“I’ll be neat, I promise.”

“A dream actor,” Routon sighed. Stone got into a shirt and Routon got a tie around his neck. “Let me tie it, I can do it better than you; it’s my job to make you look good.”

Stone checked himself in a mirror while Routon folded and stuck a silk pocket square into his breast pocket.

“Shoes,” Routon said, holding up a pair of Italian-looking captoes. He helped Stone into them and tied the laces. “Comfy?”

“Comfy,” Stone said, walking around.

“You’re ready to be famous,” Routon said. “All the suits will be put in your dressing room, and you’ll be told which one to wear on which day of the trial you’re shooting, but I think you’ll be in this suit all day. When you have as much as half an hour to yourself, go to your RV and take the suit off; a wardrobe lady will press it. Get used to being seen in your underwear by strange women.” He waved goodbye.

“That was easy,” Stone said as he and Corbin left.

“Bobby’s the best in the business,” Corbin said. “Now makeup.” He drove a couple of buildings down.

Inside, Stone was greeted by a pretty young woman in jeans who relieved him of his jacket and sat him down in a barbers chair. “I’m Sally Dunn,” she said, “and I’m going to make you even more beautiful.”

“What, exactly, are you going to do to me?”

“Not much,” she said, unbuttoning his shirt collar and lining it with tissues. “Your problem is you’re the world’s whitest white man.” She ran her fingers through his hair. “Can’t tell you how long it’s been since I saw a real blond, male or female. You have fairly blond skin, too, although I see you’ve picked up a little sun since you’ve been in town. You’re going to have a lot of light dumped on you on the set, and without makeup, you’d look like a corpse, especially next to Vance, who’s so tan he doesn’t need makeup. My job is to make you look like a living person under those lights.” She tilted his head back onto the headrest and went to work.

When she had finished Stone opened his eyes and looked into the mirror. “I’m orange,” he said.

“You won’t be under light. I’ll be on the set to touch you up between takes. Try not to get too hot and start sweating; it just makes everything hotter. I’ll have a fan for you. At the end of the day, you can come back here for cleanup, or there’s cold cream in your trailer. Use that before you shower.”

Corbin drove Stone back to Stage Twelve, and escorted him inside.

It was as cavernous as the first stage Stone had visited, but instead of the farmhouse, there was a warren of sets-offices, a conference room, a jury room, a bedroom, and, finally, a courtroom.

There was a lot of action in the courtroom-technicians of every sort swarmed over the set, adjusting lights and props. Gradually, actors arrived, dressed as lawyers, cops, jurors, and spectators, then Mario Ciano made his appearance.

“Good morning, Stone,” he said. “We’re going to shoot Scene 14A, where you question your first witness, the junkie.”

“Right,” Stone said, finding the right page.

“We’re not going strictly in chronological order; I don’t want you to have to shoot your opening statement to the jury first time out of the stall. We’ll get you warmed up with a rehearsal, then your little scene, then we’ll shoot Vance’s cross-examination, then we’ll get reaction shots from both of you. You’ll have to be on the set most of the day, because you can be seen in backgrounds.”

Stone was introduced to the actor playing his second chair, then rehearsals began. Stone learned to stop on a mark and ignore the camera, then they began shooting. It was more difficult than he had imagined it would be, but he got it done.

He had a sandwich in his RV dressing room at lunch; his suit was pressed, and Sally Dunn came and redid his makeup. “I hear it’s going well,” she said.

After lunch, Vance Calder did his scenes, then Stone sat and did reaction shots while Vance read his lines off-camera, then Stone read while Vance reacted. By the end of the day they had finished five pages of script, about five minutes on film, which Stone was told was a good day. When shooting was done, he removed his own makeup, showered, and surrendered his new suit to wardrobe, which would press and, if necessary, clean it overnight. By the time he arrived back at the Bel-Air, he was exhausted.

He opened the door to his room and found two little envelopes on the floor containing his day’s messages. The first was from Bill Eggers.

“So how’s the movie star?”

“Exhausted. You wouldn’t believe how hard actors work.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“What’s up?”

“I made a few calls about Onofrio Ippolito.”

“What did you find out?”

“It was really weird;nobody would say anything about him, good or bad.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, every time I asked somebody about Ippolito he’d say, ‘Oh, he’s a banker, I think,’ and then he’d get Alzheimer’s. And these are people who should know stuff about him, people who know stuff abouteverybody. ”

“So they’re protecting him?”

“More likely, they’re scared shitless of him.”

“Maybe I should have been nicer to him at dinner.”

“I hope you didn’t spill anything on him.”

“I hope so, too.”

“It worries me, Stone. I’ve never run into anything quite like this before. Usually I can find out anything about anybody with three or four calls.”

“Well, there’s nothing to be worried about. I sat next to him at dinner, and that’s it. There’s no reason why I should have any further contact with him.”

“I’d keep it that way, if I were you.”

“I’ll try; thanks for your help.” Stone said goodbye and hung up.

He opened the second little envelope and the message froze him in his tracks.

SORRY I MISSED YOU,it read.I’LL TRY LATER, IF I CAN. It was signed “A.”

Stone immediately called the hotel operator. “I got a message signed ‘A.,’” he said. “What time did the call come in?”

“It should be written on the message, Mr. Barrington,” the woman replied.

“Oh, yes; less than half an hour ago.”

“I’m double-checking…yes, that’s right.”

“She didn’t leave a number?”

“No, sir, just said she’d try and call later.”

“Do you have caller ID on your phone system?”

“Yes, sir, but we rarely use it.”

“Would you please make a note that on all the calls I receive to make a note of the caller ID number?”

“All right, I’ll do that; and I’ll let the other shifts know.”

“Thank you.” Stone hung up. Vance had been right; getting his name into the trade papers had produced results. If only he’d been at home when she called. He fixed himself a drink from the bar, switched on the television news, and watched it blankly, absorbing none of it. When his glass was empty, he got into the shower and stood under the very hot water, letting his muscles relax. Then, as he turned off the water, he heard the phone ringing. Grabbing a towel, he raced into the bedroom, but just as he reached for the instrument, it stopped ringing; all he heard was a dial tone. “Dammit!” he yelled at nobody in particular. He called the operator. “You just rang my suite, but I was in the shower. Who called?”

“Yes, Mr. Barrington, it was the young lady again; she wouldn’t leave a number, but I got it on the caller ID.” She read out the number, and he wrote it down. “The name that came up on the screen was Grimaldi’s; I think it’s a restaurant. The concierge would know.”

“Please switch me to the concierge.”

“Concierge desk.”

“This is Stone Barrington; do you know a restaurant in L.A. called Grimaldi’s?” He gave her the number.

“Yes, sir; it’s on Santa Monica Boulevard, I think, though I haven’t booked a table there for anyone in a long time. It’s sort of an old-fashioned place, not exactly chic.”