“I’m well, thank you.” She gave a beautiful smile. Her famous curls were tucked under a mink cap. She was a tiny woman, five feet tall, and she wore a coat draped so long it looked as if a sable had eaten her. She gave no outward appearance of anything. McAdoo knew she was troubled only because he’d seen her in New York, before the gossip had begun. Then she had been energetic and inquisitive about every detail; now she was behaving professionally. Her smile was a weapon he’d never encountered before—it made her seem approachable and human without actually giving anyone a foothold within a thousand yards of her. She cleared her throat. “Is …”

This single syllable, a question mark implied at its end, sent Fairbanks skipping to obey. “I don’t see her.”

McAdoo asked, “Who are you looking for?”

“Someone was coming to help watch Mary’s back, as it were,” Fairbanks said.

“I don’t mean to be a bother,” Mary continued, with a new smile that radiated utter relaxation.

“We’ll find her for you, Mary. Who is it?” McAdoo asked.

“It’s all right, truly. Genuinely,” Mary said, which had the magical effect of making the rest of the world certain it wasn’t all right. McAdoo, who had more details to attend to than God at the creation, and was still missing one of his stars, now wanted nothing more than to set Mary’s mind at ease.

“Ah. She’s right there.” Fairbanks pointed as she was escorted between two sawhorses. “Hello, Frances.”

Frances said, “I’m so late, Bug,” and reached for her hand.

Mary looked her over, a parent examining her child for dirt under the fingernails. “Where have you been, Scruffy?”

“I couldn’t get through the crowd.”

“You washed your hair.”

“I did.”

“Still wet,” Mary said, raising an eyebrow. “So what kept you?”

“I said the crowd, didn’t I?”

Mary smiled as if the issue were resolved. But her eyes flicked to Frances’s hair as if it might be a murder weapon.

“What?” Frances asked.

“Hello, Charlie,” Fairbanks said.

For Chaplin had appeared from the opposite direction.

11

Less than mile away, the Curran Theater was closed for renovations, its façade covered in scaffolding, its entryway dark and draped in canvas netting, its lobby-length aquarium drained and empty save for the rock model of the Golden Gate passage through which, in better days, exotic fish swam past undersea spotlighting.

There were tables in the lobby, the closest being a military recruiter’s. He wore a broad campaign hat and sergeant’s stripes, and he stood with hands on hips, ready for action. Lee stepped past as if the table were manned by asps.