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made him feel, not exactly reckless, but not shy either.
    â€œYou mean what am I doing here?”
    â€œYou want, you can start with that.”
    He didn’t appear upset or on the muscle. But if he had a key to get in—Harry assuming that—theguy was closer to Karen than just a friend, Karen maybe going in for rough trade now.
    Harry said, “I’m visiting, that’s all. I’m up in the guest room, I hear the TV. . . . You turned it on?”
    The guy, Chili, kept staring, not saying anything now. Typecast, he was a first or second lead bad guy, depending on the budget. Hispanic or Italian. Not a maniac bad guy, a cool bad guy with some kind of hustle going. But casual, black poplin jacket zipped up.
    The answer came to Harry and he said, “You’re in pictures, right?”
    The guy smiled. Not much but enough to show even white teeth, no doubt capped, and Harry was convinced of it. The guy was an actor friend of Karen’s and she was in on it—the reason she was so anxious to get him down here—setting him up for this bullshit audition. The guy scares hell out of you to prove he can act and you give him a part in your next picture.
    â€œDid you stop to think what if I had a heart attack?”
    The guy didn’t move, still doing the bit, no expression, very cool.
    He said, “You look okay to me, Harry. Come over here and sit down. Tell me what you been up to.”
    The guy wasn’t bad. Harry took one of the canvas director’s chairs by the desk, the guy watching him. He knew how to stare without giving it much. The angle was nice too: the guy lean and dark, the bottle of Scotch, the ice bucket and the glasses he and Karen had left, in the foreground. Harry raised one hand and passed it over his thinning hair. He could feel it was losing its frizz, due for another permanent and touch-up,add some body and get rid of the mousy gray trying to take over. The guy had a full head of dark hair, as that type usually did, but close-cropped so you could see the shape of his head, like a skull. It was a nice effect.
    He said, “Harry, you looking at me?”
    Harry brought his hand down. “I’m looking at you.”
    â€œI want you to keep looking right here, okay?”
    â€œThat’s what I’m doing,” Harry said, going along. Why not? The guy was from Brooklyn or the Bronx, one of those. If he was putting it on he had it down cold.
    â€œOkay, so tell me what’s up.”
    He was good, but irritating.
    â€œI don’t have a script,” Harry said, “so I don’t know what you’re talking about. Okay? ”
    â€œYou don’t have a script,” Chili said. “How about, you happen to have a hunnerd and fifty big ones on you?”
    Harry didn’t answer.
    â€œYou’re not saying nothing. You remember being in Vegas November twenty-sixth of last year, at Las Mesas?”
    It was starting to sound real. “I go to Vegas, that’s where I stay, at Mesas,” Harry said. “Always have, for years.”
    â€œYou know Dick Allen?”
    â€œDick Allen’s a very dear friend of mine.” It still could be a script, something Karen put together. “How far you want to go with this?”
    The guy gestured, his hands limp, very natural.
    â€œWe’re there, Harry. You signed markers for a hunnerd and a half, you’re over sixty days past due and you haven’t told anybody what the problem is.”
    It wasn’t a script.
    Harry said, “Jesus Christ, what’re you, a collector? You come in here, walk in the house in the middle of the fucking night? I thought you were some actor, au dition ing , for Christ sake.”
    The guy raised his eyebrows. “Is that right?” He seemed about to smile. “That’s interesting. You thought I was acting, huh?”
    â€œI don’t believe this,” Harry said. “You break in the house to tell me I owe on