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stopped. “One of who?”
    “My family. I was done in by one of my own people. That whole bust was a setup, from start to finish.”
    “How do you mean?” I walked back toward him. He was still planted there beside his line in the sand.
    “All I know,” he replied, “is what my lawyer told me—the Public Morals Division of the New York City Police Department doesn’t do routine roundups. They got better things to do than sweep porn theaters for beaters. They only follow up specific complaints. Which means somebody tipped ’em off that I was there that day.”
    “I see,” I said doubtfully.
    “The whole scene was weird,” he said heatedly. “They knew. I mean, the van was waiting there out front to take me in. And, get this, the press was out there, too. Ready to nail me.”
    “You have to admit it was not lacking in news value.”
    “No, no, you’re missing my point—they were already there. Practically before the cops. How did they know about me? Unless they were tipped off, too?”
    “By who?”
    “Hey, not everybody loves me. This is me admitting it. Some of my people even hate me. One of ’em enough to try and ruin me. I wanna know who, Hoagy. I have to know who.”
    “Why didn’t any of this come out before?”
    “Because everybody wanted to get it over and done with. The district attorney, my lawyer, God, me … I was a wreck. It was a fucking circus, for Chrissakes. So I pleaded no contest, and the DA agreed not to push it. A fair deal for everybody, and I’m back on the air. But I’m not satisfied. How can I be? One of my own people tried to ruin me. I wanna know who did it to me. I wanna deal with it in this book. I got to. Because …” He broke off, lips quivering with rage. “Because it’s driving me crazy!”
    “How do you know it’s one of your own people? Have you got any proof?”
    He snorted derisively at me.
    “How do you know?”
    “I know, dammit!” he roared, over the sound of the waves. “Christ, don’t you ever believe what people tell ya?”
    “Not lately,” I said quietly.
    He glanced at me sharply. “That’s no way to live, man. You gotta have faith. I know where you’re coming from. Trusting no one. Holding everyone at arm’s length. I been there. And it sucks. It’s no way to go through life, believe me.”
    I watched a jogger pass by us, wondering why it is that celebrities who are. trying to clean up their act always try to run mine through the rinse cycle as well. Why can’t they just shut up? Why can’t they pick another writer? I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “If you’re serious about this—”
    “I’m totally serious,” he fired back.
    “Then I suggest you hire yourself a good private detective. Someone who knows what he’s doing.”
    “I don’t want someone who knows what he’s doing. I want you!”
    “Careful. I flatter easily.”
    “Look, I can’t hire a detective. I need someone who can function as a real member of my family. An insider. You. Besides, you’re supposed to have a certain … knack. I mean, my editor said if anyone could get to the bottom of it, you could.”
    I had worked for this editor before. His gleeful taste for high-profile tell-alls by convicted serial killers, drug-addicted teen prostitutes, and would-be presidential assassins had earned him the nickname The Merchant of Menace. He bothered a lot of the highbrow brigade. Me he had never bothered. He paid on time and he left me alone, which is all I ever ask.
    “I write books, Lyle. I don’t solve crimes.”
    “He said it was a perfect fit, you and me,” Lyle argued stubbornly.
    “Never be fooled by a perfect fit. There’s at least three-percent shrinkage to take into account—particularly when I’m thrown in hot water.”
    Lyle Hudnut clasped his hands before him, as if in prayer. “This isn’t just about a show, Hoagy. Or money. Or endorsements. Uncle Chubby is my life. Somebody tried to take him away from me. That’s murder, is what