H eld psychically together by the thick white Mondrian robe, her sunglasses, and a room-service breakfast of granola, yogurt, and a watermelon liquado, Hollis sat back in one wide white armchair, put her feet up on the shorter of the two marble-topped coffee tables, and regarded the vinyl Blue Ant figurine on the chair arm. It was eyeless; or rather its designer had chosen not to represent its eyes. It had a determined smirk, the expression of a cartoon underdog fully aware of its own secret status as superhero. Its posture conveyed that too, arms slightly bent at its sides, fists balled, feet in a martial artist’s ready T-stance. Its stylized cartoon-Egyptian apron and sandals, she judged, were a nod to the hieroglyphic look of the company’s logo.
Inchmale said that when you were presented with a new idea, you should try to turn it over, to look at the bottom. She picked the figure up, expecting to find it copyrighted Blue Ant, but the bottoms of its feet were smooth and blank. Nicely finished. It wasn’t a toy, not for kids anyway.
It reminded her of the time their soundman, Ritchie Nagel, had dragged a militantly disinterested Inchmale to see Bruce Springsteen at Madison Square Garden. Inchmale had returned with his shoulders hunched in thought, deeply impressed by what he’d witnessed but uncharacteristically unwilling to talk about it. Pressed, he would only say that Springsteen, onstage, had channeled a combination of Apollo and Bugs Bunny, a highly complex act of physical possession. Hollis had subsequently waited, uneasily, for Inchmale to manifest anything at all Boss-like onstage, but that had never happened. This Blue Ant’s designer, she thought, as she stood the thing back on the chair arm, had aspired to something like that: Zeus and Bugs Bunny. Her cell rang.
“Morning.” Inchmale, as if called forth by her having thought of him.
“You sent Heidi.” Only neutrally accusatory.
“Did she walk on her hind legs?”
“Did you know about Jimmy’s money?”
“Your money. I did, but I’d forgotten. He told me he had it, that he was going to give it to you. I told him to give it to Heidi, if he couldn’t give it to you. Otherwise, it would vanish down that hole in his arm without a hiccup.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I forgot. With major effort. Repressed the whole sorry episode, in the wake of his not-unexpected demise.”
“When did you see him?”
“I didn’t. He phoned me. About a week before they found him.”
Hollis turned in the armchair, looking back over her shoulder at the sky above the Hollywood hills. Absolutely empty. When she turned back, she picked up the rest of her liquado. “It’s not like I don’t need it. I’m not sure what to do with it, though.” She took a swallow of watermelon juice and put the glass down.
“Spend it. I wouldn’t try to bank it.”
“Why not?”
“You don’t know where it’s been.”
“I don’t even want to know what you’re thinking of.”
“The U.S. hundred is the international currency of bad shit, Hollis, and by the same token the number-one target of counterfeiters. How long are you going to be in L.A.?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Because I’m due in there day after the day after tomorrow. Found out about twenty minutes ago. I can vet those bills for you.”
“You are? You can?”
“The Bollards.”
“Excuse me?”
“Bollards. I may produce them.”
“Do you really know how to check for counterfeit money?”
“I live in Argentina, don’t I?”
“Are Angelina and the baby coming?”
“They may later, if the Bollards and I are go. And you?”
“I met Hubertus Bigend.”
“What’s that like?”
“Interesting.”
“Oh dear.”
“We had drinks. Then he drove me down to where they’re building new offices. In a kind of Cartier tank.”
“In a what?”
“Obscene car.”
“What does he want?”
“I was about to say it’s complicated, but actually it’s vague. Extremely vague. If you have time off from the Pillocks, I’ll tell you then.”
“Please.” He hung up.
The phone rang in her hand. “Yes?” Expecting an Inchmale afterthought.
“Allo? Ollis?”
“Odile?”
“You have experience the poppies?”
“Yes. Beautiful.”
“The Node man calls, he says you have a new helmet?”
“I do, thanks.”
“This is good. You know Silverlake?”
“Roughly.”
“Rough—?”
“I know Silverlake.”
“The artist Beth Barker is here, her apartment. You will come, you will experience the apartment, this environment. This is an annotated environment, do you know it?”
“Annotated how?”
“Each object is hyperspatially tagged with Beth Barker’s description, with Beth Barker’s narrative of this object. One simple water glass has twenty tags.”
She looked at the white orchid blooming on the taller coffee table, imagined it layered with virtual file cards. “It sounds fascinating, Odile, but it will have to be another day. I need to make some notes. Absorb what I’ve seen so far.”
“She will be desolate, Beth Barker.”
“Tell her chin up.”
“Chin—?”
“I’ll see it another day. Really. And the poppies are wonderful. We must talk about them.”
“Ah. Very well.” Cheered. “I will tell Beth Barker. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye. And Odile?”
“Yes?”
“Your message. You said you wanted to talk about Bobby Chombo.”
“I do, yes.”
“We will, then. Bye.”
She stood up quickly, as if doing so would keep the phone, which she thrust into one of the robe’s pockets, from ringing again.
“HOLLIS HENRY.” The boy at the no-name rental lot a short walk down Sunset looked up from her license. “Have I seen you on TV?”
“No.”
“Do you want full collision?”
“Yes.”
He X’d the contract three times. “Signature, initials twice. Movies?”
“No.”
“Singer. In that band. Bald guy with the big nose, guitar, English.”
“No.”
“Don’t forget to fill it up before you bring it back,” he said, staring up at her now with mild if unabashed interest. “That was you.”
“No,” she said, picking up the keys, “it wasn’t.” She went out to her rented black Passat, the carton from Blue Ant under her arm, and got in, putting it in the passenger seat beside her.