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in. Ray and his assistant leaned against the side of a blue and gold studio security car parked up on the grass behind us. I went around and got in beside Candy. She started up, shifted, and off we went. The security car followed us to the gate, and then we were back out on Pico, heading east. Candy was silent.
    “Too bad,” I said. “I think Agnes was smitten with me.”
    “If you wear pants, Agnes is smitten with you,” Candy said.
    “Oh.”
    Candy glanced over and smiled. “Well, maybe she was more smitten with you than with others.”
    “I thought so,” I said.

Chapter 7
    CANDY TURNED LEFT onto La Cienega. “Where now?” I said.
    “We’re going to see an agent I used to sleep with. He knows more about Hollywood, capital H, than anyone in town.”
    “Mind if I ask him how it was?” I said.
    “How what was?”
    “When he used to sleep with you.”
    “You find it shocking that I mention it casually?”
    “No, but it seems a little contrived.”
    “You mean a little too casually sophisticated?”
    “Yeah.”
    She was silent. I thought, peeking at her sideways, that she might have been blushing slightly. We crossed Olympic. Behind us a blue 1970 Pontiac with a black vinyl roof came out of Olympic and turned up La Cienega. It passed a car and swung in behind us. It was still behind us at Wilshire. And it was still behind us at San Vincente.
    “Take San Vincente,” I said to Candy. “And go back onto La Cienega at Beverly Boulevard.”
    “No left turn,” she said.
    “Take it anyway,” I said.
    She turned onto San Vincente. “You doing some sight-seeing?”
    “Maybe. There’s a car behind us. I want to see if he’s following.”
    Candy checked the rearview mirror. “Old blue Pontiac?”
    “Yes.”
    We crossed the intersection at Third with the Pontiac still behind us. He had dropped back a little. There were two cars between us. San Vincente Boulevard slants northwest for a short way across the more conventional Los Angeles grid from Pico Boulevard to Melrose Avenue. It crosses La Cienega between Wilshire Avenue and Third Street. At Beverly we turned right and went three blocks east, then left, and we were back heading north on La Cienega. When we crossed Melrose, I checked behind us and the blue Pontiac was there.
    Candy looked at me.
    “Okay,” I said, “so someone is following us. It would be good to know who.”
    “What do you suppose he thought we were doing with that little maneuver on San Vincente?”
    “Unless he’s an idiot, he thought we had spotted him and were trying to make sure he was really following us.”
    “So now he knows we know.”
    “Yeah.”
    “He doesn’t seem to care.”
    “That’s right.”
    “What’s that mean?”
    “It might mean he’s going to make a move on us. It might mean he is so interested in what we’re doing that he doesn’t care about stealth. It might mean he’s a cop.”
    “A cop?”
    “Cops don’t give a damn about anything sometimes,” I said.
    “What shall we do?”
    “We need a place… go east on Melrose then down Fairfax to the Farmers Market.”
    The Pontiac stayed with us now, openly, no dodging behind cars; it was right behind us. I turned in, my seat and rested my chin on my forearms and studied over the open rear deck of the MG.
    “There are two of them. Apparently they’ve dumped the Firebird and the van,” I said to Candy. “The one in the passenger seat is balding. He has a black mustache and goatee. It’s hard to tell while he’s sitting in the car, but he appears to be fat and strong. Does that sound familiar?”
    “Oh, my God,” Candy said. She cleared her throat.
    “It’s okay,” I said. “This time we’ve got them outnumbered.”
    “There’s two of them.”
    I looked at her and flexed my bicep in a physical culture pose.
    “Oh,” she said, “I see what you’re saying. I’m sorry, but I’m scared. This time what if they mean to kill me?”
    “That’s what the Sound of the Golden West is