The space ahead of Larry, illuminated now by six quietly fizzing fluorescent tubes, looked as though it were used for storing the salvaged remnants of a house fire, objects retained only until someone had the will to do away with them. A dozen spare and improbable costumes hung from a mobile wardrobe rail next to two mattresses covered with the type of plastic sheeting found on the beds of incontinent children. Other props included a square of mulberry-coloured carpet, an office desk and chair, a six-foot plastic palm tree and a hat-stand from which dangled, suspended by one of its eye sockets, a latex gorilla head. It was hard to imagine a space less conducive to the performance of a sex act, and the skin of Larry’s balls tightened at the thought of it.

‘We got lights and multi-track sound in the back. All the dubbing and post-production’s done on site. Al’s our man behind the camera. You’ll like him. Nadine’s the sound girl. Her sister’s the fluffer. That’s where TB sits.’ He gestured to the obligatory folding director’s chair. ‘Fellini’s his big influence.’

‘And yours?’ asked Larry, fingering the inside of the gorilla head and feeling a slight tackiness as though it had recently been sweated in.

‘Marky Mark. Schwarzenegger. Sir Olivier of course. TB’s taught me to admire a lot of English stuff. Muffins and Shakespeare and all that shit. Can’t get my head around cricketing, though.’ He laughed.

‘Cricketing’s hard to get your head around,’ said Larry. ‘Have you ever been to England?’

‘Been to Mexico,’ said Ranch. ‘Hablas español, amigo?

‘Un poco,’ said Larry. Then on a whim he asked: ‘What’s T. Bone’s real name?’

Ranch studied him with an expression of mock amazement. ‘This is LA, Larry. Who gives a fuck about his real name? C’mon. I’ll show you my place. Get you fixed up.’

Ranch’s place was a single-storey annexe at the back of the main house. A sprinkler near by made the grass shine. On the doorstep of the annexe two girls sat in the shade of a bougainvillaea sharing a can of cherry Coke and a joint.

‘Yo!’ said Ranch.

The girls got to their feet.

‘Cool suit,’ said the one with the ring through her eyebrow.

‘This is Rosinne,’ said Ranch. ‘And this is Jo-babe. Say hi to Larry, girls. He used to be on TV more often than the weather.’

The girls shifted their gaze from Ranch to Larry, shamelessly assessing the magnitude of his celebrity. He knew already there would be no repeat of Betty’s transports.

‘I kinda recognize you,’ said Rosinne. ‘I think, like, my mom used to watch you. You going to make a movie here?’

‘It looks that way,’ he said.