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to be exact, the sound of a magpie disappearing into the bulrushes of the Platte River. It moved something in him, that innocuous voice of an older woman, past middle age. A voice you could can tomatoes with, you bet. It was Lussie, all right, but he couldn’t respond. He was all tied up inside. All he could do was listen, his heart pounding. Then she rang off.

TEN
    Musso’s was a refuge, a second home. Not a perfect home, but good enough—cool and dark, away from the afternoon glare. That’s where he was headed, again, walking along Hollywood Boulevard. The sun was bright and hot. It came at you with a white bounce, shimmering in the storefront windows. The light gleamed too in the passing windshields, and that gleam stayed in his eyes as he opened the door at last and pushed towards the bar. Musso’s was dim and it took a while before his sight came back. He stood at the bar, sorting through shadows till his own face came clear—lips parted, white hair askew—in the mirror on the other side of the counter.
    The bartender stood waiting.
    â€œWhiskey,” Thompson said. “And a beer back.”
    He had come to meet Billy Miracle, but he was not thinking about that now. He relinquished himself to memory. He bowed his head over the glass. The air conditioner was cool and for a minute he was back on the line, listening to Lussie’s voice—the sound of apple cobbler, rosy cheeks, a dress fluttering up on a spring day—and in his reverie he was about to answer her, to say something into the phone.
    He took a drink and let the moment pass.
    Then he swiveled in his seat and noticed Michele Haze. She sat in a booth not far away, talking to a man. She wore white pumps and a white blouse. The man sat with his back to Thompson. He wore a cheap plaid shirt and slacks the color of coffee, and there seemed something familiar about him. In his gawkiness. In the way his feet splayed wide apart as he hunched insistently across the table.
    Michele did not seem to be enjoying the man’s company.
    The man twisted in his seat, and Thompson caught him in profile. The buzz cut. The slack jaw. The hapless expression.
    The Okie.
    â€œI want my money,” he said, and jabbed a finger at the movie star.
    It was the voice of the heartland again, the motor puttering idiotically down the long rows of green, except now there was a whine to it, something caught in the gears.
    The Okie jerked up from the table, head bobbing, his body rising to its feet so quickly Thompson didn’t have time to react. Their eyes met in the mirror. Thompson hid his face in his drink. He felt his heart constrict, he worried he might stroke and die—but the Okie did not come. Apparently he had not recognized him. Then the man was gone, pushing out the door and into the street, strutting furiously into that desert light.
    After the Okie had left, Thompson approached Michele Haze. She was a beautiful woman, but you could see the impending wreckage in the faint lines that weathered out from her eyes. They were dark eyes, almost black, with the memory of innocence in them, however slight and slumber-headed.
    â€œAre you all right?”
    â€œI’m fine, Mr. Thompson. My agent usually filters them out, the nuts and wackos, but they can be persistent. Sometimes they track you on their own.”
    Thompson did not know if he believed her explanation. She had recognized him, though, and he was pleased.
    â€œYou’re here to meet Billy?”
    â€œYes,” he hesitated. “I got the impression, the other day, Billy was pitching the movie to Lombard.”
    â€œYour impression was right.”
    He saw her vulnerability. She knew better than he the kind of stories going around: how Lombard had dumped her for the younger woman. She shrugged, as if reading his thoughts, dismissing them. When she spoke again, he noticed the faintest slur.
    â€œBecause of who we are, Jack and I, our life gets public.