‘Just so,’ said T. Bone. ‘You would be dubbed into Portuguese and Spanish for our South American market. Sun Valley has been playing in Brazil and Argentina for months. You’re a great favourite there. Particularly, one imagines, with the dusky housewives.’

‘You got fans in places you ain’t even heard of,’ said Ranch. ‘Bacabal, Xique-Xique...’

‘We make our little productions very simply,’ said T. Bone, looking now like Sir Ralph Richardson playing a Borgia pope. ‘We remain the true auteurs. We are an industry of enthusiasts.’

‘How long would the shoot take?’ asked Larry.

‘A week,’ said Ranch, ‘two weeks max.’

‘For which we can offer you a fee of twenty thousand dollars,’ added T. Bone. ‘Naturally we’d like it to be more but these days we have to compete with the Web. However, we can arrange payment so that you need not worry about the gentlemen at the revenue.’

‘And I wouldn’t have to do anything I could get arrested for?’

‘It’s all kosher,’ said Ranch.

‘No Lolitas or animals?’

‘I am a father,’ said T. Bone, ‘and a nature lover.’

‘One more thing,’ said Larry. ‘I’m going to be in England from next week. I don’t know how long for. Not long, I think.’

‘I’ll make a note of that,’ said Ranch, flicking another peanut into the air.

Twenty-seven floors below, where Shirley Temple had once played, a lone swimmer pulled himself across the green eye of a pool. Back and forth, back and forth, like a water beetle. It was a fine day for a swim but something in the figure’s progress, or lack of it, was disturbing. Presumably he was counting off his daily quota of lengths, getting himself in shape, but it looked unprofitable, forlorn, like that Greek in hell who pushed a rock up the hill all day just to watch it roll to the bottom again.

‘OK,’ said Larry. ‘Why not? Count me in.’

‘A great day for us, Larry,’ said Ranch, clapping his hands.

‘Delighted,’ said T. Bone. ‘Happy et cetera.’

‘What now?’ asked Larry, glancing from Ranch to T. Bone, aware that something more was expected of him.

‘Ranch will take care of you,’ said T. Bone, pulling a copy of the Hollywood Reporter from under his chair. ‘Then a bite of luncheon, chez moi.’

Larry followed Ranch into the bathroom, wondering what the statistical incidence of people murdered in LA hotel rooms was. Inside the bathroom a card propped up on a shelf above the gleaming sink announced that ‘Milagros’ – the name was inked in by an uncertain hand – was the room attendant, and that she took pride in her work.

‘We’ve only seen your face,’ said Ranch, making himself comfortable on the toilet seat under the flood of panelled roof lighting.

‘Ah,’ said Larry. ‘This is the audition?’

‘It’s cool,’ said Ranch. ‘I like girls.’

‘No problem,’ said Larry. He began to undress.

11