She passed a grandfather clock, its pendulum stilled, and knocked on the door to its right. She heard the sound of bedsprings, then footsteps. Next to the door she read a hand-lettered sign: “I won’t ring the bell more than once for your phone calls, tenants.”

The door opened, and she gazed into the hazel eyes of a very young man. His light-brown hair, wavy, as insubstantial-looking as loose feathers, was combed back from a wide, unlined forehead.

“Mr. Cranford?”

“Yes. You Max’s friend?”

She nodded; she’d explain that later if she had to. He stood aside to let her pass. The room, compared with her own, was spacious. Three large windows looked out on an old house that was the twin of the one she was in. Across the bed—a real bed with two pillows stacked up on one side—was a bright afghan throw. There were two wicker armchairs, several small worn rugs on the floor, and a table with a colored glass lampshade.

“It’s a nice room,” she said, staring at the afghan.

“My mother sent me that blanket,” he said. “I’d have to take that with me but everything else stays. It’s pretty quiet here except when things start popping at old Ivan’s.” He pointed toward a shadeless window in the house across the way. Annie looked straight into the other room. Piles of manuscript lay heaped up on the floor, and a number of chairs were arranged in a circle as though for a meeting.

“When you can’t sleep,” Jake Cranford was saying, “it’s as good as a movie, watching those crazy people over there.” He waved her to a chair. “I’d offer you a cigarette but I’m broke at the moment.”

Annie gave him her pack. He took a small frying pan from a shelf over a hot plate and placed it on the floor in front of her. “An ashtray,” he said.

She puzzled over what kind of acting parts he could possibly get. He looked so frail; his expression was obliging and bland. But when she looked at his hands, she saw they were worn and hard as though he’d done physical labor with them.

“Where are you living now?”

“Out on Hollywood Boulevard, near Los Angeles,” she answered. “The room is bad but that’s not the trouble. It’s the man who beats his dog. He’s right next to me, and the walls are so thin.”

He made no comment, only continued to look at her with calm eyes. “This place is six bucks a week,” he said. “You’re not supposed to have cooking privileges but you can, because of Mrs. Corrigan’s cats. I mean, since the tenants have to put up with her cats, we get to cheat a little. It’s a kind of bargain.”