A YOUNG MAN with blond hair curled in tight ringlets sauntered up to them. "Good evening," he said. "I'm Bob Scranton. I heard Bucky call you the Altmeyers?"

  "That's right. We live down the road from here. I guess Bucky thought if he had a noisy party it'd be smart to invite the neighbors."

  "Oh, Bucky's smart, all right," said Scranton. "Being smart is what he does. What do you do?"

  "The answer is pretty dull in this crowd, I'm afraid," said Rachel. "We're in business. You know, buy low and sell high."

  Scranton's handsome face slackened. "Oh. I thought I'd seen you at Warner's."

  "No," said Altmeyer. "Rachel's not one of Bucky's clients." He took a guess. "But didn't I see you on television the other night? What was that movie, honey?"

  Scranton beamed, and held his face steady, and waited.

  "No," said Rachel. "Was that you?"

  "I'm really flattered. I'm amazed you even saw me. You really have a great eye, Mr. Altmeyer. It was called They're Here.' The part was better before they edited it. There was supposed to be a whole scene before I get run over by the truck. But when they got it home they discovered that a ray of sunlight was on Angela's nose through most of the shots. She looked like she was wearing a joke nose, so they cut it."

  "Sorry that happened," said Altmeyer, taking Rachel's

  glass. "Excuse me, I'll be right back/' He walked to the bar. The bartender was gone, and Arthur Paston had taken his place. He was happily mixing martinis, and when he noticed Altmeyer he quickly refilled the glasses.

  '•Where's the bartender?'' asked Altmeyer.

  "Him? Oh, he's wandering around with a tray trying to unload our martinis on the unsuspecting public. Let me know if those aren't perfect, will you?"

  As Altmeyer turned, he felt a light pressure on his arm. It was a young woman with chestnut hair, and she was smiling. "Excuse me," he said. He wondered if she was the one who looked like a beagle.

  "Not at all. Bucky tells me you're an importer."

  **Not exclusively," he said. "My name is Altmeyer."

  "I'm Ronnie. Pleased to meet you."

  Altmeyer looked past her shoulder. He could see that Bob Scranton was talking to Rachel with animation, probably telling her about other parts he hadn't had. "Nice to meet you," he said. "Are you an actress?"

  "No. I'm in production. As soon as I heard you were coming I decided to meet you."

  "That was very kind," said Altmeyer. "Very neighborly." He started to move toward Rachel and Bob Scranton, but she touched his arm.

  "Here is my office number." She stuck a business card into his breast pocket. "When you come by a nice shipment of coke, please give me a call. I'll pay more than Bucky does, since he seems to be a friend of yours."

  Altmeyer looked down at her. "I'm afraid there's a misunderstanding. I'm not that kind of importer."

  She stared at him, her face suddenly empty of expression. It looked broad and round, like a pastry. "What kind are you?"

  "Electrical parts from Japan, minerals from Africa and South America. You know, the boring kind of importer."

  "Oh," she said. "Oh."

  "Sorry."

  "My mistake." Her hand shot to his breast pocket and

  retrieved her business card. She whirled and walked to the other side of the swimming pool, where she hovered on the fringes of a group until they noticed her and stepped back to let her slip into the circle.

  As Altmeyer made his way through the crowd, he saw Bucky approach Rachel and Bob Scranton, pulling with him another short, fat man with a black moustache and thick, bushy hair that looked in the dim light like a woolen cap. He could see Bucky gesturing at each of them in turn, then leaning back to send a hearty laugh up into the night sky. It would have been difficult for any of them to see that Bucky's eyes were on Altmeyer. He gave Bob Scranton a pat on the stomach with the back of his hand that made Scranton appear to bow.

  Then Bucky sidestepped sharply and reappeared beside Altmeyer as he was handing Rachel her drink. "This rodent is The Immortal Billy Bittmeister," he said. "And this gentleman is The Grand Duke Altmeyer, Prince Consort to Queen Rachel, whom you've already ogled with such embarrassing relish."

  The short man grinned and extended his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Altmeyer. Rachel was just saying she's not one of Bucky's clients. How did you get to know The Poster Boy for Greed? Surely Bucky doesn't have any actual friends?"

  "Altmeyer owns a fat farm near Big Bear. Runs forty head of fatties each season, but don't bother to ask him about it. You couldn't afford the fees for the intensive care unit. Rachel, can you keep Billy's hand out of my pocket for a few minutes? You know, don't let him talk to anyone who isn't carrying a tray?"

  Bittmeister smiled. "That leaves the field clear." He turned to Rachel. "All of Bucky's clients get lots of experience as waiters. I don't have to lure anybody away from him. If I yelled for a menu right now I'd be trampled to death by Bucky's talent."

  "Come on, Altmeyer. There's somebody I want you to meet," said Bucky, tugging Altmeyer's arm. Bucky made a steady, inexorable progress through the crowd, his belly clear-

  ing the way before him. Altmeyer followed. A tall Latin American waiter carrying a large tray that seemed to contain bowls of guacamole and thin pink strips of sashimi cut across his path. The tray whisked over Bucky's head like a scythe as he stopped to glance up at the underside, and then moved on in the direction of the tables.

  At the edge of the patio, Bucky turned right and made his way up the path to the house. The door opened into a small study lined with shelves of leather-bound books. Each shelf contained a single size and color, and it was a moment before Altmeyer realized that each row consisted of dozens of copies of a single volume. "I see you buy books by the yard," he said. "Fifty copies of Moby DickT

  Bucky waved his arm in disgust. "Yeah. Save the whales. I was once married to a decorating moron. It was a nightmare. I have enough Uncle Toms Cabins for a housing project, because there was a pretty decoration on the spine."

  "I'm sorry. You wanted me to meet someone?"

  "That was a polite fiction. I wanted to get out of the noise for a minute to see if you could help me with something." He sat down on the edge of a leather chair, lit a cigarette, and sighed. "I don't know a whole lot about importing. I know you must be good at it, because every time I read a newspaper there's another company going broke, and every time I see you, you're adding a koi pond to your backyard."

  "If it's a loan, Rachel's got the checkbook in her purse. If Billy hasn't made her into a movie star already, we'd be happy to—"

  Bucky jumped to his feet and took three quick strides across the room. "No. Not that. It's not that at all." Then he seemed to remember something. "Thanks, though." He walked back to his chair and dropped his body onto it, both feet kicking forward of! the ground. "No, what I think I need is a contact. You must have all kinds of contacts everywhere—the people you play Monopoly with, or whatever it is." He smiled, but his brow was knitted. "If you can get me in touch with the

  right one, I swear on my twenty copies of the Oxford Annotated Bible that nobody will ever know. Besides, this is simple."

  "I'm sorry, Bucky. The drug trade isn't my line. You're the second one to ask tonight, and I just don't carry—"

  "You're wrong again. It's harder than that. Look, you met Arthur Paston out there. He's my problem." He shook his head and stared at the carpet. "Where do I begin? Arthur Paston is not only my best and most dependable client. He's immensely powerful in ways that are hard to explain to a normal person."

  "So?"

  "Wait. You have to understand. In this business the big test is whether you can last more than a year or two. Arthur Paston has made something like sixty motion pictures, and financed the last dozen himself. I think he deposited a dime in a savings account to celebrate the ground-breaking for the Parthenon, and the interest bought him thousands of acres of land in a ring around what is now San Diego, and nobody knows what else. He was probably around in 1776 to buy the screen rights to the history of the United States. When he decides on a project he doesn't screw around with getting treatments and having story conferences and negotiating with agents and lawyers and backers. He tells me what he's going to do, who he wants to work with, and what he's willing to pay them. Most of the time he gets what he wants. But more important, I get what I want. He's about to make another movie. If it goes the way he wants it, three-quarters of the people out there gobbling up the sushi by the pool are going to find themselves employed."

  "And you get ten percent from each of them?"

  "At least. Arthur knows that it sometimes costs to find exactly the right people. He's a perfectionist. That's what got him where he is, and that's what got me where I am—in a jam. If he doesn't get what he needs, the project is off."

  "What does he want?"

  Bucky's shoulders shook as he chuckled. "Jesus, that's

  the question. It doesn't sound like much. It sounds like a joke. This is a man who made World War Two movies that sent combat veterans home with shell shock. I mean, the man has used aircraft carriers. Do you know what it takes to borrow an aircraft carrier?"

  "Never thought much about it."

  Bucky stood up again and resumed his pacing. "For Spitfire he assembled the seventh largest air force in the world. And now what's stopping him?" He shook his head in disbelief. "A couple of lousy machine guns, and maybe a portable rocket launcher."

  "Maybe?"

  "Yeah. He thinks he needs that. He can show a couple of guys with a cardboard tube and a shot of a truck being blown up with dynamite, and nobody will know the difference."

  "So what's the problem? Don't the studios have what he needs in their property departments?"

  "Look, the history of Arthur Paston's relations with the major studios is about as complicated as the Peloponnesian Wars, and probably started the same day. Most of them won't let him in the gate."

  Altmeyer sipped his giant martini and studied Bucky. "This could use a pound of olives. What exactly is he looking for?"

  "He needs two or three small submachine guns. Those little Uzis, or maybe Ingram MAC-10s, and a couple thousand rounds of live ammunition."

  "Not blanks?"

  "I told you, Arthur's a perfectionist. He wants to chum up the landscape a little bit, the way they used to in the old days when they had cameras that cranked and brains to match."

  "You must have your clients insured," Altmeyer said. "But I guess there shouldn't be much of a problem for a man like him. Give a call to the Federal Building downtown, explain what you want, and they'll fix him up with a special

  license or something. The ammunition you can buy at any gun shop."

  "It's not that simple. I looked into it already. The first problem is getting a federal license. You know what they want? An application signed by the police saying it's not against any local law. There are thirty-five states where it isn't, but California isn't one of them. There is a special provision for the movie industry, but the red tape is amazing. Just to get around to looking at the appHcation takes them three months."

  "That's the only way to go, Bucky. I don't know much about these things, but you can't go around breaking federal laws and then show films of it in theaters."

  "It'd take six months. That's why I need help. Tve got to have the damned things in hand as soon as possible. Paston has already decided to do the movie, put people on salary, rented equipment, the works. The clock is already running, and old Bucky's got the ball. Look, you must know somebody who can help me. I'll apply for the license tomorrow. When it comes through I'll go through the motions and buy some guns legally. Meanwhile, Arthur will have finished shooting on schedule and under budget, and nobody will ever know what was filmed when."

  Altmeyer sat in silence, sipping his drink. Suddenly there was the sound of something beating against the door. It seemed to be coming from a spot only a few inches above the ground. Bucky stood up and opened the door to reveal Rachel standing on the threshold carrying three drinks.

  "Here, take one," she said. "You may need it. I'm afraid Billy eluded me, and is now trying to cut several prime head of beef away from your herd. The man's a rustler." She turned to Altmeyer. "You could help me too, you know. Kicking down doors in high heels isn't that easy."

  "We were just talking about business," said Bucky, "but I guess we're finished now. Will you at least think about it?" He stared at Altmeyer.

  Altmeyer nodded.

  Rachel smiled. "Whenever men go off in secret to talk business, women wonder which kind it is. Are they selling our heirlooms and mortgaging the roofs over our heads, or just talking dirty?"

  Altmeyer's face was expressionless. He stood up and walked to the door, took one of the drinks from Rachel's hands, and then slipped the dead bolt on the door. "Sit down for a minute, and I'll fill you in."

  Bucky tried to laugh, but his voice came out in a shrill cackle. "No need to go through the whole thing a second time now. All I ask is that you keep me in mind. Hell, people will start wondering what happened to us."

  "This won't take long, Bucky. Rachel's picked up my business quickly, and her brain carries more voltage than mine does anyway."

  "That's okay. Let's not make Bucky more uncomfortable than he is. Let's just concentrate on resting my aching feet for a minute and then we can all go save Bucky's livelihood from Billy Bittmeister."

  "In a minute," said Altmeyer, leaning against the door. "Bucky just told me he needs two or three automatic weapons because old Arthur Paston is a stickler for authenticity. The thing is, Paston doesn't seem to give a shit if the guns are Uzis or Ingrams. He'd also like a rocket launcher, but doesn't care what kind, and can fake it with a cardboard tube if he doesn't get the real thing. On the other hand, he does insist on using live ammunition. The big problem is, he can't get a license for all this stuff because it takes too long and production costs are mounting up already. Most of the people outside are on the payroll, and Bucky is getting ten percent of their salaries, but he doesn't seem to feel good about that for some reason. Paston is a big power in this business, so Bucky and everybody else all have to do what he wants, but Paston can't get this problem solved in any way except to have his agent dig up the props for him. And of course Bucky, whose job it is to know everybody in the movie business, naturally thought of the most direct and logical way of solving the problem. He

  remembered that his neighbor was in the importing business, and would undoubtedly know somebody with submachine guns to sell. What do you think?"

  Rachel frowned. "There's no point in picking on him, Altmeyer. Bucky's gotten himself into trouble." She turned to look at Bucky, who had collapsed in his leather chair and was staring at the ceiling. "What is it, Bucky?"

  Bucky closed his eyes and sighed. "I'm a fool. I'm sorry."

  Rachel walked to his side and said, "Who are you afraid of?"

  Bucky rolled his head from side to side on the chair back. "Who am I afraid of? Who have you got? Arthur Paston? I'm afraid of him. Billy Bittmeister? Sure. If this party goes on long enough, he can lower my income by thirty percent. As of ten minutes ago, you can add Altmeyer to the list. Please, just leave me. Forget I said anything."

  Altmeyer turned to Rachel. "What do you think?"

  "I like Bucky. Nobody flatters a girl the way Bucky does. He doesn't care what lies he tells. Besides, he did lend us his food processor once."

  Altmeyer stared at the fat little man slouching in his oversized chair. "Tell us the truth and maybe we can do something to help."

  Bucky leaned forward. "You mean you'll get me—get Arthur and me the—"

  Altmeyer held up his hand. "Wait. The truth doesn't have anything to do with movies. And the solution isn't to turn you loose with an automatic weapon you've never fired and would probably use to blow your own ass off the planet. Just tell us."

  Bucky pursed his lips and squinted. "It involves drugs." His little eyes shifted to Rachel, as though he expected a reaction. When he didn't see one, he sighed. "In order to do the kind of business I do, I have to spend time on maintenance."

  "Did you say maintenance?" Rachel moved to a chair three steps closer.

  "Yeah. I have to be sure every client thinks I stay up nights working out ways of making him rich. When I meet

  somebody powerful I have to do things to be sure he remembers me so when I call him he isn't out of town. I have to keep up a network of people who aren't clients or customers but might tell me something I can use. I have to know who does what, who's on his way up, and who's out. All that takes maintenance."

  "So?" said Altmeyer.

  "Maintenance isn't making a Hst of people and calling them up on the phone once a week to say we've got to have lunch sometime. It's keeping all these people convinced that you're somebody. If they don't hear your name mentioned for two months they think you're dead. If they don't hear of something you're doing for two years you are dead. You have to be big right now, not two years ago. Big people dispense things— favors, introductions, a mention in the right place, a job, a chance."

  "Bucky," said Rachel softly. "This is taking a long time."

  Bucky nodded. "I should get out there and make sure they're all getting their weekly dose of old Bucky. You know what this evening cost me?"

  Altmeyer shrugged. "How much?"

  "Don't ask." He paused. "Anyway, this is part of it. You have parties, you make them all glad to be around you any way you can. While you're at it you make sure you look like you're the guy who invented prosperity. Give them everything they think they want. Right now they're out there eating caviar and truffles like they were peanut butter and jelly. In a Httle while, a few of them will nose-dive into the last of my cocaine."

  Rachel said to Altmeyer, "I think the old Buckaroo has just approached the point."

 

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