Marty Riggs gazed at me with his gray expressionless eyes, enlarged a bit by the rimless glasses. He was wearing a tweed cap and a cable-stitched white wool sweater under a thick Donegal tweed jacket with a long scarf wrapped around his neck. The loose ends of the scarf reached to his knees. He gave me a small stiff nod. I smiled warmly.

“Susan actually is a psychotherapist, Marty,” Nogarian said. “Sees to it that we don’t get our complexes mixed up.” Susan smiled even more warmly than I had.

“I’m sure,” Marty said. “Milo, just remember what I said. I don’t want to have to go in to the network again and defend a piece of shit that you people have labeled script and sent over, capice?”

“Time, Marty,” Nogarian said, “you know what the time pressures are like.”

“And you know what cancellation is like, Milo. You have the top television star on the planet and you haven’t broken the top ten yet, you know why? Script is why. Jill’s been raising hell about them and she’s right. I want something better, and I want to start seeing it tomorrow.”

“How come your scarf’s so long?” I said. Susan put her hand on my arm.

Riggs turned and looked at me. “What?” he said.

“Your scarf,” I said, “is dangerously long. You might step on it and strangle yourself.”

Susan dug her fingers into my arm.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Riggs said.

“Your scarf. I may have to make a citizen’s arrest here, your scarf is a safety hazard.”

Riggs looked at Nogarian and Salzman. “Who the fuck is this guy, Milo?”

Nogarian looked as if he’d eaten something awful. Salzman seemed to be struggling with laughter. Susan’s grip on my arm was so hard now that if I weren’t tougher than six roofing nails it might have hurt.

“Looks dandy though,” I said.

Whoever Riggs was he was used to getting more respect than I was giving him, and he couldn’t quite figure out what to do about me.

“If you want to work around here, buddy,” he said, “you better watch your step.” Then he glared at all of us and turned and walked away. In a moment he was on the ascending escalator, and soon he had risen from sight.

Nogarian said, “Jesus Christ.”

Salzman let out the laughter he’d been suppressing. “Wonderful,” he said as he laughed, “a citizen’s arrest. You gotta love it.”

“Who is he, anyway?” I said.

“Senior VeePee,” Salzman said, “Creative Affairs, One Hour, Zenith Meridien Television.”

“Why’d you lean on him?” Nogarian said.

“He seemed something of a dork,” I said.

Salzman laughed again. “You start leaning on every dork in the television business, you’re going to be a busy man.”

“So many dorks,” I said, “so little time.”

“It’s not going to help us with the studio,” Nogarian said.

“Milo, it was worth it,” Salzman said, “watching Marty try to figure out who Spenser was so he could figure out if he should take shit from him or fire him.” Salzman snorted with laughter. “You ready for some lunch?”

“Since breakfast,” I said.

“Come on,” Salzman said, and we followed him up the escalator. The subway station was empty of film crew. The equipment was gone, the cables had been stowed. It was as if they’d never been there.

As we went up the escalator Susan put her arm through mine. “I know why you needled Marty Riggs,” she said.

“Sworn duty,” I said, “as a member of the dork patrol.”

“You needled him because he ignored me.”

“That’s one of the defining characteristics of a dork.”

“Probably,” Susan said.

We rode the rest of the way to the top, where the light, filtered through the glass, looked warmer than it was, and went out into the cold behind Salzman and Nogarian.

Chapter 2

“I’ve got to have lunch with some people from the film commission,” Nogarian said. “Sandy can fill you in on our situation.” We shook hands and he headed down Winter Street toward LockeOber’s.

“We’re feeding in the basement over here near Tremont Temple,” Salzman said. “I’ve asked Jill to join us.”

We went across Tremont Street and in through a glass door into a corridor and down some stairs. At the bottom was a large basement room that looked as if it might be a recreational space for a boys’ club or a church group. There was a serving counter set up along one side, and tables with folding chairs filled the room. The crew was spread out, down parkas hanging from chair backs, down vests tossed on the floor, hunched over trays eating. There was roast turkey with gravy, baked ham with pineapple, cold cuts, cheese, two kinds of tossed salad, succotash, mashed potatoes, green beans with bacon, and baked haddock with a cheese sauce. I noticed that the official crew meal was some of everything. Salzman had some ham and some haddock and a large helping of mashed potatoes. I was watching Susan. Her normal lunch was something like a lettuce leaf, dressing on the side. She carefully walked the length of the serving table and studied her options. I waited for her. When she was through she came back and picked up a tray.

“What do you think,” I said.

“Eek,” she said. She put plastic utensils on her tray and had a large serving of tossed salad with no dressing on a paper plate. I had some turkey.

Salzman had saved us a table in the corner, with space reserved for Jill Joyce when she arrived. Most of the tables seated twelve. This was the only small one.

“So what do you know about the deal here,” Salzman said when we were seated.

“I know Susan’s working for you as a technical adviser on this show, which is about a woman shrink and her husband who’s a cop.”

“Right,” Salzman said. “You seen the show?”

“No,” I said.

“Premise is ridiculous,” Susan said.

“Right,” I said. “How could a sophisticated psychotherapist fall for the kind of semi-thug that gets to be a cop?”

“Semi?” Susan said.

Salzman said, “Yeah, anyway. We got Jill Joyce to star. I assume I don’t need to tell you about Jill Joyce. ”

“I know about the screen persona,” I said. “Beautiful, wholesome, just kookie enough for a little wrinkled-nose fun?”

“Yeah,” Salzman said. “She’s a little different, in fact.”

“Un huh.”

“Anyway, she’s been getting a series of harassing phone calls and things happening to her lately, and it’s making her nervous. When Jill’s nervous…” Salzman shrugged, raised his eyebrows, and shook his head slightly.

“What do you mean, sort of harassing?” I said.

“Hard to say exactly what it is. Jill’s not too clear on it. She’s clear that it’s bothering her.”

“And the things happening to her?” I said.

Salzman shrugged. “Things.” He turned a palm up. “That’s what Jill says, things.”

“Anybody else heard these calls or seen these things?”

Salzman shook his head. I looked at Susan. She shrugged.

“So Jill’s, ah, demanding some action,” Salzman said. “And Susan mentioned that she had a friend and one thing and another so I suggested you come over and have lunch and meet Jill. See if maybe you can help us out.”

“Would I be working for you?” I said.

“Not technically.”

“Who would I be working for technically?” I said.

“Michael J. Maschio,” Sandy said.

“Who is?”

“President of Zenith Meridien Television, a subsidiary of Zenith Meridien Film Corporation.”

“Not Riggs,” I said.

“Hell, no, when Mike Maschio says green, ‘ Marty Riggs says, ’and a deep dark green it is, sir. ‘ ” Salzman ate some haddock.

“But actually,” he said, “you’d be working for me.”

He looked up and got to his feet. “Here’s Jill,” he said.

I got to my feet. Jill Joyce, her black mink coat open, was swiveling through the dining room with Ray Morrissey a few feet back of her. Morrissey didn’t look very happy. He looked at me and I shot him with my forefinger. He nodded once and when Jill reached us, peeled off without a word and headed for the chow line. Salzman was holding Jill’s chair. She swivel-hipped around the table and sat in it and looked appraisingly at me from under her eyelids, slowly raising her head. Susan smiled and was quiet.