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said in public and he’d drummed into his client’s head that there were a lot of things you shouldn’t say to people you might be involved with in court. It occurred to him now that he probably shouldn’t have said, Not a problem. )
    Her eyes were on his scar.
    He said, “You’re not responsible.”
    She blinked.
    He touched his arm. “Not for that, I mean. I’d show you the bruise that’s got your name on it but I don’t know you well enough yet.”
    She said, “That one looks pretty bad.”
    “Happened a long time ago.”
    “I don’t think I want to know how.”
    “I was driving an Olds 88 and firing a machine gun out the window. Somebody shot the car with a rocket. I think it was a rocket. I’m not sure. It blew up.”
    She stared at him, waiting for the truth, then gave a burst of polite laugh, which faded fast. “A machine gun.”
    “An Uzi, I think.” Pellam frowned and thought hard. “No, a MAC-10.”
    He nodded again. Right, a MAC-10. And a rocket. And a terrier that looked a little like a poodle. He didn’t have amnesia. He looked at her. What was her name again?
    “A MAC-10,” he repeated.
    She stared a moment more. She handed him a white plastic bag with handles on it. “Present,” she said. Her cheeks were red and Pellam loved that. As much as he loved freckles he loved blushing women even more. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a pretty woman blushing. In L.A., all women were like Trudie; genetically incapable of it.
    He opened the bag. The present wasn’t wrapped but there was a bow on the box. A new Polaroid camera.
    “What happened to the old one?” he asked.
    “It got kind of mashed.”
    He laughed. “You didn’t have to. The company’ll pay for it.”
    She smiled cautiously, maybe not sure whether he meant her insurance company or his film company. What he’d meant was his company but then he figured it was all going on her tab anyway—camera, the veterinarian’s bill and a little moolah for pain and suffering (the eggplant bruise would look great in court and now, thanks to her, he had a new toy to immortalize it with). He said, “Thanks.”
    He fiddled with the square, sleek camera, not sure what else to say. He loaded it then held the camera up suddenly and took a picture of her. She blinked and for an instant got a nervous look, as if she suspected him of gathering evidence. Bzzzzt. He loved that sound.
    But he just looked at the picture as it developed—not quite in focus, tilted, washed out; her lids were half closed. He handed the picture to her.
    “What—?”
    Pellam shrugged. “A present. You can frame it.”
    She looked at the square. “It’s awful.” Then she put it into her purse and looked up at the wall, at an eye chart that must’ve been thirty or forty years old. She was squinting slightly and he wondered if she was giving herself an informal exam or whether she was appraising its value, picturing it in her tastefully paneled dining room she’d share with a husband rich enough to buy her the Hope Diamond’s cousin for her petite finger.
    She asked, “You’re the man making movies?”
    “Nope. I just look for locations that the studio decides they don’t like.”
    “Just like me,” she said. “I show houses to people who don’t buy them.”
    So, not a housewife. A businesswoman person. Watch it, Pellam. Middle America ain’t the same as when you left. Patronize at your own risk.
    She said, “What kind of movie is it?”
    “An artsy movie,” he said.
    “Big Mountain Studios. They’re famous.”
    “Sort of famous,” Pellam said. “How did you know the name?”
    “You had this permit in the window of your trailer thing. Your Winnebago.”
    Pellam nodded. Wondering when—and why—she’d checked out the camper.
    “When will they start shooting?”
    “Three weeks, give or take.”
    Meg nodded. “Guess you’ve got lots of people asking about getting a part.”
    “Some, sure. They think it’d be an adventure. You