"You'll see. Meanwhile, I'm going to need you to take a little journey for me."

"Sure."

"You won't have to be away long. But there's a place down the coast where I left something important to me, a long time ago. I want you to get it back for me, while I dispatch Fletcher."

"I want to be here for that."

"You like the idea of death, don't you?"

Tommy-Ray grinned. "Yeah. I do. My friend Andy, he had this neat tattoo, of a skull, right there." Tommy-Ray pointed to his chest. "Right over his heart. He used to say he'd die young. He said he'd go down to Bombora, the peaks are real dangerous there-waves just drop away, you know?- and he'd wait for one last wave, and when he was really travelling he'd just throw himself off the board. Just So it. Like that. Ride and die."

"Did he?" asked the Jaff. "Die, I mean?"

"Did he f.u.c.k," said Tommy-Ray contemptuously. "Didn't have the b.a.l.l.s."

"But you could."

"Right now? Sure as s.h.i.t."

"Well, don't be in too much of a hurry. There's going to be a party."

"Yeah?"

"Oh yeah. A major party. This town never saw the likes of this party."

"Who's invited?"

"Half of Hollywood. And the other half'll wish it had been."

"And us?"

"Oh yes, we'll be there. You can be sure of that. We'll be there, ready and waiting."

At last, William thought as he stood on Spilmont's doorstep on Peaseblossom Drive, at last a story I can tell. He'd escaped the horrors of the Jaff's court with a tale he could unburden himself of, and be dubbed a hero for the warning.

Spilmont was one of the many William had guided through a house purchase; two, in fact. They knew each other well enough to be on first name terms.

"Billy?" Spilmont said, looking William up and down. 'You don't look too good."

"I'm not."

"Come on in."

"Something terrible's happened, Oscar," William said, allowing himself to be ushered inside. "I never saw anything worse."

"Sit. Sit," said Spilmont. "Judith? It's Bill Witt. What do you need, Billy? Something to drink? Jeeze, you're shaking like a leaf."

Judith Spilmont was a perfect earth mother, broad-hipped and big-breasted. She appeared from the kitchen, and repeated her husband's observations. William requested a gla.s.s of ice water, but couldn't hold off starting his story before it was in his hands. He knew even as he began how ludicrous it would sound. It was a campfire tale, not meant to be told in broad daylight while the listener's kids yelled as they danced in and out of the lawn sprinklers, just beyond the window. But Spilmont listened dutifully, shooing his wife away once she'd supplied the water. William persevered through his account, even remembering the names of those whom the Jaff had touched the night before, explaining once in a while that he knew all this sounded preposterous but it had really happened. It was with that observation he finished the telling: "I know how this must sound," he said.

"Can't say it's not some story," Spilmont replied. "If it came from anyone but you I think I'd be less willing to listen. But s.h.i.t, Bill...Tommy-Ray McGuire? He's a nice kid."

"I'll take you back up there," William said. "As long as we go armed."

"No, you're in no state for that."

"You mustn't go alone," William said.

"Hey, neighbor, you're looking at a man who loves his kids. Think I'd leave 'em orphans?" Spilmont laughed. "Listen, you go back home. Stay there. I'll call you when I've got some news. Deal?"

"Deal."

"You sure you're fit to drive? I could get somebody-"

"I got this far."

"Right."

"I'll be OK."

"Meanwhile, keep it to yourself, Bill, OK? I don't want anyone getting trigger-happy."

"No. Sure. I understand."

Spilmont watched while William downed the rest of his ice water then escorted him to the door, shook his hand, and waved him off. William did as instructed. He drove straight home, called in to Valerie and told her he wouldn't be coming back to the office, locked all the doors and windows, undressed, threw up, showered and waited by the telephone for further news of the depravity that had come to Palomo Grove.

VIII.

Suddenly dog-tired, Grillo had taken to his bed around three-fifteen, instructing the switchboard to hold all calls through to his suite until further notice. It was therefore a rapping on the door that woke him. He sat up, his head so light it almost floated off.

"Room Service," a woman said.

"I didn't order anything," he replied. Then he realized: "Tesla?"

Tesla it was, looking good in her usual defiant fashion. Grillo had long ago concluded that it took a kind of genius to transform, in the wearing of certain clothes and items of jewelry, the tacky into the glamorous, and the tasteful into the kitsch. Tesla managed the transition in both directions without seeming to try. Today, she wore a man's white shirt, too big for her small, slim frame, with a cheap Mexican bola at the neck, bearing an image of the Madonna, slinky blue trousers, high heels (which still only brought her up to shoulder height on him), and silver snake earrings that lurked in red hair she'd had streaked with blonde, but only streaked because, as she'd explained, blondes did indeed have more fun but a whole head's worth was sheer indulgence.

"You were asleep," she said.

"Yep."

"Sorry."

"I have to take a p.i.s.s."

"Take it. Take it."

"Will you check my calls?" he yelled back to her as he met his reflection in the mirror. He looked wretched, he thought: like the undernourished poet he'd given up trying to be the first time he went hungry. It was only as he swayed at the bowl, one hand on his d.i.c.k-which had never looked so far from him, or so small-the other holding on to the door frame to keep himself from keeling over, that he admitted to himself just how sick he was feeling.

"You'd better stay away from me," he told Tesla as he staggered back. "I think I got flu."

"Then go back to bed. Who gave you flu?"

"Some kid."

"Abernethy called," Tesla informed him. "So did a woman called Ellen."

"Her kid."

"Who she?"

"She nice lady. What's the message?"

"Needs to talk to you urgently. No number."

"Don't think she's got a phone," Grillo said. "I should find out what she wants. She used to work for Vance."

"Scandal?"

"Yeah." His teeth had begun to chatter. "s.h.i.t," he said. "I feel like I'm burning up."

"Maybe I should take you back to L.A."

"No way. There's a story here, Tesla."

"There's stories every place. Abernethy can put somebody on this."

"This one's strange, "Grillo said. "Something's going on here I don't understand." He sat down, his head thumping.

"You know I was there when the men who were looking for Vance's body got killed?"

"No. What happened?"

"Whatever they said on the news, it wasn't some underground dam burst. Or at least it wasn't just that. For one thing I heard shouts long before the water. I think they were yelling prayers down there, Tesla. Prayers. And then there was this f.u.c.king geyser. Water, smoke, dirt. Bodies. And something else. No: two something elses. Coming out of the ground, under cover."

"Climbing?"

"Flying."

Tesla gave him a long, hard look.

"I swear, Tesla," Grillo said. "Maybe they were human...maybe not. They seemed more like...I don't know...more like energies maybe. And before you ask, I was clean and sober."

"Were you the only one who saw this?"

"No, there was a guy called Hotchkiss with me. I think he saw most of it too. Only he won't answer his phone to corroborate."

"You realize you sound certifiable?"

"Well that just confirms what you've always thought, right? Working for Abernethy digging up dirt on the rich and famous-"

"Not falling in love with me."

"Not falling in love with you."

"Lunatic."

"Insane."

"Listen, Grillo, I'm a lousy nurse, so don't expect sympathy. But if you want more practical help while you're sick, just point me in the right direction."

"You could look in on Ellen. Tell her the kid gave me the flu. Get her feeling guilty. There's a story there, and I've only got a piece of it so far."

"That's my Grillo. Sick but never shamed."

It was late afternoon by the time Tesla set out for Ellen Nguyen's house, refusing to take the car even though Grillo warned her she'd have quite a walk. A breeze had mustered itself, and escorted her through the town. It was the kind of community she rather fancied setting a thriller in; something about a man with an atom bomb in his suitcase, maybe. It had been done before, of course, but she had a twist on the tale. Rather than telling it as a parable of evil she'd tell it of apathy. People simply choosing not to believe what they were told; just going about their daily business with expressions of blithe indifference. And the heroine would try to galvanize these people into a recognition of their own danger, and fail, and at the end she'd be dumped outside the town limits by a mob who resented her stirring up the mud, just as the ground rocked and the bomb went off. Fade out. The End. Of course it would never get made that way, but then she was a past mistress at writing screenplays that never saw-celluloid. The stories kept coming, however. She couldn't walk in a new place or meet new faces without dramatizing them. She didn't a.n.a.lyze too closely the stories her mind created for each cast and setting, unless-as now-it was so obvious as to be unavoidable. Presumably her gut told her that Palomo Grove was a town that would one day go bang.

Her sense of direction was unfailingly good. She found her way to the Nguyen residence without need of backtracking. The woman who answered the door looked so delicate Tesla feared to speak above a whisper, much less try to pry some evidence of indiscretion from her. She just stated the facts simply: that she'd come at Grillo's request because he had caught the flu.

"Don't worry, he'll survive," she said, when Ellen looked distressed. "I just came over to explain why he wouldn't be coming over to see you."

"Come in, please," Ellen said.

Tesla resisted. She was in no mood for a fragile soul. But the woman would not be denied.

"I can't talk here," she said as she closed the door. "And I can't leave Philip for too long. I don't have a phone any longer. I had to use my neighbor's to call Mr. Grillo. Will you take a message to him?"

"Sure," Tesla said, thinking: if it's a love letter I'm trashing it. The Nguyen woman was Grillo's type, she knew. Sweetly feminine, soft-spoken. In sum, utterly unlike her.

The contagious child was sitting on the sofa.

"Mr. Grillo has flu," his mother told him. "Why don't you send him one of your drawings, so he gets better?"

The boy padded through to his bedroom, giving Ellen an opportunity to pa.s.s her message along.

"Will you tell him that things have changed at Coney?" Ellen said.

"Changed at Coney," Tesla repeated. "What does that mean exactly?"

"There's going to be a Memorial Party for Buddy, at his house. Mr. Grillo will understand. Roch.e.l.le, his wife, sent the chauffeur down. Summoned me to help."

"So what's Grillo to do about all of this?"

"I want to know if he needs an invitation."