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frosted glasses of something and the usual group of writers, most of them overweight and unfit. They, too, were holding frosted glasses. The sun was just about to go down, so the air was cool and the palm trees were not troubled by any breeze. I threw my towel on one of the pool chairs and dived into the water. It felt wonderful, cool and cleansing—not that I needed cleansing after being with Myrtle; she was cleansing of a higher sort.
    I swam underwater across the pool toward a group of writers who were just beginning to have trouble balancing on two feet. I assumed there would be some gin and tonic available close by, and I was right. I had gotten to know quite a few of the writers by now, and, as I pulled myself out of the pool on the far side, they welcomed me like a fraternity brother. They all knew I was a detective, not a writer, so I was no threat to them; and they did not expect any witty ripostes from me that they’d have to top, so they could relax. Besides, I might potentially be a source of good stories. One or two might have been slightly worried that I might be on their case. But my boyish charm more or less disarmed even the ones who had something to hide.
    â€œBruno Feldspar, ace detective, rises from the sea like Venus on a clamshell,” said one of them.
    â€œVenus? What are you suggesting?”
    â€œNothing, my boy. Nothing at all. Come and have a drink.” He was a pudgy character with a pencil moustacheand thinning hair that he slicked back. He had a receding double chin that went perfectly with a potbelly that had taken years of self-indulgence to create. He was considered the presiding wit of the place. Like most of these characters he had come here from New York, so he had an air of guilt mixed with tired yet amused self-loathing. He was here for the money and made no bones about it; but he was, like the rest of them, fundamentally uncomfortable and out of place, and it showed in his manner and expression. He wanted to be back in Manhattan, exchanging witticisms with people like himself, with everyone seated around a round lunch table and everyone understanding the references and jokes. In Hollywood, if you happened to mention Ulysses , people would think you were talking about a proposed sword-and-sandal epic starring Douglas Fairbanks, with Mary Pickford playing Ulysses’s girlfriend Lola and Wallace Beery as Ulysses’s sidekick Fuzzy.
    You might think that the writers would have enough comradeship among themselves, and to some extent they did. But theirs was a brotherhood of despair. They all were constantly depressed by the nature of their assignments, and that got in the way of the kind of sophisticated banter they nostalgically longed for. They wanted a salon but were in a saloon, and they knew it. They wanted to write books and sell them and live on the royalties, but they couldn’t make nearly the amount of money doing that that they made here, so they sold out.
    I lifted myself out of the water, feeling childishly good about the condition of my body in contrast to the creative types, who collectively had the muscle tone of a dumpling. I noticed a few approving glances from thenaked-starlets-volunteer-un-synchronized-swimming show. Maybe they thought I was “somebody.” Maybe not. It didn’t matter. For the time being, I was merely a starlet aficionado, because that hour with Myrtle had been sufficient. For the time being. But I made a mental note of the more interested glances.
    â€œHow many criminals did you catch today, my beamish boy?” asked the head man, whose name was Bob something. I suppose a private detective should be alert to names, but I have always operated under the theory that the best way to approach life is to edit it carefully. I have no trouble remembering useful information. The rest, I sift through quickly and discard most of it. I had no interest in cataloging the wreckage at the Garden. And in the great wide world,