Hat in hand, I asked, “Is Ms. Ryan back?”

“No, but it shouldn’t be too long. Come in, come in!”

I did, entering into a small living room with funky second-hand 1950s atomic furniture and a kitchenette where the dishes of a working week awaited attention. The wood floor had a central throw rug—black with colorful geometric shapes—and riding the pastel walls were a framed Andy Warhol print of Debbie Harry and original abstract paintings probably bought on a nearby street.

She deposited me on a comfy overstuffed Naugahyde two-seater sofa, then gestured to the kitchenette. “Can I get you a wine cooler or a light beer or anything?”

“No, I’m fine. Sorry to impose.”

Her voice had a musical lilt. “Sheila should be along soon. Do you mind if I get out of these things?”

Was that a trick question?

“Not at all,” I said.

A nearby amoeba-shaped coffee table, with boomerang designs, was scattered with Cosmo, Vogue and the New Yorker, from under which Playgirl cover boy Geraldo Rivera peeked. He was smiling at me, as if suppressing a wink. The second-hand store Leave It to Beaver-era furnishings struck me as a cheap way to put together a hip decor.

She came back with the make-up washed off, wrapped up in a belted white silk dressing gown that stopped at the knee. Without the war paint, she looked about sixteen. She plopped down next to me, sitting with her legs tucked under her and her arm along the sofa’s upper edge.

“I know who you are,” she said.

“Yeah, I’m the guy who came around Colby’s a couple of times lately.”

“No. I mean I know who you are.”

I shrugged. “That makes two of us.”

She frowned a little. “You mean you know who I am?”

Who’s on first?

“Not really,” I said. “But I know who I am. I’m Mike.”

“I’m Julie Olsen.”

“Pleased to meet you, Julie.”

With the vaudeville routine out of the way, she moved on. “Sheila told me some things about you. Said you’re famous, in a way.”

“In a way.”

Her chin came up and so did the corners of her mouth. “I told my daddy I’d met you—he called from Queens, where he and my mother are. He was impressed.”

“He must impress easily.”

She shook her head and all that blonde hair came along for the ride. “Not really. Sheila went back for a few more of her things.”

I didn’t follow that and my expression must have said so.

She explained: “Back to Gino’s apartment, for more clothes and personal effects and stuff. Now that she’s moved back in here. We were roomies before she moved in with Gino.”

“Ah.”