“The smoke machine is busted,” the cameraman says.

Martin sighs. “Listen, Leon.”

Leon is now staring into the hand mirror, checking his hair, a huge, stiff, white-blond pompadour.

“Leon, are you listening to me?” Martin whispers.

“Yes,” Leon whispers back.

“Are you listening to me?” Martin whispers.

I start to walk away, move out the door, past the girl on the pile of pillows, who is pouring a bottle of water over her head, in a sad way or not I can’t tell. I walk down the stairs, past the girls, one who says “Nice Porsche,” the other, “Nice ass,” and then I’m in my car, driving away.

After finishing part of a salad made up of ten different kinds of lettuce, the only thing she ordered, Christie mentions that Tommy from Liverpool was found somewhere in Mexico last weekend and that maybe there was a hint of foul play since his body was completely drained of blood and his neck was hacked open and his vital organs were missing even though the Mexican authorities are telling people that Tommy “drowned,” and if he didn’t drown exactly then maybe it was just a “suicide,” but Christie is sure that he definitely did not drown and we’re in some restaurant on Melrose and I don’t have any cigarettes left and she doesn’t take off her sunglasses when she tells me that Martin’s a nice guy so I can’t see where her eyes are focused which would probably tell me nothing anyway. She says something about immense guilt and the check comes.

“Forget it,” I say. “I’m not really sorry you brought it up in the first place.”

“He is a nice guy,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say. “He’s a nice guy.”

“I don’t know,” she says.

“You slept with him?”

She breathes in, then looks at me. “He’s supposedly ‘staying’ at Nina’s.”

“But he told me Nina is, um, insane,” I tell her. “Martin told me that Nina is insane and that she makes her child work out at a gym and that the child is four.” Pause. “Martin told me that he had to spot him.”

“Just because he’s a child doesn’t mean he should be in lousy shape,” Christie says.

“I see.”

“Graham,” Christie starts. “Martin is nothing. You were just on edge last week. I couldn’t deal with you just sitting in a chair saying nothing and holding that giant avocado.”

“But aren’t we, like, seeing each other or something?” I ask.

“I guess.” She sighs. “We’re together now. I’m eating a salad with you now.” She stops, lowers Martin’s Wayfarers, but I’m not looking at her anyway. “Forget Martin. Besides, who cares if we see other people? Don’t tell me one of us.”

“See or f**k?” I ask.

“Fuck.” She sighs. “I think.” Pause. “I guess.”

“Okay,” I say. “Who knows, right?”

Later she asks, grinning, rubbing suntan oil over my abs, “Did you care that I slept with him?” and then, “Nice definition.”

“No,” I finally say.

The sound of gunshots wakes me up. I look over at Martin, who is lying on his stomach, nude, breathing deeply, Christie between us along with two fluffy calico cats and a guinea pig I have never seen before wearing a small diamond necklace, and another couple of shots are fired and they both flinch in their sleep. I get out of bed and put on a pair of Bermuda shorts and a FLIP T-shirt and take the elevator down to the lobby, put on my sunglasses since my eyes are puffy. As the elevator doors open, two more shots are fired. I walk slowly through the dark lobby. The night doorman, young guy, tan, blond, maybe twenty, a Walkman around his neck, stands by the door, looking outside. On Wilshire there are seven or eight police cars parked outside the building across the street. Another shot is fired from the apartment building. The doorman stares, dazed, mouth open, Dire Straits coming from the Walkman. A big blue Slurpee glows from where it’s sitting on the front desk.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I think some guy has his wife up there and is, like, threatening to shoot her or something. Something like that,” the doorman says. “Maybe he’s already shot her. Maybe he’s already killed a whole bunch of people.”

I walk over next to him mainly because I like the song on the Walkman. It’s so cold in the lobby our breath steams.

“I think there’s a SWAT team up in the building trying to talk him down,” the doorman says. “I don’t think you should open the door.”