“You can test-drive it for me in a couple of days.”

“Perks of the job,” I said. “Do you still have a way of contacting paparazzi?”

“I’m sure some of my clients do.”

“Could you call one of them?”

“Looking for a lead on the staaahs?”

I told her about the sudden drop in sightings.

“Burrowing because they’ve gotten weird?” she said. “Okay, I’ll try Zenith. He’s not so big anymore but he hangs with the biggies and his current flame’s that actress on the doctor show and she’s always good for a cleavage shot.”

Zenith Streak né James Baxter professed ignorance of “all that bullshit” but he connected her to his publicist who punted to another rock star’s personal manager. It took three additional calls before she obtained the number of a paparazzo named Ali, whom she sweet-talked before passing the phone to me.

I introduced myself.

He said, “Hey, dog, whusup?” in a Middle Eastern accent.

“Haven’t seen much on Premadonny lately.”

His voice climbed three notes up the scale. “Whu, you know ’em?”

“No. I was just wondering why.”

“Aw, man … so why you— They pissing me off, man.”

“Why?”

“Whu you think? For not being, know muh saying?”

“No more photo ops.”

“Got to eat, dog, they the meat, dog. We don’ hassle ’em, we they friends with the lens.”

“So no idea why—”

“They used to be, man. Like a clock, we getting the call, they there smiling, waving, smiling, waving. We shooting and booting and sending. Then we spending.”

“They orchestrated everything.”

“Huh?”

“It was all prearranged.”

“Sure, man, what you think?”

“You ever get pictures of their kids?”

“Nah, just them. Pissing me off, know what a baby brings? Hot tot shot’s the mostest lot.”

“Any idea why they don’t call anymore?”

“They crazy.”

“How so?”

“They not callin, they crazy. You not there, no one care. So what, you’re like a music person’s si-nificant other?”

“Yup.”

“You know Katy?”

“Sorry, no.”

“Taylor?”

“No—”

“Adam, Justin—you know even Christina, that’s cool—how bow Bono? You know anyone, I slip you a share of what’s there.”

“Sorry—”

“You don know no one, dog?”

I chose to answer philosophically. “Not really.”

“Then we done.”

Robin said, “So they really are playing ground squirrel.” Her smile was sudden, mischievous. “Or they’ve just opted for the simple life.”

I said, “Growing their own vegetables, and raising hyperintellectual organic cattle. For the milk.”

She said, “Don’t forget hand-stitched hemp duds.”

We both laughed. I tried to put my heart into it.

Holly Ruche had phoned while I was in the studio. I called her back, figuring single-session euphoria had faded, the way it often does.

But when she answered, her voice was fat with pleasure. “Thanks so much, Dr. Delaware. For what you’ve accomplished.”

Not sure what I’d done, I said, “Glad everything’s going well.”