We stepped out, evading winos who sidled up, panhandling, though they retreated when Leon exited the Bentley. Leon has always exuded authority with his erect, even regal carriage, broad brow, horn-rimmed glasses, his ring of wiry gray hair, and his elegant suits. We walked single file to the door, gingerly sidestepping wads of snot, old chewing gum, and cigarette butts. Florence and Irene pulled their fur coats close at the throat. I hate fur coats; I’m too young to be taxidermied. But like everyone else, I’m wearing unadorned black—black coat, black Dior suit, black gloves, black hat and handbag.

At the elevator an old Negro slid aside the metal grille. “Goin’ to Mr. Wilkie’s office, yes? All you fine folks goin’ there today,” he said as he punched the buttons with knobby, arthritic fingers. He stopped at the fourth floor and pointed to a door that read Arthur Wilkie, Attorney at Law.

Mr. Wilkie’s secretary, a withered woman who introduced herself as Mrs. Wilkie, greeted us at the door and offered to take our coats, but we all declined. She asked if we wanted coffee or tea, and we declined. She led us down a dirty hall to a conference room where the ghosts of a hundred thousand cigarette butts lingered and dust motes caught the morning light. We were seated at a long table where places had been reserved for the six of us. I knew, or recognized, most of these over-upholstered ladies and gentlemen from Los Angeles arts foundations Julia had long supported. I certainly did not know the five well-dressed Negroes, though I had seen them at the funeral. They all sat together, their faces dark masks of discretion. Beside the old gent in the wheelchair was the man who had thought to bring the umbrella. He was not wearing sunglasses today. His face was so beautifully sculpted it ought to have been on a medallion. He and I were the youngest people here and our eyes met briefly before everyone turned their gaze to Mr. Wilkie, who began with conventional condolences.

Mr. Wilkie was small, disheveled, nervous, the carnation in his lapel the more pathetic for its being so wilted. Speaking in a high-pitched, hurried voice, not the sort to instill confidence, he rattled over as much background as was necessary for people to understand Mrs. Greene’s estate. Before she left for Paris she had taken steps to untangle many of her own assets from those of her husband. “Her interest in Empire Pictures, the house at Summit Drive, and other properties held in common with Mr. Greene, the house at Tahoe, the Malibu—”

Leon coughed in a way that only Leon can.