"Yeah, thanks."
  	One of the executive producers, an over-eager Englishman called George Dipper, 
with whom Todd had never worked before, was standing on the red carpet, his presence 
ignored by the press, who were standing around chatting to one another, or checking their 
cameras before the luminaries reappeared. George caught Todd's eye, and hurried over, 
dragging on his own cigarette as though his life depended on its nicotine content.
  	There was scattered applause from inside, which quickly died away.
  	The picture was over.
  	"I think it played brilliantly," George said, his eyes begging for a syllable of 
agreement. "They were with us all the way. Don't you think so?"
  	"It was fine," Todd said, without commitment.
  	"Forty million, the first weekend."
  	"Don't get your hopes up."
  	"You don't think we'll do forty?"
  	"I think it'll do fine."
  	George's face lit up. Todd Pickett, the man he'd paid twenty million dollars to 
(plus a sizable portion of the back-end) was declaring it fine. God was in His Heaven. 
For a terrible moment Todd thought the man was going to weep with relief.
  	"At least there's nothing big opening against it," Todd said, "So we've got one 
weekend clear."
  	"And your fans are loyal," George said. Again, the desperation in the eyes.
  	Todd couldn't bear to look at him any longer.
  	"I'm just goin' to make a quick getaway," Todd said, glancing towards the theater 
doors.
  	The first of the crowd were emerging. If the expressions on the first five faces 
he scanned were an omen, his instincts were right: they did not have a hit. He turned his 
back on the crowd, telling George he'd see him later.
  	"You are coming to the party?" George said, hanging on to him as he headed down 
the carpet.
  	Where was Marco? Todd thought. Trusty Marco, who was always there when he was 
needed. "Yes, I'll pop in later," he said, glancing back over his shoulder at George to 
reassure him.
  	In the seconds since he'd turned away the audience spilling from the theatre door 
had jumped from five to a hundred. Half of them saw him. In just a few seconds they'd be 
surrounding him, yelling his name, telling him they loved this and they hated that, 
touching him, pulling on him-
  	"Here, boss!"
  	Marco called to him from the curb. The limo door was open. God bless him! Todd 
raced down the carpet as people behind him started to call his name; cameras started to 
flash. Into the limo. Marco slammed the door. Todd locked it. Then Marco dashed around to 
the driver's seat with a remarkable turn of speed given his poundage, and got in.
  	"Where to?"
  	"Mulholland."
  
  	Mulholland Drive winds through the city like a lazy serpent for many miles; but 
Marco didn't need to know where along its length his boss wanted to be taken. There was a 
spot close to Coldwater Canyon, where the undulating drive offers a picture-perfect view 
of the San Fernando Valley, as far as the mountains. By day it can be a smog-befouled 
spectacle, brown and gray. But by night, especially in the summer, it is a place of 
particular enchantment: the cities of Burbank, North Hollywood and Pasadena laid out in a 
matrix of amber lights, receding to the dark wall of the mountains. And moving against 
the darkness, the lights of planes circling as they await their instruction to land at 
Burbank Airport, or the police helicopters passing over the city, spitting a beam of 
white light.
  	Often there were sightseers parked at the spot, enjoying the scene. But tonight, 
thank God, there were none. Marco parked the car and Todd got out, wandering to the 
cliff-edge to look at the scene before him.
  	Marco got out too, and occupied his time with wiping the windshield of the limo. 
He was a big man with the bearded face of a bear recently woken from hibernation, and he 
possessed a curious mixture of talents: a sometime wrestler and ju-jitsu black belt, he 
was also a trained Cordon Bleu cook (not that Todd's taste called for any great culinary 
sophistication) and a twice-divorced father of three with an encyclopedic knowledge of 
the works of Wagner. More importantly, he was Todd's right-hand man; loyal to a fault. 
There was no part of Todd's existence Marco Caputo did not have some part of. He took 
care of the hiring and firing of domestic staff and gardeners, the buying and the driving 
of cars, and of course all the security duties.
  	"The movie's shit, huh?" he said matter-of-factly.
  	"Worse than."
  	"Sorry 'bout that."
  	"Not your fault. I should never have done it. Shit script. Shit movie."
  	"You want to give the party a miss?"
  	"Nah. I gotta go. I promised Wilhemina. And George."
  	"You got something going with her?"
  	"Wilhemina? Yeah. I got something. I just don't know whether I want to. Plus 
she's got an English boyfriend."
  	"The English are all fags."
  	"Yeah."
  	"You want me to swing by the party and bring her back up to the house for you?"
  	"Suppose she says no?"
  	"Oh come on. When did any girl say no to you?"
  	Todd said nothing. He just stared out over the vista of lights. The wind came up 
out of the valley, smelling of gas fumes and Chinese food. The Santa Anas, hot off the 
Mojave, gusted against his face. He closed his eyes to enjoy the moment, but what came 
into his head was an image of himself: a still from the movie he'd fled from tonight. He 
studied the face in his mind's eye for a moment.
  	Then he said: "I look tired."
  
  
  TWO
  	Todd Picket had made two of his three most successful pictures under the aegis of 
a producer by the name of Keever Smotherman. The first of them was called Gunner; the 
kind of high concept, testosterone-marinated picture Smotherman had been renowned for 
making. It had made Todd-who was then an unknown from Ohio-a bona-fide movie-star, if not 
overnight then certainly within a matter of weeks. He hadn't been required to turn in a 
performance. Smotherman didn't make movies that required actors, only breath-taking 
physical specimens. And Todd was certainly that. Every time he stepped before the 
cameras, whether he was sharing the scene with a girl or a fighter-plane, he was all the 
eye wanted to watch. The camera worked some kind of alchemy upon him; and he worked the 
same magic on celluloid.
  	In life, he was good-looking, but flawed. He was a little on the short side, with