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claims.”
    Jocelyn snorted. “There’s no one dumber than a woman in love with a married man. How many washed-up actors would leave their rich and successful wives for some hooker? Even with California’s community property laws, a good divorce lawyer would submarine him.” Jocelyn had personal experience with divorce law; when her husband left her and moved to Seattle, she did a little submarine job of her own. “So. When are you meeting next?”
    â€œTomorrow morning at nine.”
    â€œSee how everything worked out? I knew it couldn’t be as bad as you thought, Peaches. Felina needs the money from this book as badly as you do. And Danziger is drooling all over that horrible Armani suit of his. Did I tell you there was an item about the project in this morning’s Biz? I’m sure he leaked it himself.”
    â€œWas my name mentioned?” More than ever, I didn’t want my name on the project—except on the pay-to line of the royalty check. Still, I had to admit to a frisson at the thought of my name linked to a big deal in the trade-industry daily.
    â€œNo, you’re still anonymous, Peaches. But don’t you see? It ups the stakes for all of us. This is going to come off. Trust me.”
    *   *   *
    When I hung up, I had a slimy feeling I couldn’t shake. It was only five o’clock. I didn’t feel like sitting around the hotel or strolling the streets of Tijuana, so I walked back over the border and drove into San Diego. I stopped at the first multiplex off the freeway and bought a ticket for the next feature without even noticing what the movie was.
    No matter how you sliced, diced, or julienned it, I was as big a sleaze as Felina, if not more so. The worst part was that I still wasn’t sure I could give Jack Danziger what he wanted.
    Felina may have been a whore, but at least her clients got what they paid for.
    That’s why they pay you the big bucks, Peaches.
    I popped a Jujyfruit disconsolately. Pinocchio had Jiminy Cricket. I got Jocelyn Cricket. My anti-conscience.
    *   *   *
    Nine o’clock. I bought a copy of the San Diego paper from the desk clerk and read it while slumped in a squishy chair in the lobby. At nine-thirty, Felina still hadn’t shown. At ten, I left a note with the clerk and went to get breakfast at the Denny’s down the street. The huevos rancheros tasted just like the ones at the American Denny’s—which is, I guess, the whole point of Denny’s. I lingered over coffee until 10:45 before strolling back to the hotel. Felina could be the one to wait for a change.
    Only she still wasn’t there.
    A vague foreboding—a pre-premonition—prickled under my collar.
    There was an old-fashioned phone booth in the corner of the lobby. I called Jocelyn, got her machine, and left a terse message. At Kitty’s office, I got a maternal-sounding secretary who clicked her tongue and promised to give Ms. Keyes my message “just as soon as she sashays in the door.”
    I hung up, feeling my breakfast congeal in my stomach. Almost two hours late.
    She wasn’t coming.
    If I left for L.A. now, I could be home by mid-afternoon. Jack Danziger could keep his money, Felina could have her manuscript back, and Kitty could find a ghostwriter who was more astrologically compatible than I was.
    Back in my room, I was throwing shirts and notebooks into my suitcase when I came across the folder with Felina’s manuscript. Remembering something, I took off the rubber bands and opened it to the title page.
    There it was, in the bottom right-hand corner. Felina Lopez, 2 Puesta del Sol, Via del Paraiso, B.C. No phone number, though. Felina probably couldn’t afford one.
    I checked my watch. Eleven-fifteen. Even if Via del Paraiso was an hour down the coast, I could drive down, beard the lady in her beach shack, give her back the manuscript and a few well-chosen words, and