"Hold on a minute. Do you think this is real; that once we film whatever is necessary, and do it right, it will save Sasha?"

"Yes, I think it's real! But most of the craziness has been happening to you. Don't you think it's real?"

"Anything's real, Wyatt, so long as it's happening to you at the moment. Dreaming Cullen's dreams was real once, the tattoo flying off my back was real. Videotapes from the dead that are there now but weren't a minute ago are real." I stood up and threw my hands in the air. "But then tell me what the fuck is 'real'? Weren't we brought up recognizing boundaries . . . definitions of what was reality and what wasn't? We were, goddammit! That's where we got our sanity!

"So what do we do when everything goes beyond those bounds, like right now? Does it mean the old rules were bullshit and we have to make up new ones, new definitions for reality?

"And if that's so, if all boundary lines are down and we've got to start redefining everything, what's 'good' and what's 'evil' now?

"I'll give you a stupid example. When I was in Munich a couple of years ago, a baron I met invited me to an auction of some of the possessions of Princess Elisabeth of Austria. You know, Sissy? It was a ritzy affair, invitation only, and the crowd was mostly royalty with lots of money.

"One of the things for sale was Sissy's bathrobe. Just that: a white bathrobe with plain red stitching up the side. Know how much it went for? Two thousand dollars. If it had been a painting, something unusual and valuable, I'd've understood, but it was a white bathrobe that sold for two thousand bucks! What was it, Finky, a bathrobe some fool paid too much for or a valuable piece of memorabilia?"

"Obviously it sold for that much because of who wore it."

"That doesn't answer the question! We're not talking context here. We're talking bathrobes! What was sold for two thousand dollars? Do you get my point?"

I was so loud he put a finger to his lips. "Shush! No, I don't."

"A robe looks like this; you use it to dry off; it costs about this much. Okay, that looks like one! But the guy just paid two bills for it and then put it in a safe or in a frame. So what is it?

"Midnight Kills is a film about evil. But that was evil by the old rules and definitions. The old bathrobe. That was before little pregnant angels, home movies of my mother dying. . . .

"Pinsleepe isn't going to tell us what to do. We have to figure that out ourselves. I think that's the point. But first we have to figure out what –

"You know what I think, Finky? We've looked at that film and the other – now, and none of them are very good. Parts are, but even the first one is overrated. It's not nice to say, but I think Phil did something new with Midnight but then just coasted through the other -, particularly this one.

"I can't imagine what Pandora's Box he might've opened, or what new 'evil' he unleashed, based on what we saw. It's all the old robe, and people are paying the same price and getting the same product they expected.

"First we've got to redefine some of these things and then make them new. After that we can think about what Pinsleepe wants from us."

My apartment smelled stale and familiar. The furniture and few doodads were old friends who silently said hello. The mail said I owed people money, that I didn't want to miss some terrific opportunities, that sad-faced children needed my help. A Cullen and Mae James postcard from Rockefeller Center said it was time we all went ice skating together again.

Cullen! That's where I'd begin. I called and luckily she answered. In a few short sentences I told her a little of what had happened in California and said I needed to see her as soon as possible. We made a date to meet later that afternoon at a bar near their apartment.

After we finished speaking, I spent ten infuriating minutes looking for my address book, which for some reason turned up under the kitchen table. I called two people and got two answering machines. I told both beeps something interesting was up and please call me back soon. That was all I could do for the time being (the third person didn't have a phone), so I got ready to go for a quick sandwich and beer.

Walking to the door, I passed the window that looked over onto the nudist girl's apartment. She wasn't there, but for the first time since I'd seen his tape, I thought of what Phil had said about the time he was me when I got out of the cab and bumped into her. The phone rang.

"Weber? Hi, it's James Adrian. I just got your message. You're back! What's cooking?"

"Hi, James. Want to go to California and be in a movie?"

"Are you kidding? Sure! What movie? Are you going to direct?"

"Yes. The latest Midnight."

"You mean like in Bloodstone Midnight?"

"That's the one. We want you and Sean and Houston to be in this –"

"Houston died, Weber. While you were away."

"No! Oh, God. What happened?" I knew what his answer would be – I'd heard it five times already – but I never got used to it.

"He just felt sick and weak and went to the hospital. What else is new? Tell me about this film."

I sighed and rubbed my forehead. "Finky Linky and I are doing it, and we agreed you – would be great. But Houston's dead. I can't believe it." James gave a small snort on the other end. Of course I believed it. "Anyway, you know, Philip Strayhorn was our friend and he'd almost finished this film before he died –"

"I read he committed suicide."

"Yeah, well. Anyway, we were asked by his production company to wrap it up for them and we agreed."

"You and Finky are going to do a Midnight film? Man, that's the most astounding thing I've heard in a month. You bet your ass I want to be in it. What are we going to do?"

"Can you come to my place tonight around nine? I'd like to explain it only once."

"Sure. Sean and I were going to the movies anyway, so I'll tell her when we meet.

"Weber, this is really fantastic. Thank you so much for asking me. It'll be the first time I've ever done any professional acting."

"It may not be the best place for you to start, because we don't know exactly what we're doing yet. But I think it'll be interesting. Look, I'll talk to you later. I've got to call Wyatt and tell him about Houston."

"Weber, I just want to say one more thing. Houston told me one time what you did for him was the only good thing that ever happened in his life. He knew he wasn't a great actor, but he said you were the only one who ever gave him a little pride in himself. I think he had it the worst of all of us – his life, I mean – but you know all of us, the whole group, are indebted to you for what you've done. We don't tell you that enough, and I'm not just saying it now because of what you're doing for me. You've saved our lives in a lot of ways. Even if we don't have that much longer to go with them."

I called Wyatt and told him about Houston Taff. We talked for a while and agreed on someone else. Either because he was in the same relative situation as Houston, or just because he took things more calmly than I do, Wyatt seemed unfazed by the sad news. "He died looking forward to something. Lucky him. He had a main role in the play. You gave him that, Weber. You gave him his last future."

I was early for my date with Cullen, so I stood outside the bar, enjoying the New York cold on my face. Looking the other way, I felt someone tap me on the shoulder and say, "Nice jacket. Where'd you get it?"

It was Cullen, wearing the same jacket as I. I'd given it to her as a surprise in the beginning of our relationship as a spur-of-the-moment I'm-crazy-about-you present. She looked a lot better in it than I did.

"I've been in the house all day with Mae, Weber. Would you mind if we just walk down to the river and get some fresh air? Maybe after, we can come back and drink some rum or something?"