A few moments later, Leland had handed over his five dollars, and he and Barnes were on the roof of the boardinghouse, where there was an Ernemann camera on a tripod, and behind it a grim, slouching man whose gin blossoms were radiant in the noonday sun. “Ray, this is Leland Wheeler,” Barnes exclaimed. “He’s both a roué and a cowpoke.”

“Charmed,” said Ray. “Take off your jacket, walk to the end of the roof and back, and then nod at me.”

“Certainly …” But Leland was torn. He wanted to obey, because those who didn’t obey were said to build immediate and horrible reputations. Yet he couldn’t help indicating that he was no rube. “Say, friend … what f-stop are you using?”

Ray’s gaze shifted into something like the point of a knife, then went hazy again. “F-8. Unless it gets sunnier.”

“Of course.” Leland rubbed his chin. “Now, if I nod at you, what should my attitude be?”

“Your attitude,” Ray said slowly, “is that you want to be famous.”

“I’ve always thought if you want something enough—”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you mind if I rehearse? Just once?”

Ray’s eyes flicked to Barnes, who shook his head. “That would ruin your natural instincts.”

So, while Ray turned the crank at two revolutions per second, Leland shook off his jacket, flung it over one shoulder, and strolled across the roof as if he were on a jaunt to a belle’s house. When he got to the edge, he spun on one heel and returned, whistling to himself. He finished by nodding, and then, without prompting, gave the camera a knee-buckling wink.

When Ray stopped cranking, Barnes slapped Leland on the back and congratulated him on his performance.

“Did you like my wink at the end?”

“Especially liked the wink.”

“Because you didn’t tell me to.”

“Not everyone can wink like that, so I don’t tell them to do it. Your mother must know how to wink.”

“Hmm. Not particularly.”

“It’s inherited. Most people can’t even make the walk back and the nod look so confident,” Barnes said, guiding Leland back through the window into the boardinghouse.

Leland filled out a form with his home address, also indicating what frequencies the lighthouse listened to, if the studios were too desperate for him to return to dry land.

He wished Barnes might comment on the lighthouse (it wasn’t as if everyone lived in a lighthouse, and this was an interesting gimmick for exploitation), but Barnes said nothing about it. Instead, he ripped an eight of diamonds down the middle and handed over one half. “This is your receipt,” he said.

Leland thanked him, and was most of the way out the door before he thought to ask, “Mr. Barnes?”

“Yes?”

“Leland Wheeler. Do you think I should change my name?”