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of Laurel Canyon and wound west on Mulholland, following the ridgeline several miles until Benchley turned down an unmarked, dusty spur lined with boulders. It dropped sharply, shadowed by tall pines, their sweet fragrance reaching in the windows. As they went, the air grew cooler, tinged with a clammy hint of ocean. After a last blind curve the road leveled off. They rocked along, passing rutted drives that disappeared into the forest. There were no signs, no mailboxes, no gates. They might have been deep in the Smokies except for the distant line of sea winking through the trees.
    Knowing Ernest, he expected a gloomy stone hunting lodge decorated with heroic taxidermy, but the house below the end of the road was a glass box set into the hillside, overlooking the ocean. He imagined how much trouble bringing in everything to build it must have been, and pictured it at night, lit like an aquarium against the blackness. It was at once splendid and foolhardy, entirely incongruous, a home only someone in pictures would imagine. He and Benchley had to descend a flight of stairs steep as a slide to reach the door, and by then their host was waiting—Marlene Dietrich, in a plain white blouse and black skirt, like any hausfrau.
    He was so used to her face from the screen that he was shocked to see the lines about her mouth. In real life, her famous bedroom eyes drooped, giving her the look of someone drugged or on the verge of passing out. He knew it was unfair—his own oft-photographed profile had long ago softened, his skin ceded the bloom of youth—yet he was disillusioned, as if all this time she’d been fooling him.
    â€œI should warn you.”
Vahn
you. “He’s not well. The doctor says he needs rest. He says he doesn’t. So.”
    They each declined her offer of a drink, though instantly, in retrospect, the novelty of being served by her appealed to Scott. She led them to the equivalent of a living room with an endless view, where Ernest, in striped briefs and a ribbed undershirt, balanced on a single crutch, his right shin swathed in a wasps’ nest of gray bandages. He was heavier than Scott remembered, and hadn’t shaved in a while, or washed his hair, it appeared, which was flat on one side as if he’d just woken up. She announced them brusquely and retreated to an unseen corner of the box.
    â€œ
Mi hermano
,” Ernest said, throwing an arm wide, and Scott crossed to him. Instead of a handshake, Ernest embraced him, kissing one cheek and then the other. His breath was foul—not with drink, but rotten, as if he had an abscessed tooth. “You look well.”
    â€œI’d say the same but I’d be lying.”
    Ernest subsided into his chair, swinging his leg onto a hassock. “What did she tell you?”
    â€œYou’re supposed to be resting.”
    â€œLousy Krauts—all they do is give orders. It’s just a blood clot. They operated on it over there and didn’t get it all.”
    â€œRed badge of courage?” Benchley asked.
    â€œOur hotel was being shelled and I tried to hide under a desk. Bumped my head too.” He pulled back his greasy bangs to show a yellow-and-grape egg. “And that’s how I won the war.”
    â€œI hope you at least had room service,” Benchley said.
    â€œNo food, no water and no ammunition. Otherwise things were ducky.”
    â€œWhich is why you’re here,” Scott said.
    â€œI’d rather be there. The whole thing’s been bitched since New York. The cops shut us down in Boston. They didn’t even let us into Chicago. You’d think it wouldn’t be a hard sell, with the Krauts involved.”
    â€œThe country’s not in the mood to buy a used war,” Benchley said. “Another one, I should say.”
    â€œFirst off,” Scott said, “they don’t have the money.”
    â€œThey’re going to have to buy it sometime, and the price is just going