But Annie worried about it; she owed May something. Although she knew May had long since removed herself from the sound of human voices, living in a spectral world of Ouija-board spirits and the chance fall of cards, she wanted to explain herself to the old madwoman.

It seemed to her that every time she left a place, she trailed a wake of debris: broken promises, disappointed expectations, expectations she had aroused without intention. Was there something exceptional about her? Something beyond those special circumstances of her own history, which by comic inversion she made into an entertainment just for the sake of making a claim on someone’s, anyone’s attention? But that was the misery of it! The story merely announced the presence of the storyteller; that was the hell of it!

Was that why she was so moved by transient meetings? As though only in such fleeting episodes someone might catch sight of her, inadvertently? She thought of Mrs. Poole who had brushed her hair, the slim boy in the bulky suit who had stood by the piano in the hostel on Riverside Drive, Jersey Lighter handing her the scrap of paper, the old man in the bar this morning in San Diego.

Next door the man was weeping; he must be standing next to the wall for his wretchedness seemed to sweat its way right through the thin partition. Annie got her purse and left the room. She wouldn’t be able to reach Johnnie; his landlady refused to call him to the phone in her living room, and he hadn’t had a telephone of his own in a decade. Johnnie just appeared at odd times of the day and night; sometimes he brought her sacks of groceries when he’d made a dollar or two.

She stood on the street irresolutely; perhaps she just ought to go back to the room, stuff her ears with toilet tissue and try to sleep. Then she remembered that years ago her father had spoken of an old friend of his, a screenwriter who’d come to Hollywood in the late twenties. James St. Vincent, that was his name! She went into a public telephone booth and got the number from information. Without giving herself time to think, she called. “St. Vincent residence,” said a man’s voice. “Mr. St. Vincent? This is Annie Gianfala, Anthony Gianfala’s daughter.” “Just a minute,” said the voice. A minute later, a slurred shout came through the receiver.

“Annie? Annie, is it? My God! I’ve not seen you since you were a babe in arms…you’re here, then? In Hollywood? Come out here instantly!”

She knew the sound of liquor. “I’m closer to Los Angeles than Hollywood,” she said.

“Take a taxi. I’ll pay for it. Come right away. It’s important…”

His intensity made her uncomfortable, yet the hectic command was thrilling. He gave her his address, a place called Arizona Canyon.