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the awful clarity of knowing that the ground under his feet was already shifting. Jimmy had felt sorry for Walsh then— and even after everything that Walsh had done, he felt sorry for him now.
    Walsh hesitated, then handed Rollo the Oscar. “Best director.”
    “Whoa,” said Rollo, cradling it in both hands. “The Holy Fucking Grail.”
    Jimmy stared at the Oscar and thought of Heather Grimm, wondering if this was the seven-pound statue Walsh had used to crush her skull with. He didn’t feel sorry for Walsh anymore.
    “Rollo can borrow the Oscar for your scavenger hunt,” Walsh said to Jimmy. “I just want you to stay and keep me company until he brings it back. I’m offering you a gift, a page-one scoop: a new screenplay I’m working on, my best one yet. The story of a man on top of the world, a man who makes a mistake and falls right through the earth. It’s the oldest story there is, but it’s got some new angles. Some twists.”
    “You should be talking to a studio, not me,” said Jimmy.
    Walsh shook his head. “I’m colder than an Eskimo’s pecker. That’s why I need you. I want you to write an article about me, about what I’m working on. I even have a title for you: ‘The Most Dangerous Screenplay in Hollywood.’”
    “Give me a copy, and I’ll take it home and read it,” said Jimmy.
    “No can do,” said Walsh. “There’s only one copy, and it’s not finished yet anyway. Not quite.” He rubbed his jaw, and it sounded like sandpaper. His eyes were locked on Jimmy. “It’s a good script. So good it may even get me killed.” He waited for an answer, then finally stubbed out his cigarette on the white Formica table, the surface glazed with burn marks. “I’m surprised you’re not jumping at the opportunity. What’s the matter, tough guy? You afraid to be alone with me?”
    “I’m not a fifteen-year-old girl. What do I have to be scared about?”
    Walsh jerked like he had been slapped, the pain genuine. “You’re certain I was guilty?”
    “You
pled
guilty.”
    Walsh stared at Jimmy with those sad, sleepy eyes. “Maybe I was wrong.”

Chapter 3
    “Cocktail?” Walsh held up two prescription bottles and gave them a shake.
    “Pass.”
    “Your loss.” Walsh shook out a couple of Percocets, added a Vicodin, and tossed them into his mouth, washing them down with a swallow of screwtop brandy. He faced Jimmy across the card table and defiantly drew out a long pungent belch. A dented, manual typewriter rested on the card table, an old Underwood, heavy enough to bring down a charging rhino. Stacked beside the typewriter was a manuscript, yellow Post-it Notes sticking out from between the pages. An accordion-style file folder lay open on the floor, next to a wastebasket filled with balled-up paper and empty pint bottles.
    They had moved into the rear of the trailer after Rollo drove away with the twins, Walsh pulling aside the paisley-print sheet as though he were ushering Jimmy into Valhalla. While the main room was shabby and strewn with clothes and debris, this back area was neat and clean, furnished with only the card table, two chairs, and the typewriter. One wall was lined with books. Walsh’s remaining Oscar looked lonely all by itself on the top shelf. A narrow piece of foam served for a bed, the white cotton sheet taut, the pillow shaped and flattened. The room was probably the exact size and configuration of the cell Walsh had spent the last seven years in.
    “You ever been in love?” Walsh held the a bottle of brandy like a scepter. “The
real
thing, not just slamming the meat around.”
    Jimmy straddled the other chair, elbows resting on the wooden back. “You said you wanted to tell me about your new screenplay. Let’s get to it.”
    “If you’ve never been in love, you’re never going to understand the screenplay. I’d just be wasting my time.” Walsh leaned back in his chair until the two front legs came off the floor, precariously balanced, but he was