We parted after finishing our rather disappointing meal, and I retrieved my car safely from the parking service. As I drove back home, I remembered a young man I’d recently seen up at Runyan Canyon Park who’d been reading a tattered old copy of Dubliners. He was dressed in jeans and a faded blue button-down shirt, his leather shoes were scuffed and the laces untied, and his socks were of two different colors. He was so engrossed in his book that a naked woman could have walked in front of him and he never would have even looked up. That young man, I thought, knew more about the need and value of art than Josh Dreyfus ever would.
And yet, when Bellinger called me that evening, I told him I’d had a very pleasant time. Yes, I liked his friend Josh, I assured him; yes, I was willing to take the next step.
“He’s a little much sometimes,” said Bellinger, “with his stories of all the stars he gets to work with. But he’s the best at making sure that a project goes through, and if he backs you, then you’re sure to get the part.”
“He seems,” I said, reaching for the appropriate words, “a little less reflective than you.”
Bellinger laughed. “Well, his job means he has to be kind of slick, I suppose. But don’t be fooled. He’s a workhorse— very committed.”
I didn’t doubt that he was—but to what? Still, I said nothing about my impression of him and let Bellinger continue to talk.
“He wants me to bring him some of your old films, which I’m going to do tomorrow. And then I guess he’s going to talk to a few of the old guys at the studio—you know, to see what you were like to work with.”
“I would think I’m past the need for recommendations,” I said. “I believe my work speaks for itself.”
“Of course it does. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to imply he’s looking for a recommendation. I think he just wants to get a better sense of your abilities.”
“Better than you’ve already given him?”
He did not appear to hear the irony in this comment. “I’m just a young movie nut, like him; I wasn’t there during your career. Besides, I think he’s intrigued now by your whole era, period, and that can only be good for you.”
I gripped the phone so tightly that several veins stood out on my arm. “Do you know what accounts for the sudden interest?”
“No, I don’t. But I’m sure that whatever he finds will only hook him in further—to the silents, and to you in particular.”
Even though this comment was meant to put me at ease, the effect was precisely the opposite. Despite my dislike of Dreyfus, despite my suspicions regarding his taste, I did not wish to be disqualified from Bellinger’s film based on a few people’s twisted recollections. I tried to think of who still survived from that era and thought immediately of Nora Niles; her memory of what happened all those decades ago was the only one that actually mattered. But I was not ready to see her yet, if I would ever be, and so I tried to recall the other names that David Rosenberg and I had discussed. He was right—the old executives and producers were dead; and Hanako, who we had not discussed, was too difficult to contemplate. But there was also the detective, Owen Hopkins. He probably had a good perspective on the events of that time, and he might also be the easiest to locate.
And so I found myself driving out, two mornings ago, to the home of Owen Hopkins. I’d gotten the number from directory assistance and dialed him up the previous day. It must have been a shock to hear from a man he’d known only briefly more than forty years ago, and it took him a minute or two to place the name. Even when he did, he sounded cautious, uncertain, suspicious as to why I was calling him and what I could possibly want. It was only after I assured him that I bore no ill will that he consented to let me see him. He gave me directions to an exclusive neighborhood near the Santa Monica pier, and the house I stopped in front of, an old English Tudor, was huge, with a beautiful garden. I wondered how Hopkins’ career had progressed after the short time I knew him. Either civil servants were better-paid than I thought, or he had bought his house before the area had grown so costly.
When I first met Hopkins, he was almost precisely my age—around thirty years old—although I remembered thinking he seemed older. Hopkins was not a tall man, but what he lacked in stature he made up for in heft—he was solid and plain, substantial, as if he’d sprung directly from the earth. He carried himself deliberately, like every movement was a conscious decision. There was something about him that inspired trust, despite his badge and firearm.
The door was opened by Hopkins himself. Except for his thinned hair and a few fine wrinkles on his face, he did not look much different than he had as a younger man. “Mr. Nakayama,” he said, and he furrowed his brow, his face pinching into an expression I couldn’t interpret. He extended his hand and shook mine firmly.
After an awkward moment of standing in the foyer, he invited me to sit in the living room. Dozens of colorful toys were piled haphazardly in the corner. On the mantel, on the television, were framed pictures
