S ometimes, if Brown was hungry at the end of the day, and in a certain mood, they’d go to Gray’s Papaya for the Recession Special. Milgrim always got the orangeade with his, because it seemed more honestly a drink, less juice-like. You could get actual juices there, but not with the Recession Special, and juice didn’t seem like part of the Gray’s experience, which was about grilled beef franks, soft white buns, and watery, sugary drinks, consumed standing up, under brilliant, buzzing fluorescent light.

When they were staying at the New Yorker, as it seemed they were again, tonight, Gray’s was only two blocks up Eighth Avenue. Milgrim was comforted by Gray’s Papaya. He remembered when the two franks and drink that were the Recession Special had been $1.95.

Milgrim doubted that Gray’s comforted Brown, exactly, but he did know that Brown could become relatively talkative there. He’d have the nonalcoholic piña colada with his franks and lay out the origins of cultural Marxism in America. Cultural Marxism was what other people called political correctness, according to Brown, but it was really cultural Marxism, and had come to the United States from Germany, after World War II, in the cunning skulls of a clutch of youngish professors from Frankfurt. The Frankfurt School, as they’d called themselves, had wasted no time in plunging their intellectual ovipositors repeatedly into the unsuspecting body of old-school American academia. Milgrim always enjoyed this part; it had an appealing vintage sci-fi campiness to it, staccato and exciting, with grainy monochrome Eurocommie star-spawn in tweed jackets and knit ties, breeding like Starbucks. But he’d always be brought down, as the rant rolled to a close, by Brown’s point that the Frankfurt School had been Jewish, all of them. “Every. Last. One.” Dabbing mustard from the corners of his mouth with a precisely folded paper napkin. “Look it up.”

Which was exactly what had happened, this time, after Milgrim’s long day in the laundry. Brown had just said that, and Milgrim had nodded, and continued to chew the last of his second dog, glad of something in his mouth to preclude answering.

When they’d both finished their Specials, it was time to walk back down Eighth to the New Yorker. The traffic was moderate and there was something like a touch of spring in the air, a slight premonitory warmth that Milgrim suspected of being hallucinatory, but welcomed nonetheless. When the yellow Hummer cruised past, in the nearest lane, as they were walking south, he noticed it. You would, he’d tell himself later. Not that it was a real Hummer, just one of those half-assed ones, and not just that it was yellow, but because it was a Hummer and it was yellow, and it had those goofy counterweighted hubcaps that didn’t rotate with the hubs, just sort of rocked there. And these were yellow, matching yellow, and had a Happy Face on each one, or at least on the two on the sidewalk side, the two Milgrim could see.

But what really held Milgrim’s attention, after the northbound yellow vehicle flicked past, was how closely its driver and passenger had resembled his two Moorish knights of the laundry, down on Lafayette. Black knit skullcaps snugged low over massy skulls, and sofa-like chest expanses of black, button-studded leather.

Gilbert and George, in the front seats of a Hummer.

H eld psychically together by the thick white Mondrian robe, her sunglasses, and a room-service breakfast of granola, yogurt, and a watermelon liquado, Hollis sat back in one wide white armchair, put her feet up on the shorter of the two marble-topped coffee tables, and regarded the vinyl Blue Ant figurine on the chair arm. It was eyeless; or rather its designer had chosen not to represent its eyes. It had a determined smirk, the expression of a cartoon underdog fully aware of its own secret status as superhero. Its posture conveyed that too, arms slightly bent at its sides, fists balled, feet in a martial artist’s ready T-stance. Its stylized cartoon-Egyptian apron and sandals, she judged, were a nod to the hieroglyphic look of the company’s logo.

Inchmale said that when you were presented with a new idea, you should try to turn it over, to look at the bottom. She picked the figure up, expecting to find it copyrighted Blue Ant, but the bottoms of its feet were smooth and blank. Nicely finished. It wasn’t a toy, not for kids anyway.

It reminded her of the time their soundman, Ritchie Nagel, had dragged a militantly disinterested Inchmale to see Bruce Springsteen at Madison Square Garden. Inchmale had returned with his shoulders hunched in thought, deeply impressed by what he’d witnessed but uncharacteristically unwilling to talk about it. Pressed, he would only say that Springsteen, onstage, had channeled a combination of Apollo and Bugs Bunny, a highly complex act of physical possession. Hollis had subsequently waited, uneasily, for Inchmale to manifest anything at all Boss-like onstage, but that had never happened. This Blue Ant’s designer, she thought, as she stood the thing back on the chair arm, had aspired to something like that: Zeus and Bugs Bunny. Her cell rang.

“Morning.” Inchmale, as if called forth by her having thought of him.

“You sent Heidi.” Only neutrally accusatory.

“Did she walk on her hind legs?”

“Did you know about Jimmy’s money?”

“Your money. I did, but I’d forgotten. He told me he had it, that he was going to give it to you. I told him to give it to Heidi, if he couldn’t give it to you. Otherwise, it would vanish down that hole in his arm without a hiccup.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“I forgot. With major effort. Repressed the whole sorry episode, in the wake of his not-unexpected demise.”

“When did you see him?”

“I didn’t. He phoned me. About a week before they found him.”

Hollis turned in the armchair, looking back over her shoulder at the sky above the Hollywood hills. Absolutely empty. When she turned back, she picked up the rest of her liquado. “It’s not like I don’t need it. I’m not sure what to do with it, though.” She took a swallow of watermelon juice and put the glass down.

“Spend it. I wouldn’t try to bank it.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t know where it’s been.”

“I don’t even want to know what you’re thinking of.”

“The U.S. hundred is the international currency of bad shit, Hollis, and by the same token the number-one target of counterfeiters. How long are you going to be in L.A.?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“Because I’m due in there day after the day after tomorrow. Found out about twenty minutes ago. I can vet those bills for you.”

“You are? You can?”

“The Bollards.”

“Excuse me?”

“Bollards. I may produce them.”

“Do you really know how to check for counterfeit money?”

“I live in Argentina, don’t I?”

“Are Angelina and the baby coming?”

“They may later, if the Bollards and I are go. And you?”

“I met Hubertus Bigend.”

“What’s that like?”

“Interesting.”

“Oh dear.”

“We had drinks. Then he drove me down to where they’re building new offices. In a kind of Cartier tank.”

“In a what?”

“Obscene car.”

“What does he want?”

“I was about to say it’s complicated, but actually it’s vague. Extremely vague. If you have time off from the Pillocks, I’ll tell you then.”

“Please.” He hung up.

The phone rang in her hand. “Yes?” Expecting an Inchmale afterthought.

“Allo? Ollis?”

“Odile?”

“You have experience the poppies?”

“Yes. Beautiful.”

“The Node man calls, he says you have a new helmet?”

“I do, thanks.”

“This is good. You know Silverlake?”

“Roughly.”

“Rough—?”