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said.
    â€œYeah, yeah. Twins are very hot right now, yo.”
    The yo almost made me laugh. He was the wrong social class to be talking like a streetwise rapper.
    Porky Starr had none of the Starr confidence his siblings naturally exuded. None of their innate friendliness, either. He had dressed for the occasion in stovepipe jeans and a too-­tight T-shirt that advertised a long-­forgotten rock concert I was willing to bet he hadn’t attended. His impatient manner said he couldn’t wait to be rid of me.
    â€œSo you’re managing talent?” Gus asked, ignoring Porky’s dismissive behavior. “You’re an agent?”
    â€œNot an agent,” Porky corrected. “I put the right people together. You know, matching opportunities.”
    â€œIs that lucrative?”
    Porky wasn’t offended by the blunt question. “I conduct ­seminars—­educational events for young people with big dreams.”
    â€œSeminars. You mean classes? How to behave in front of a camera, that kind of thing? You charge for that?”
    â€œI get finder’s fees when dreams come true.”
    â€œKickbacks, right?”
    â€œPeople value something more if they pay for it.”
    â€œNothing in life is free, yo,” Gus agreed cheerfully.
    â€œRight you are.” Porky looked past us again in hopes of spotting more entertaining guests to talk to.
    Gus said, “Is your business regulated in any way?”
    The question acted like an electric shock on Porky. He jumped, then frowned at Gus as if trying to remember who he was and why he should be tolerated. “Many reputable businesses function on a handshake and a promise.”
    â€œYes, but—”
    â€œExcuse me.”
    â€œIt’s been a pleasure,” Gus said to Porky’s back as he stalked away.
    I said, “Well, I guess we won’t be invited to stay for dinner.”
    â€œUnless somebody mistakes him for a pork chop. No wonder you called him Porky!”
    â€œHush. He’ll hear you.”
    â€œI’m sure that name won’t come as a surprise. What’s his story? I don’t think his television show made it to Australia.”
    â€œIt was a silly program, anyway. A family comedy that lasted only two seasons. He played the young son who cracked age-­inappropriate sex jokes. He’s more memorable for crashing one Maserati into three more parked at a California car dealership—­the most expensive car crash in history. The video was all over the Internet. Rumor has it, Porky lost everything he made in television in that crash. He still doesn’t drive much.”
    â€œDid he go by Porky in Hollywood?”
    â€œIt’s probably impossible to dodge it, don’t you think?” Feeling embarrassed that I’d slipped with Porky’s name, I said, “Look, I should get back to work.”
    â€œI’ll tag along,” Gus said, strolling with me as I pulled out my notebook.
    I snapped a few photos for my column, inviting bystanders to pose for the pictures. Everyone was smiling, enjoying the lovely spring afternoon. We bumped into a well-­known wine dealer, and I introduced Gus. The dealer’s wife engaged Gus in a laughing conversation while the dealer took me aside and thanked me for hooking him up with the chair of a hospital auxiliary. A mutually beneficial relationship had sprung up between them, and the upshot was that he had been chosen to supply a variety of fine—­and ­expensive—­wine for an upcoming tasting.
    â€œYou really do know everybody,” Gus said after we said good-­byes and moved on. He sounded surprised. “What about the farm folk?”
    I looked around and saw whom he meant. Many of the guests were dressed more simply than the fashionistas. Jeans and sweaters to ward off the spring chill. A preponderance of rubber barn boots and hiking sandals. They were clustered together near the paddock,