“You don’t do jocks,” said Heidi.

“He was different,” said Hollis.

“They all are,” said Heidi.

“Was fuckstick?”

“No,” said Heidi. “Not that way. That was me, trying to be different. He was as undifferent as you can get, but he was somebody else’s undifferent. I just had this feeling that I could step into somebody else’s shoes. Put all the tour stuff in boxes. Shop at malls. Drive a car I’d never have thought of driving. Get a fucking break, you know? Time-out.”

“You didn’t seem very happy with it, when I saw you in L.A.”

“He turned out to be a closet creative. I married a tax lawyer. He started trying to produce. Indie stuff. He was starting to mention directing.”

“And he’s in jail now?”

“No bond. We had the FBI in the office. Wearing those jackets with ‘FBI’ on the back. They looked really good. Great look for a small production. But he couldn’t be on the set.”

“But you’re okay, legally?”

“I had Inchmale’s lawyer, in New York. I won’t even lose the share of his legitimate property I’m entitled to as the ex. Should they leave him any, which is unlikely. But seriously, fuck it.”

Breakfast arrived, Hollis taking the tray from the Italian girl at the door, with a wink. Tip her later.

Heidi batted her way out of the laundry pile. Sat on the edge of the bed, pulling on an enormous hockey jersey which Hollis, born without the gene for following team sports, recalled as having belonged to someone quite famous. Heidi definitely did jocks, though only if they were sufficiently crazy. Drumming for the Curfew, she’d had a spectacularly bad string of boxers, however good it might have been for publicity. She’d put one of them out cold with a single punch, at a pre-Oscars party. Very frequently now, Hollis was grateful for having had a pre-YouTube career.

“I never got what he did, Garret,” said Heidi, pouring herself half a cup of coffee, then topping it up with what remained in the whiskey decanter.

“Garreth. Do you think that’s a good idea?”

Heidi shrugged, her shoulders almost lost within the jersey. “You know me. Get this down and I’m good for six months of mineral water. Actually what I need now’s a gym. Serious one. What did he do?”

“I’m not sure I could explain that,” Hollis said, pouring her own coffee. “But I made a very firm agreement never to try.”

“Crook?”

“No,” said Hollis, “though some of what he did involved breaking laws. You know Banksy, the graffiti artist?”

“Yeah?”

“He liked Banksy. Identified with him. They’re both from Bristol.”

“But he wasn’t a graffiti artist.”

“I think he thought he was. Just not with paint.”

“With what?”

“History,” said Hollis.

Heidi looked unconvinced.

“He worked with an older man, someone with a lot of resources. The old man decided what should be done, what the gesture would be, then Garreth worked out the best way to do it. And not get caught. Dramaturge to the old man’s playwright, sort of, but sometimes actor as well.”

“So what was the problem?”

“Scary. Not that I didn’t approve of what they were doing. But it was scarier than Bigend’s stuff. I need the world to have a surface, the same surface everyone sees. I don’t like feeling like I’m always about to fall through, into something else. Look what happened to you.”

Heidi picked up a triangle of dry toast, considering it the way a potential suicide might consider a razor. “You said they weren’t crooks.”

“They broke laws, but they weren’t crooks. But by the very nature of what they did, they constantly made enemies. He came to L.A., we hung out. I was starting the book. He went back to Europe. Saw him again when I was over here to sign the car contract.”

“I got a proxy.” Biting off a corner of toast, chewing it dubiously.

“I wanted to be here.” Hollis smiled. “Then he came back with me, to New York. He wasn’t working. But then they were gearing up again. It was the run-up to Obama’s election. They were getting ready to do something.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. If I did, and kept my promise, I couldn’t tell you anyway. I just got really busy with the book. He wasn’t around as much. Then he just wasn’t around.”

“Miss him?”

Hollis shrugged.

“You’re a difficult fit, you know that?”

Hollis nodded.

“Must make it harder.” Heidi got up, carried her whiskey and coffee into the bathroom, and splashed it into the sink. She came back and poured herself more coffee. “Feel like you’re on hold?”

“Definitely.”

“No good,” said Heidi. “Call him. See what’s up. Work through it.”

“No.”

“Got a number?”

“For emergencies. Only.”

“What kind?”

“Only if having known them ever got me into trouble.”

“Use it anyway.”

“No.”

“Pathetic,” said Heidi. “What the fuck is that?” She was staring into the bathroom.

“Your shower.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Wait’ll you see mine. What’s in those two boxes?” Pointing, where she’d put them down after taking them from Robert the night before. Hoping to change the topic. “A pair of concrete blocks?”

“Ashes,” Heidi said, “cremains.”

“Whose?”

“Jimmy’s.” The Curfew’s bass player. “There was nobody to claim them. He always said he wanted to be buried in Cornwall, remember?”

“No,” said Hollis. “Why Cornwall?”

“Fuck if I know. Maybe he’d decided it was the opposite of Kansas.”

“That’s a lot of ashes.”

“My mom’s too.”

“Your mother’s?”

“I never got around to doing anything with them. They were in the basement, with my tour stuff. I couldn’t leave ’em there with fuckstick, could I? I’ll take ’em both to Cornwall. Jimmy never had a mother anyway.”

“Okay,” said Hollis, unable to think of anything else to say.

“Where the fuck is Cornwall?”

“I can show you. On a map.”

“I need a fucking shower,” said Heidi.

Bigend’s office, when Milgrim was finally ushered in, was windowless and surprisingly small. Perhaps it wasn’t that specifically his office, Milgrim thought. It didn’t look like an office anyone actually worked in.

The Swedish boy who’d brought Milgrim in put a gray folder on the teak desk and left silently. There was nothing else on the desk except a shotgun, one that appeared to have been made from solidified Pepto-Bismol.

“What’s that?” Milgrim asked.

“The maquette for one of the early takes on a collaboration between Taser and Mossberg, the shotgun manufacturer.” Bigend was wearing disposable plastic gloves, the kind that came on a roll, like cheap sandwich bags. “A compliance tool.”

“Compliance tool?”

“That’s what they call it,” said Bigend, picking the thing up with one hand and turning it, so that Milgrim could see it from various angles. It looked weightless. Hollow, some sort of resin. “I have it because I’m trying to decide whether a collaboration like this is the equivalent of Roberto Cavalli designing a trench coat for H amp;M.”

“I’ve been made,” said Milgrim.

“Made?” Bigend looked up.

“A cop took my picture this morning.”

“A cop? What kind?”

“A Chinese-American missionary-looking one. Her sweatshirt was embroidered with the South Carolina state flag.”

“Sit down,” said Bigend.

Milgrim sat, his Hackett shopping bag on his lap.

“How do you know she was a cop?” Bigend removed the glove-baggies, crumpled them.

“I just did. Do. Not necessarily in the sense of a law enforcement officer, but I wouldn’t put it past her.”

“You’ve been shopping,” said Bigend, looked at the Hackett bag. “What did you buy?”

“Pants,” said Milgrim, “a shirt.”

“Ralph Lauren shops at Hackett, I’m told,” said Bigend. “That’s an extremely complex piece of information, conceptually. Whether it’s true or not.” He smiled. “Do you like to shop there?”