door. “Okay, Oscar. You tried. Thanks, anyway.”

He jumped up and came around the desk and grabbed my arm. He grabbed hard, like if he didn’t something rare would get away. He grabbed the way you grab when the rare thing has visited once before, long ago, and you blew it, and now you’re getting a second chance. “Hey, you know what? I got some old stuff in storage. I’ll dig through it. Maybe there’ll be something, hunh? Maybe I’ll find something that’ll help out.” I don’t think he meant help me.

“Sure. My phone is on the card.”

“You tell Peter I’m trying, okay? Tell’m I’m bending over backwards. Tell’m I really liked Karen, and I thought the kid was terrific.”

“Sure.”

I opened the door and we went out. The black woman was talking on the phone. The two young women who had been reading were still reading and the Sydney was still blowing bubbles. Oscar gave with the big teeth and made a big deal out of walking me to the outer door. “Hey, you can tell Peter I’ll get on the search tonight.” Putting on the act. “And tell’m I’d appreciate it if he gives me a call. There’s a couple of things I’d like to talk with him about.”

I said I would.

He made the big teeth some more, then left me at the door and sat on the couch next to Sydney with his hand on her thigh. The other two young women were watching him. He said that I worked for Peter Alan Nelsen and that he and Peter were thrashing out a deal together and that things were gonna start hopping around there soon. When he said it, he gave Sydney’s thigh a little squeeze.

She watched him with the large pale eyes, blew another pink bubble, then popped it with her tongue. The eyes never once blinked and never once left him.

I walked out. So long, Norma Jean.

Chapter Six

Six

The sun was dropping fast, the way it does in the fall, and the air lost its midday warmth and took on an autumn chill as I wound my way up Laurel Canyon to the little A-frame I keep off Woodrow Wilson Drive above Hollywood.

The cat that lives with me was sitting by his food bowl in the kitchen. He’s thick and black, with fine shredded ears and broken teeth and the scars that come from a full, adventuresome, male-type-cat life. Sometimes he has fits.

I said, “Is dinner ready?”

The cat came over and shoulder-bumped against my leg.

I said, “Okay. How about meat loaf?”

He shoulder-bumped me again, then went back to his bowl. Meat loaf is one of his favorite things. Right up there with Kitnips.