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question. Quick now. Don’t think about it. Answer me. Why did you—”
    “To stop time.”
    “Indeed?” Packard’s sunken eyes assessed him. “What’s your name?”
    “Mitchell Coltrane.”
    “Mitchell . . .” Packard’s gaze went inward, then focused on him more tightly. “Yes, I know your work.”
    Coltrane couldn’t tell if that meant the same as stepping in dog shit.
    “Tell me why you want to stop time,” Packard demanded.
    “Things fall apart.”
    “And the center cannot hold? I didn’t know anybody read Yeats anymore.”
    “And people die.”
    “How very true.” Packard coughed again, painfully.
    At once, an effusive, colorfully dressed man burst from the crowd. “There you are, Randolph. I’ve been looking everywhere.” He was in his forties, overweight, with a flushed face, a salt-and-pepper mustache, and several thousand dollars’ worth of designer labels. “Some people came in you absolutely have to meet.” The man gripped the back of Packard’s wheelchair. “Excuse us. Coming through, everyone.”
    “Just a moment.” Packard’s frail whisper carried amazing force. He motioned for Coltrane to step close. “This is my card. I’d like you to come for lunch tomorrow. One o’clock sharp. Bring the book. I’ll sign it then.”
    And Packard was gone.
     
6
     
    WELL, WHAT DID I EXPECT? Coltrane asked himself, struggling through the crowd to get out of the reception. There were many mysteries about Randolph Packard, but everything Coltrane had read about him was clear about one thing: his personality. Even to his most sympathetic biographer, Packard was haughty. His overbearing attitude was variously explained as the consequence of having been spoiled by wealthy parents whose fortune he had inherited at the age of sixteen after the parents died in a boating accident, or as the imperious manner of a genius whose sensibility was constantly being assaulted by those around him.
    Whatever its cause, Coltrane had definitely had a taste of it. Angry, he escaped from the art gallery, so distracted by his emotions that he didn’t notice the change in the weather until he got to where he’d parked his Chevy Blazer near the intersection of Forest and the South Coast Highway. At almost six o’clock in late November, darkness was natural. But not
this
much darkness. A remnant of the sunset ought to have been visible on the ocean’s horizon; despite the glow from streetlights, stars should have started to glitter. But now the sky was absolutely black, and the horizon was indistinguishable from the ink that had become the ocean. A wind stung his cheeks, flinging sand from the beach. The first drops of rain pelted his windshield as he hurried to unlock his car and get in.
    For about twenty minutes, as he headed north along the slippery, glistening 405 back to Los Angeles, the storm matched his mood. Then it seemed to cleanse him. Although the rain-slowed traffic would normally have made him impatient, he felt oddly content just to gaze past his flapping windshield wipers. He put on one of his favorite tapes and listened to Bobby Darin sing heartbreakingly “The Gal That Got Away.” As he admired Darin’s perfect phrasing, it occurred to him that almost no one had ever spoken favorably about Bobby Darin as a human being. Because of a heart condition, Darin had known that the odds were he wouldn’t live past his thirties. Feeling the pressure of limited time, he had so devoted himself to his career that no one else had mattered.
Self-centered
didn’t begin to describe him. Nor did
cruel
. Talent, it seemed, wasn’t any guarantee of noble character. Mulling over these issues, Coltrane made the obvious application to Randolph Packard: Maybe it’s not a good idea to meet one of your idols.
     
7
     
    THROUGH THE STORM, Coltrane’s headlights revealed Jennifer’s red BMW parked at the curb in front of his town house. It troubled him. He had left a message at Jennifer’s office, telling her