Fontaine smiled as he approached now, holding out his arms approvingly as if to say, Look at this wonderful display, look at these two handsome creatures. He took a knee and whispered into Charlie’s ear. “We’re gonna go to the East Wing Meeting Room, which United Artists rented for a reception. Your name’s on the list, so you should be able to get in. I’ll come with you just to make sure it’s okay. I don’t know if anyone will be there. There’s an ice sculpture of a rumble on a table with a long tablecloth. You’re to leave the packet under there.”

“A rumble?” Charlie asked.

“Like Jets versus Sharks,” Fontaine said. “To honor West Side Story. It’s a carving of two teenage hoods with switchblades. I don’t know, it wasn’t my idea. It looks pretty good, though.” He realized he was talking nonsense. “We need to go.”

Charlie turned to Margaret. “I need the file.”

She reached into her purse and grabbed a folder she’d rolled into something resembling a tube so she could wedge it into her stylish barrel-pouch bag. Charlie received the baton and headed off with Fontaine. Margaret second-guessed their decision to leave the film canister back at Street’s hotel suite; there was no room for it in her purse and it would have been too odd to carry it around at the Oscars. But now she worried that these thugs knew of its existence.

The auditorium was packed with ushers and publicists and members of various entourages who had somehow managed to access the event without tickets. There were also agents, managers, valets, and wardrobe and makeup artists. Fontaine steered them through the chaos to the meeting room. An usher checked their names and stepped aside.

“Charlie!” a woman cried from behind them.

Before they could enter the room, the congressman turned to see Janet Leigh, lovely in an emerald gown, drinking a Coca-Cola from a plastic cup and smiling as if she’d just won a gold statue.

“Already bored?” the actress asked.

Fontaine wiped an expression of irritation off his face and replaced it with a battalion of shining white teeth. “Hey, Janet!” he said. “Where’s Tony? Oh, wait, never mind. Sorry!”

Charlie knew that a smart, calculating publicist like Fontaine would never let something so mean slip out by accident. His intent was to wound her; God only knew why. These people were vicious, as casually cruel as their counterparts in the snake-infested swamp of DC politics.

“Where are you guys headed?” Leigh asked, ignoring the question. “The event’s in there.” She thumbed toward the auditorium. Charlie looked at Fontaine.

“Just grabbing a drink,” the publicist said.

Leigh hooked her arm through Charlie’s as naturally as putting a hand into a mitten. “Well, say no more,” she said. “Lead on.”