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assume that means yes.”
    “Sure.”
    “And put me in touch with them?”
    “Natch,” Tony said.
    “How about her personal assistant, Misty Tyler?”
    “How about her,” Tony said.
    “Can you find out anything about her?”
    “She ever been part of the industry?” he said.
    “By which you mean the business,” I said.
    “Exactly,” Tony said.
    I smiled three thousand miles away. Tony was Hollywood to his marrow, but he knew it and could at least make it funny.
    “As far as I know she has just been Erin Flint’s personal assistant,” I said.
    “Mega-agents,” Tony said, “do not find things out about personal assistants.”
    “You could ask your personal assistant,” I said.
    “Personal assistants to mega-agents,” Tony said, “same thing.”
    “Okay, and anything you can find out for me about Buddy Bollen,” I said, “I’d appreciate.”
    “I can do something with that. He is, after all, a film tycoon,” Tony said.
    “Which mega-agents can find things out about,” I said.
    “Sure, if the reward is commensurate with the effort,” he said.
    “Doing the right thing is not its own reward?” I said.
    “For a mega-agent?” Tony said. “In Los Angeles, California?”
    “I withdraw the question. How about Buddy the baseball owner?”
    “I know a sports agent,” Tony said. “He might be useful.”
    “If I come out there, could you set me up with some people?”
    “Absolutely,” Tony said. “I’ll have my personal assistant call their personal assistants.”
    “Whatever happened to secretaries?” I said.
    “‘Secretary’ is an exploitive, sexist concept,” Tony said.
    “Oh,” I said. “Of course.”
    “Mega-agents understand sexism,” Tony said.
    “I’ll bet they do,” I said. “While I’m out there will you wine and dine me?”
    “At the very least,” Tony said.

12
    T ONY SENT a limo to pick me up at LAX. The traffic was backed up on the 405 going north in mid-afternoon, so the driver went off onto Sepulveda and snuck up on it that way. At Santa Monica Boulevard we turned northeast past the Pollo Loco and went on big Santa Monica, past Century City, where Tony’s agency was, to Wilshire and east on Wilshire to the Regency Beverly Wilshire. Buddy had said the sky was the limit, and I took him at his word. The Beverly Wilshire was one of my favorite hotels, and it was at the foot of Rodeo Drive, where, surely, my investigation would lead me at least once.
    I unpacked and hung up my clothes carefully, leaving space between the hangers so the clothes wouldn’t get wrinkled. I am usually sort of unkempt in hotel rooms. I leave everything out and throw things around. It’s not my house, and there are, after all, maids. But this time, I put everything away and lined my makeup in an orderly fashion in the bathroom. If I were to entertain in my room, perhaps this evening, it would be nice and neat.
    Then I took a bath. Usually I shower. But today…the tub was so big and the soap looked so lavish, and, facing the possibility of entertaining, a sybaritic bath seemed right. I did my face, combed my hair, put on clean clothes, stashed the worn clothing in a laundry bag, sprayed a little perfume, stood for a minute and looked out my window at the preposterous enticements of Rodeo Drive.
    “I’ll deal with you before I go home,” I said. Then, squeaky-clean, beautifully dressed, perfectly coiffed, subtly made up, sweet-smelling, elegantly put together, and as neat and orderly as my room, I headed downstairs to the bar.
    Tony was at a table with another man. They stood as I approached.
    “God, Sunny, you look as good as I remembered.”
    He did, too. I hadn’t noticed it before, but he looked sort of like Viggo Mortensen. His small, round glasses, which he probably wore for effect, had green rims this trip, and, like a lot of tall, slim guys, his clothes fit him as if he’d just left the tailor.
    “I was hoping for better,” I said.
    We kissed. He was wearing very subtle