Ort said, “If you go in there, I hope you like to take it up the butt.”

I said, “I do,” and he slapped his enormous knee and laughed.

Hively would not know who I was, and I wanted to keep it that way for the time being. Rover would be turning up soon, and I knew he might recognize me from the HLM reception in L.A.—or maybe not, since he was plainly drug-addled at the nipple clamp boys’ reception. Ort said he could introduce me to Hively as an old high school friend, Don Smith. But I didn’t know if I could convincingly portray a Siskiyou County native, so we settled on a Don Smith who was Ort’s second cousin from Fresno.

We drove out of Mount Shasta in the pick-up, Ort behind the wheel. We took the interstate south a few miles, then cut east on state highway eighty-nine. The road twisted up a canyon, and then we turned off onto a side road, paved but in need of repair, that climbed higher into the mountains. Soon Ort swung the truck onto a long private drive—a conspicuous sign read NO ENTRY—TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED—DOGS AND SECURITY—and as we came around a forested bend into a broad clearing the Skutnik lodge came into view.

The wildflowers along the drive bloomed prettily, and a hill leading up to a mowed lawn was thick with daffodils in bloom. Beyond that was a group of rustic, mostly wooden buildings. There was the rambling lodge itself with its broad porch, then a barn-like structure, a separate multi-vehicle garage, a low building that looked as though it might be a swimming pool cabana behind a dense wall of shrubbery, and a sizeable more modern metal outbuilding that could have been a gym or squash court or even a film studio. Three vehicles were parked in front of the garage, a vintage Chevy SUV, a dusty Jeep Cherokee, and a newer gray Lexus. A pale sun shone down on all this, and on the two Mexican-looking men sitting and smoking on a bench in front of the metal building. One of the two was almost Ort’s size, with a boulder of a paunch instead of a long beard, and both were wearing holsters containing objects too bulky to be cell phones.

Ort parked and yelled out, “Where’s Mason?”

Both men gestured vaguely in the direction of the lodge.

We walked up the steps and on in the front door—Ort seemed to have the run of the place—and on through the big dining room and into the kitchen.

“I figured you’d be out here,” Ort said to a man seated at the kitchen table with a plate of powder, a roll of toilet paper and a Diet Coke on the table in front of him.

Hively looked up at us, grinned and said, “Join me, boys?”

“You parachutin’?”

“Looks that way.”

In worn jeans and a faded green polo shirt, Hively was nearly as skinny as the young birches along highway eighty-nine. I guessed his age to be between thirty-five and eighty-five, but hard to gauge with a once-handsome face that apparently had been severely damaged by his habits. Hively’s nose was all but collapsed in on itself and when he smiled a couple of teeth were missing.

“This here’s my cousin Don Smith,” Ort said. “Just up from Fresno.”

“Dried fruit,” Hively said. “That’s what Fresno is famous for. But you don’t look too dried out to me.”

“I’m fruity enough,” I said to Hively and winked. “But I’m more of the fresh and juicy variety.”

Ort laughed and said, “Don’s pullin’ your leg, Mason. Jesus.”

Hively looked up at me and said, “Hold on a sec.”

He tore off a bit of toilet paper, pinched some of the powder into it, and balled it up. He stuck out his tongue, placed the wad on top of it, then washed the little packet down with a swig of Coke.

“Give me half a minute,” Hively said.

Ort and I pulled out chairs and seated ourselves and watched as Hively relaxed and casually lit up a Marlboro light.

He exhaled smoke and said, “I know, I know. These things’ll kill ya. But I’m down to half a pack a day.”

“No weed for you?” I asked.

“Can’t do it. Not when I’m working. Dampens my creative powers.”

“Ort says you’re a movie director,” I said.

“I direct and write. Ever see Dark Smooches on Hey Look TV?”

“Sure. You directed that? Wow.”

“I suspected that of you,” Hively said, looking me up and down. “Mmm. Nice.”

“What are you working on now? Ort says you sometimes do filming right here at the lodge.”

“Nothing’s in production at the present moment. We’ve got a script in development.”

“Are you writing it?”

“I’m working on this one with another writer. What do you do down in Fresno, Don? Do you spend your time putting the famous local raisins in those little red boxes, or are you an orthopedic surgeon, or a porn star, or what?”

“How did you know I was one of those? I heard there were a lot of mind-readers in Mount Shasta, and I guess you must be one of them.”

“I know a lot for a city boy out in the sticks. Let me guess. Porn star and orthopedist. You fix bones. Am I right, Don?”

“I’ve fixed a few.”

Ort was looking increasingly confused and uncomfortable. He said, “I ain’t seen Hal lately. He don’t like our country air? I guess Rover’s gonna show up. Martine and Danielle told me so.”

“Rover’s due tonight. Hal will be here on Monday for a script conference. I’m sure he’ll be looking in on Danielle and Martine.”

I said, “Hal’s the owner of this place? Mr. Skutnik? Ort says he’s a big media guy. Books, magazines, TV, what have you.”

“HLM puts out Bugger,” Hively said. “I’ll bet you’ve read that one.”

“I soitinly have!” I said, doing Curly Howard.

“What’s that, a gay thing?” Ort asked cautiously.

“Bugger is a fashion magazine,” I said, and Hively threw his head back and grinned.

Suddenly Hively was on his feet. Something was different about his eyes now, and he drew a couple of quick circles in the air with his right arm. He said, “Oh fuck-a-duck, I better get this show on the road.”

“What show’s that?” Ort asked.

“None of your pissy-miss,” Hively said. “I hate to be rude… No wait, correction: I adore being rude. So please get your sorry-ass asses out of here, because art calls, and so does El Capitan Skutnik. Gotta go, gotta show, gotta ro-day-o!”

“Is it okay,” Ort said, “if I show Don around the lodge? He never saw a celebrity house before, and he just wants to take a look-see and tell people in Fresno what it’s like.”

I said, “I did see Elizabeth Taylor’s last husband’s basketball hoop one time on a tour of the movie stars’ homes. But that was nothing close-up like this.”

“Sure, go ahead. Go for a swim if you want to. No bathing attire is required. You can lie right down on the diving board where Kirk Dirkley kissed Cleft Beardsley in the third episode of Dark Smooches. The blood stains are still on the board.”

“I remember that scene so well,” I said. “Incredible.”

“We don’t need to swim,” Ort said. “Right, Don? Just snoop around.”

“Snoop? I wouldn’t do that, Ort. Pablo and Blanco might have to eviscerate the both of you. Their security measures can be excessive, I’ve tried to tell Hal, but I suppose I should be grateful that their loyalty to MS Enterprises and Hey Look Media is as dependable as it is. But, sure, do take a walk around and sniff the posies. Pablo and Blanco can let you know which areas of the grounds are off limits on account of security considerations.”

I said, “I heard you have a dungeon, Mason. Speaking honestly, I’m a little into that.”

Hively had been fidgeting, but now I could see he was trying to focus his thoughts and get something right. “Oh. Fuck. No shit? Too bad you weren’t here a month ago. I’d loved to have given you a personal tour. A very personal tour, Don Smith from Fresno. But the dungeon is closed to the public right now. Off limits. Sorry. Some other time, I hope to heaven and pray down on my knees.”