“Only spaghetti, and that ain’t ready,” Troy answered, not missing a beat.

“Hey, where’re the chicks?” another wondered.

“That’s my Amish,” Troy used a nickname, chucking the fellow’s chin beard. “We got what you want, don’t worry.”

I had left Marthe’s room and was standing at the back of the crowd. I noticed four women in the living room. They were blondes wearing short glittery dresses and had obviously been surgically enhanced. They waited, patiently, one checking makeup, another her watch. The young men were clearly there to partake in Troy’s Seventies-style fun, which was discouraged in their politically correct age. Thor wandered through the room like a ghost. Marthe was still hiding in her room.

Troy rattled off as many nicknames as he could recall—from Lox Spread to Der Bingle to Shemp—but by his last guest he had wearied. The guy, skinny and bearded, apparently unknown to him, got only Director, which was more a description than a sobriquet.

“And this …” he said, at last, approaching me, “is my newest pal.” I sensed Troy squinting at me behind his huge shades. The best he could come up with was “Clarence Travers,” mixing up the Wonderful Life actor with his role.

The others nodded at me, politely, correctly sensing I wasn’t on the A-list. Seeing their mixed reaction, Troy felt obliged to explain. He made the gesture meaning money, rubbing his thumb and first two fingers.

“He’s providing a bell for me to ring,” he said, and winked.

Since the Clown adventure began, from Abner to Howie to Troy, I had been cast in lots of different roles. A sugar daddy seemed the least likely. I saw polite skepticism on the young directors’ faces.

Clearly, Troy thought this gathering would have networking potential for him. But his guests were, to put it politely, there for their own reasons.

“We should work together,” I heard Troy say to Lucas Mallomill.

“That’s what we’re doing now,” the Hong Kong wannabe replied, clearly yearning to approach the rented girls.

Troy held him there, and whispered something in the young man’s ear. But Mallomill only shrugged, impatiently, saying, “I’m not holding. Ask someone else.”

Then he escaped, leaving Troy looking bereft.

His house, however, looked flush. There were jars of fancy imported olives, expensive fresh cheeses, even a tin of caviar. Champagne bottles sat in ice buckets. It was nothing like the cheap fare that he and his tenants normally consumed. (Last night: Sloppy Joe’s.)

Now his guests obliviously scarfed down the fancy food as they jostled for space next to the women. The large-screen TV had been moved up from the basement; raunchy hip-hop music videos ran on it; some men boogied down with the babes, banging into furniture. Others disappeared into rooms with them. Troy was being treated like a doorman; few did more than glance at him before taking more advantage of his hospitality.

I would have felt sorry for the Boy-O if he hadn’t cast me in a role that exploited me. And if I hadn’t suddenly sensed that this role put me in danger.

One guest hung back, close to the front door. He was different from the other men: older, more subdued, less casually dressed. About forty, he wore a dark suit and his hair was carefully moussed and combed. Troy seemed genuinely surprised to see him. He even removed his glasses and nervously rubbed his deeply ringed eyes.

“I didn’t expect you,” he said.

“Surprise,” the man replied.

“Do you want some chow? Some bubbly? A lap dance, maybe?”

The man shook his head very, very slowly.

“That’s not why I came,” he said. “And you know it.”

I recognized the guy’s voice. I had heard it when I had eavesdropped, while locked in the basement. He was the one who’d slapped Troy’s face.

“Just give me a little bit more time.”

“You’ve had more than enough.”

“Okay, okay,” Troy said, rattled. “Let me introduce you to someone.”

To my horror, he started approaching me.

“Clarence?” he said.

I fled, walking swiftly toward the other guests. I found myself bumping into Lucas Mallomill, who was trying to show a befuddled Thor some kung fu moves. The first guy didn’t acknowledge me; the second didn’t remember.

With Troy and the thug at my back, I headed next for Alan Boilerman. He stood—shyly, I noticed—over a plate of shrimp toast. I quickly acted as if he and I had met before.

“Hey, Alan,” I said. “How’s it going?”

The director was dressed in what can only be called nerd chic—big glasses, stiff dress jacket over pressed white shirt and chinos. It was a postmodern comment on being trivial, different from the real thing. He tried to be polite.

“Do we … have we met?” he asked.

I was sweating now. “Sure, you know. Roy Milano. From the Fest.”

This seemed like an all-purpose description, and, to my surprise, it worked.

“Oh,” he said. “Sure, sure. How’s it going?”

“Just great,” I said, taking him by the shoulder and maneuvering him farther into the house. “Look … I, uh, was just wondering what you’re up to. Another quirky family comedy?”

I hoped the description wasn’t too caustic; his work was way too twee for me. Luckily, the subject of himself engrossed Boilerman, and he opened up. “No, actually. I’m going to try a stretch next.”

“Is that right? How so?” I wiped my wet brow.

“I’m going to direct The Seven Ordeals of Quelman.”

I stopped, even though I meant to keep going. “You’re kidding.”

“No. I just heard yesterday. Do you know the books? It’s going to be a real monster project, a whole series of films, starting with …”

I pretended to listen, the film plan being known to me. We had reached a dark hallway, away from the party proper. When I glanced back, I saw that Troy’s friend had been intercepted by one of the girls. She was standing very close to him, her rock-hard breasts pressed against his suit. I breathed a little easier, turning back to Alan.

“Who’s going to adapt it?” I asked, knowing full well.

“I am, actually,” Alan said, adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses. “I mean, they had a writer on it. But it was, you know, awful stuff. So I told them I would only do it if I could do my own scripts. I’m going to start from scratch.”

I was dumbfounded. “Good for you.”

Thoughts were swirling around my head, none of them pleasant. If Abner was off the project—he probably didn’t even know it yet—that meant no more money would be forthcoming from him. How would I even get home?

I glanced back. Roughly, Troy’s friend shook off the attentions of the overbuilt blonde. Then he was on the move again, and coming my way.

“Well, good luck with that,” I said, quickly, to Alan.