“Yes. But not to know. He’s of an older school, the equivalent of an ancien régime out here. He regards us, the Jewish writers from the East, as upstarts. All those people do—the ones who came out in the twenties. His movies are absolutely passé. Old-time romantic plots with mean ironies. Now they’ve started on the propaganda movies. God knows where that will end.”

She wasn’t listening. Down the beach, a figure was moving rapidly toward them. It was one of the policemen, Bob, making his way heavily through the sand. He was in uniform. She had the peculiar impression that the man, in his bulky police uniform, restored the beach to its natural state, that it was no longer a playground but only a waste of waters beating against a shore.

“How is it that you know St. Vincent?”

“Why is the policeman on the beach?”

“Tell me…”

“He’s an old friend of my father’s…he looks so hot.”

“They always look hot. Well then, they were friends earlier, before St. Vincent came out here. How odd to think of the before time, before you came to Hollywood, before I came…I had another life too…Syracuse, the university, a certain kind of early-winter evening…”

She was not listening to him. The policeman waved to her but he was not smiling. Did he want her to go to him? She stood up.

“Where are you going?”

“I think he wants to speak to me,” she said, alarmed. She wished Bob had not seen her with Greenhouse on the beach—it might make the policemen treat her differently. She started toward him, intending to keep him away from where they were sitting.

He was panting heavily, sweat poured down his face.

“Where’s that Swede girl?”

His tone was almost abusive; he was looking at her as if she were pavement.

“She’s at work.”

“Charlie’s gone to your apartment to fetch her. I’ll have to—Jesus! I got to take that path!” She thought he was relenting, complaining to her, but he only glared at the steep path leading to the top of the cliff.

“What’s the matter?” she asked timidly.

“That brother of hers has done himself in.”

“But what’s happened?” she asked again, her voice rising; she hadn’t understood. What was he saying?

Ben Greenhouse had moved up behind her. “What’s the trouble, officer?” he asked irritably.

The policeman didn’t bother to look at him as he started on the path, heaving his weight upward and muttering to himself.

Annie remained where she was. Some people had pitched an umbrella down toward the other end of the beach. She saw a picnic basket, a Thermos. A light breeze blew across the surface of the water.

“Ann…”