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kept crying out—something about angels. It sounded like “Why don’t the angels love me?” Finally the naked lunatic collapsed into Michaels arms in tears and allowed himself to be led upstairs and into one of the many second floor bedrooms.
    Westmore began, “You don’t think that’s—”
    “ It better not be,” Bryant offered, shaking his head in incredulity. “If that was Farrington, we’ve got a major basket case on our hands.”
    “ Thank God you’re the one doing the writing.” Westmore frowned around the room until he noticed an ashtray on a side table. “I think my karma’s kicking in again. We haven’t been here twenty minutes, and things are already fucked up. And I can tell you right now; this is going to take longer than we thought. I’m gonna miss the fuckin’ Yankees’ game.”
    “ We don’t get paid by the hour. What happened to your work ethic?”
    Westmore tapped an ash. “What work ethic? And where’s the British guy? We’re in a billionaire’s house. You’d think the Brit would at least offer us a drink.”
    Bryant walked around the spacious room, jotting down descriptive notes. “You’ve had enough to drink. Why don’t you just chill and take some pictures. You’re griping like some woman on the rag.”
    “ Gimme a break. The cramps are really bad today, makes me bitchy.” But he knew he really should get more shots of the interior. He walked to the plate-glass window overlooking n elaborate garden. He touched the glass.
    “ This isn’t glass.”
    “ What?” Bryant said, seeming annoyed.
    “ It’s Lexan or something, something polycarbonate. Stuff they use in banks ’cos it’s bulletproof. Won’t break.”
    “ I’ll remind you that the owner is a billionaire. He can afford security measures like that.”
    Now Westmore tested the knobs on the French doors. They were key-locked. He came back and crushed his cigarette out but suddenly found his hands shaking. “Fuck.”
    Bryant couldn’t help but notice. “You’re not old enough to have the shakes. Think it might be a good idea to quit drinking?”
    Westmore felt strange, as he had at the airport bar. He felt as though some aspect of his spirit had abandoned him, but why? What was it fleeing? “I just got that bad feeling again. Bad vibes.”
    “ Well, get a hold of yourself.” Next, Bryant rolled his eyes at the cigarette smoldering in the tray. “That’s not an ashtray, Westmore. It’s a Hummel pit dish, probably cost a thousand dollars.”
    “ Fuck,” Westmore said. Next, an inexplicable impulse caused him to turn. The furthest corner of the room stood dark. He thought he’d seen someone standing there, but when he squinted, it was just grainy dark.
    Bryant smiled. “You’re really a screw-loose.”
    “ And you know something else?” Westmore scratched his beard. “This Brit, this Micheals guy, he could be Farrington for all we know.”
    “ I assure you I’m not, Mr. Westmore.”
    The tall British manservant was right behind Westmore when he turned back toward the foyer. The photographer jumped back with a start at the sudden proximity of the man.
    “ Jesus, man!”
    Michaels sighed when he noticed the cigarette butt in the pit dish. “Please, gentlemen. Sit. I’ll have someone bring you some tea, or, if you’d prefer—”
    Westmore perked up.
    “— The armoire is actually a liquor cabinet.”
    Westmore walked immediately to the high, polished armoire near the arched doorway.
    “ Mr. Farrington will be with you soon,” Michaels continued in the clipped accent. He seemed distant, or distracted. “I have to go see to another guest who has just arrived.”
    “ That wasn’t Mr. Farrington blubbering on your shoulder just now in his birthday suit was it?” Westmore asked.
    “ Please, have a seat. I will be back momentarily.” Michaels disappeared into another room leaving the two journalists alone again.
    “ You have a way with words,” Bryant said. “A bad way.”
    Westmore