“I’m calling about an old friend of Mr. Bangsley. China Maranga.”

“Could you spell that, please?”

I did.

She said, “And what shall I tell Mr. Bangsley this is about?”

“A few years ago Mr. Bangsley played with Ms. Maranga in a band. China Whiteboy.”

“Oh, that. She’s dead, right?”

“Yes.”

“So what message should I give Mr. Bangsley?”

I rattled off my L.A. police consultantship and told her I wanted to ask Bangsley a few questions.

“I’ll be sure to tell him.”

I reached Paul Brancusi at his desk.

He said, “All this time, and finally something’s being done?”

“You don’t feel enough was done at the beginning?”

“The cops never found out who did it, right? The thing that bothered me was that they didn’t even want to talk to us. Even though we were close to China- closer than anyone, excepting maybe her father.”

“Not her mother?”

“Her mother’s dead,” he said. “Died a year before China. Her dad’s dead, too- you don’t know much about it, do you?”

“Just starting out. How about filling me in? I can drop by your office anytime today.”

“Let me get this straight: you’re what- a shrink?”

I gave him a longer explanation than the one I’d offered the Hearth and Home receptionist.

“Why now?” he said.

“China’s death might be related to another murder.”

“Really,” he said, stretching the word. “So now she matters. And I should talk to you because…”

“Because I am interested in talking to you.”

“What a thrill.”

“Just a brief talk, Mr. Brancusi.”

“When?”

“You name it.”

“In an hour,” he said. “I’ll be in front of the H-B building. I’m wearing a red shirt.”

Haynes-Bernardo Productions occupied a massive, free-form, pink-brick-and-blue-tile structure on the east side of Cahuenga Boulevard, just before Universal Studios, where Hollywood gives way to the Valley.

The building had no corners. No symmetry of any kind. Just curves and swoops and parabolic adventurism, set off by odd-shaped windows placed randomly. A cartoonist’s vision. Coco palms flanked a trapezoidal entry door the color of grape jelly, and a hundred feet of brick planter filled with struggling begonias ran along the front facade.

A man in an oversized red flannel shirt, baggy blue jeans, and grubby sneakers sat on the planter ledge, sucking on a cigarette.

As I approached him, he said, “You made good time,” without looking up.

“Motivation,” I said.

He studied me, and I returned the favor.

Paul Brancusi had changed less than Christian Bangsley. Still scrawny and sallow, he wore his hair long and uncombed, had tinted the natural dishwater color bronze.

His cigarette adhered to a chapped lower lip. A crusted cold sore was wedged below a hook nose. Blue-black iron cross tattoo on his right hand, stainless-steel stud in his left lobe. At least half a dozen healed-over pierces revealed themselves as tiny black dots on his nose, brow, and chin. Someone who’d never seen what he used to look like might have taken them for large pores.

John Lennon eyeglasses gave his eyes a faraway look, even as he checked me out.

He pulled out a pack of Rothman Filters and offered it to me.

“No, thanks.” I sat down next to him.

“Who else got murdered?” he said.

“Sorry, can’t give out details.”

“But you want me to talk to you.”

“You want China’s murder to be solved.”

“What I want and what’s going to happen don’t often coincide,” he said.

The faraway eyes had grown dour. His back rounded as if under a terrible weight. He had a look and a sound that I recognized. Years of accrued disappointment. I thought of him hunched at his drawing table, bringing The Lumpkins to life. Edgy but kindly. Rib-tickling situations.

Brancusi fished out a cigarette and chain-lit. His cheeks hollowed as he devoured the smoke. “What do you want to know?”

“First of all, do you have any theories about who killed China?”

“Sure,” he said. “Someone she pissed off. Which is about ten million people.”

“Challenged in the charm department.”

“China was a four-plus bitch. And guess what, you’re the first cop-type to ever ask me about her personality. What’s with those guys- retarded?”

“What did they ask?”

“Joe Dragnet stuff. The facts, just the facts. What time did she leave the studio, what did she do the last few days before, who was she doping with, who was she fucking. No attempt to really get into who she was.”

Smoke exited his nostrils and dissipated quickly in the smoggy air. “It was obvious they despised us and her, were blaming the whole lifestyle thing.”

“Do you think the lifestyle had anything to do with China’s death?”

“Who knows? Listen, I really don’t see the point of this.”

“Bear with me,” I said. “I need to get some context.”

“Such as?”

“Such as, from what I can tell things were looking up for the band. There was talk of a deal with a major label. That true?”

Brancusi sat up straighter, energized by nostalgia. “More than talk. We had a decent shot. Had just done a showcase at Madame Boo, where some of the better A & R guys were in the audience. We were great that night- really rocked. Next day, we were called for an interview with Mickey Gittleson- any idea who he was?”

I shook my head.

“Big-time manager. Big-time clients.” He rattled off a list of bands, some of which I recognized. “He was hot to represent China Whiteboy. If he’d have gotten behind us, things would’ve popped.”

“You said ‘he was.’ “

“Dead,” said Brancusi. “Last year, lung cancer. Idiot smoked too much.” He flicked ashes and cackled.

“What happened with Gittleson?”

“China broke the first appointment- pulled an absolute fit, said Gittleson represented everything evil about the music biz and she wasn’t going to sell out. Which was funny because during the showcase it was she who’d freaked out when she saw Gittleson sitting there, told us backstage that the guy was Mr. It. During the next act, she went over to his table, chatted him up, just about gave him a lap dance. Couldn’t have hurt. The guy was a horny old goat, liked to fuck the talent.”

“China flirting,” I said, trying to picture that.

Brancusi laughed. “China was incapable of anything as light and airy as femme flirtation. But she could put on the sexy act when she wanted.”

“Method acting?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was it real, or was she faking it? How sexually active was she?”

“She was plenty active,” said Brancusi. “All with girls, she was into girls.”

He stared at Cahuenga traffic, seemed to be losing interest.

I said, “So she was the one who got Gittleson involved but then she changed her mind.”

“Typical China.”

“Moody,” I said.

He flicked the cigarette onto the sidewalk. It lay there smoldering.

I said, “You said the first appointment. Gittleson didn’t cut you off after the first cancellation?”

“He was cool about it, we were a hot prospect, so he rescheduled. But a month later, he was traveling to Europe, arranged to meet us after he got back. Suggested we lay down some fresh tracks. That’s the reason we were in the studio. Trying to burn a CD sampler that would really knock Gittleson’s argyles off. And we were doing it. Hauling. China had changed her mind- now Gittleson was cool. She was on, she was motivated. That’s the thing about her. Even when she was high, she was able to focus.”

“Big-time high?”

“Is there any other kind?”

“So what happened?”

“The session’s going great, China starts freaking out over something- maybe something someone said, the sound system- when she was like that it could’ve been the way the drapes were hanging. She pulls a fit, walks out on us, disappears.”