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〃Yeah。 Well。 Okay。 But it's still weird。 You know； you used to be somebody I idolized。〃
〃With a heavy emphasis on the used to be；〃 Todd said； opening one eye and looking at her。
〃Don't be so sensitive。〃
〃No。 I get the message。 It was the same when I met Paul Newman； in the flesh；〃 He closed his eye again。 〃I always used to think he was the coolest of all the cool guys。 He had those ice…blue eyes； and that easy way of。。。〃 his words were getting slower； dreamier 〃。。。walking into a room。。。and I used to think。。。when I'm famous。。。〃 The words trailed away。
〃Todd？〃
He opened his eyes a fraction and looked at her between the lashes。 〃What was I saying？〃
〃Never mind；〃 she said to him； sitting on the bed。 〃Go to sleep。〃
〃No； tell me。 What was I saying？〃
〃How much you wanted to be like Paul Newman。〃
〃Oh yeah。 I just used to practice my Newman act for hours on end。 The way everything he did was so relaxed。 Sometimes he looked so relaxed you couldn't believe he was acting at all。 It looked so。。。easy。。。〃
While he talked Tammy took off her own shoes （her feet were filthy； and ached； but she didn't have the strength to get into a shower）； and then lay down beside Todd。 He didn't even seem to realize she was there beside him。 His monologue continued； though it became less coherent； as sleep steadily made his tongue more sluggish。
〃When I met him。。。finally met him。。。he was。。。so。。。small。。。〃
His conclusion reached； he began to snore gently。
Tammy sat up on her elbows and looked at him； lying there； wondering how she would have felt if she'd been told a few days ago that she'd be sharing a bed with Todd Pickett。 It would have made her heart jump a beat to even contemplate the possibility。 And yet here she was； lying down beside him； and she felt nothing； nothing except a vague irritation that she was not going to get a fair share of the bed with him sprawled out over it。 Oh well； she had no choice。 She could either sleep on the bed with Mr。 Heart…throb； or take the floor。
She closed her eyes。
She was exhausted： sleep came in a matter of moments。 There were no dreams。
THREE
While the two mismatched adventurers slept in the subterranean murk of Room 131 in the Wilshire Plaza Hotel； a sleep too deep to be called fortable； too close to death； in fact…the city of Los Angeles got up and went about its daily business。 There was profit to be made。 There were movies being shot all over the city。 Joyless little pornos being made in ratty motels； witless spectacles with budgets that could have supported small nations made on the soundstages of Culver City and Burbank； penniless independent films about the lives of hustlers； whores and penniless film…makers shot wherever a room could be found and the actors assembled。 Some would go onto glory； even the pornos had their nights of prize…giving now； when the lucky lady voted Best Cock…Sucker was called to the podium to humbly thank her agent； her mother and Jesus Christ。
But the fictions； whether sex or science…fiction； were not the only dramas that would be played out today。 This was a city that made its profit by selling dreams； not least of itself； and so every day young hopefuls arrived by bus and by plane to try their luck。 And every day a few of those dreamers； having been here a few months （sometimes a few years） realized that their place in the food chain of fame was lower than a piece of week…old sushi。 It was not going to happen for them： they weren't going to be the next Meryl Streep； the next Todd Pickett； the next Jim Carrey。 They'd have to wait another lifetime for their slice of fame； or the lifetime after that； or the lifetime after that。 And for some； it wasn't news they could bear to take home with them。 Better to buy a gun （as Ryan Tyler； real name Norman Miles； did that morning） and go back to your one room apartment and blow out your brains。 He'd had two lines in one of the Lethal Weapon movies； which he'd told everyone in Stockholm； Ohio； was the beginning of a great career。 But the lines had been cut； and for some reason he'd never caught a director's eye ever again。 Not once in six years； since he'd had those two lines； had he been called back for an audition。 The bullet was kinder than the silent phone。 His death didn't make the news。
The suicide of one Rod McCloud did； but only because he'd thrown himself off a bridge onto the 405 and brought the morning traffic in both directions to a halt for an hour。 McCloud had actually won an Oscar； he'd been the co…recipient （with four other producers） of the coveted little icon fourteen years earlier。 There hadn't been time for him to reach the microphone and thank his agent and Jesus Christ； the orchestra had started playing the exit music before the man in front of him had finished giving his thanks； then it was too late。
At noon； another suicide was discovered； that of a man who； unlike McCloud…who had been sixty…one…was still at the beginning of his life。 Two years ago Justin Thaw had been named by Vanity Fair the Most Powerful Agent In LA Under Twenty…Five （he was twenty…two at the time）； and had been groomed by the greatest of the city's agent…deities as the inheritor of his chair； made a noose and hanged himself in his brother's garage； leaving a suicide letter that was arranged as a series of bullet…points （in the style his ex…boss had taught him）； for maximum clarity。 He could no longer fight his addiction； he said； he was too tired of feeling as though he was a failure； just because he was hooked on heroin。 He was sorry for all the heartless things he'd said and done to those he loved； it had been the drug doing； the drug saying： but it was he who was sorry； and he who was glad to be leaving today； because life wasn't worth the effort anymore。 He was wearing the ten thousand dollar suit he'd had made for himself in Milan； the shoes he'd purchased in Rome； and （so as not to make as much of a mess of his death as he had of his life） a pair of adult diapers。
The news of Justin's death would spread quickly； and a few executives' doors would be closed for a while； giving the man behind them a moment to remember the occasions they'd got high with Justin； and wonder whether it wasn't time they asked for help from Narcotics Anonymous。 Then the phones from their powerful contemporaries started to ring again； and the pressure of the day meant that meditation had to be put off for a while； they took a snort or two of coke put Justin out of their minds； and got on with the deal…making。 They could think about him again at the funeral。
Speaking of which： the ashes of one Jennifer Scarscella were on a Chicago…bound plane that afternoon； headed for interment in the city of her birth。 Jennifer had died nine months ago； but her body had only recently been found and identified in the LA Morgue。 She had left home seven years before； without telling her parents where she was headed； though it wouldn't have been hard for the Scarscellas to figure out that their daughter had left to try her luck in Tinseltown： all she'd ever wanted to do was be a movie star。 She had been murdered by her boyfriend； because she'd refused； he said； to take a role in an X…rated movie。 He