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kidding?”
    “Could be.” I leaned over the desk. “Funny thing,” I said. “Here you are, right on the inside, seeing Bannock’s clients. And you’re still movie-struck. I’ve never been able to figure that one out. All the smart little chicks in Hollywood going for the phony glamor. Suppose you’d like to get in the movies yourself?”
    “Would I?” Her eyes widened. “Why, I’d give anything to land a job.” Then she grinned. “Come to think of it, I did, about two years ago. But I never got the job.”
    “You’re lucky,” I told her. “This is steadier work.”
    “I’d still trade places with you any day,” she sighed. “Imagine, interviewing Polly Foster at Chasen’s.”
    “Which reminds me,” I said. “I’ve got a lot of time to fill until eight o’clock. We interviewers have to keep busy. Does Harry still run a spot-check on current assignments?”
    “Yes. Why?”
    “Be a good girl and find out if Tom Trent’s listed for anything today.”
    “I’ll ask Velma.”
    She buzzed Velma and waited for a reply.
    “No, Mr. Clayburn, Trent isn’t down on today’s schedule.”
    “Good.”
    “Are you going to interview him, too?”
    “Why not?” I said. “It’s a free country. Thanks for the help. If you want, I’ll bring you Trent’s autograph. I’m not sure if he knows how to write, but they say his horse is very intelligent.”
    “Could you...could you get Polly Foster’s autograph for me?”
    I shrugged. “I’ll try. See you.”
    Then I went away, wondering about this whole whacky business of hero worship. Even here in Hollywood, where you’d think they’d know better, the crowds still jam the prevues, still mob celebrities, scramble for buttons and souvenirs. Crazy. Crazy, but profitable.
    That’s what made it important. It was profitable to give people what they wanted. If they wanted heroes and heroines, Hollywood must provide them. And that’s why I was on this job. I had to take the battered, bullet-riddled body of Dick Ryan and prop it up on a pedestal again.
    And the first step was to see Tom Trent.
    Wrong. The first step was to stop at a drugstore and hunt up his address. I might have guessed he’d live out in the Valley.
    But I had time to spare. I took the scenic route and pulled up in front of his place around three.
    It hardly surprised me to find that Tom Trent lived in a regulation, sure-enough ranch-house, complete with true Western air-conditioning, a trusty station wagon, and an ol’ swimmin’ hole lined with turquoise tile and surrounded by umbrella tables at which a quick-shootin’, redblooded hombre could set hisself down and have a shot of firewater—bonded, of course.
    I pulled into the driveway but didn’t bother to ring the bell, because I could see little ol’ rough-and-ready, two-fisted Tom Trent out yonder at one of the tables. I went thataway.
    I’d recognized Trent’s face, of course, but he was the kind who doesn’t depend on that alone. As I got closer I noted the white terrycloth robe thrown over the back of the chair so as to display the TT monogram in gold. A few steps nearer and I could see the same TT on his towel, and reproduced on his trunks. When I reached the table he raised his left hand in salutation, and I saw the silver identification bracelet dangling from the wrist. Three guesses as to what was engraved on it.
    For some reason or other, he hadn’t bothered to tattoo his initials across his chest, though they may have been elsewhere, hidden by the trunks.
    Trent was watching a white bathing-cap bobbing in the pool. The cap contained a brachycephalic head which now popped over the edge of the pool as I approached. The face stared up at me. Trent turned and saw me coming.
    “Yeah?” he said.
    “Hi. I’m Mark Clayburn, Mr. Trent. I’d like a few minutes of your time for an interview.”
    “Interview? I didn’t get any word on an interview.” He glanced over at the pool. “Hey, did the studio call about any