It was a second before I recognized Gratey McBride. A second before I knew that she wielded an Oscar. And another before it landed on my head.

I WOKE UP THINKING OF ELLIOTT GOULD.

In 1971, at the height of his fame, Gould was shooting a film called A Glimpse of Tiger, opposite another young star of the day, Kim Darby. Then, it was alleged, his erratic behavior caused the film to be abandoned and his career to be sidetracked.

I was thinking about tigers because I was seeing visions of ocelots. Ocelots and perfume and Marthe posed beside them. Those images mixed with Gratey McBride’s scary face as she hit me on the head with her award. Then I thought of flying, as I had down the stairs at Troy Kevlin’s house.

The truth: I was flying. As I lifted my aching eyelids, I realized I was on a plane, curled up in an aisle seat like a piece of carry-on luggage. A seat belt had been loosely buckled across my middle.

“Welcome back,” a voice said.

I looked over, feeling as if my head was underwater. Focusing, I recognized the man on the seat beside me. It was young, bearded Johnny Cooper, who had saved my life in Troy’s house.

“Got a little headache?” he asked, pleasantly.

I tried to answer, but my mouth moved in slow-motion. No recognizable words came out.

“It must be the painkillers,” he said. “I hope I didn’t go overboard.”

I wasn’t feeling pain, that was true. I wasn’t feeling anything. It was as if I was covered in a protective coating, like a little mint in a plastic wrapper. I tried to speak again, but only heard a vague, gargling sound escape my lips, and even that sounded far away.

“Can you read Marthe’s letter?”

I looked where Johnny was pointing, which was into my lap. There sat a folded note written on cream-colored stationery. I opened it, saw just blurry words, none of them legible. I slowly closed it again.

“I didn’t think so,” he went on. “Anyway, I hope you don’t mind my reading it. But it seems like you stepped into quite a hornet’s nest back there. See, for years, Troy and Thor have been feeding poor Gratey McBride’s drug habit, keeping her secretly in Troy’s house. The mob was after Troy for money he owed them for the drugs. Marthe was trying to give her husband a new project, to get him back into the present. And you were caught in the middle.”

I nodded, very slowly, some sense being made through my fog.

“Apparently, at a weak moment, Thor had told Howie Romaine about the sad setup with his ex. That’s why Howie told Marthe that Troy might know about The Day the Clown Cried. See, Gratey’s co-star in Macaroon Heart, Graus Menzies, was an extra in it, years ago.” He paused. “By the way, I think Marthe really likes you.”

Though incapacitated, I could still feel a sense of violation: This guy had read my private letter. Still, he’d also saved my life. Who did he think he was?

“I’m just a Hollywood guppy,” he said, as if answering. “I’m not in the same league as the other guys at the party. I’ve only directed a couple of shorts and some videos. But the studios are starting to take an interest. I guess that’s why I got on Troy’s list. It was my first time at one of his parties.”

I mumbled an enfeebled greeting, which sounded like “Micetoeatyou.” What was Johnny Cooper doing with me?

“I want to help you,” he said, as if answering, “find The Day the Clown Cried.”

—

After passing out, I woke up still on the plane. Johnny Cooper was watching the in-flight movie, headset in place.

“But where are we going?” I asked, and this time actually said the words.

Johnny didn’t hear me. He was chuckling audibly at the lame black-white buddy picture. I pressed the little button for the stewardess. Soon one came over in the darkened cabin.

“Where are we going?” I asked her.

Hearing this, Johnny suddenly pulled off his headset. He gave a strained, conciliatory smile to the attendant.

“You’ll have to excuse my friend,” he said. “He’s always kidding around.”

Looking annoyed, the woman walked away. Then Johnny turned to me, still trying, with less success, to be polite.

“Look,” he said, “don’t call attention to yourself. We’re going to Amsterdam, okay?”

Shaking his head with a swallowed “Jesus Christ,” he went back to watching the film. I remembered the ferocity with which he had beaten the mobster. I thought I’d better stay on his good side. But why Amsterdam?

“That’s where Graus Menzies is,” he said, as if answering. “I’m a friend of a friend.”

—

When I woke up again, I found myself in a quaint and clean little Dutch bed-and-breakfast. My room looked out on an immaculate garden. My packed bags sat in a corner. I had no memory of getting there. I assumed the solicitous Johnny Cooper had carried me in his arms.

I assumed I was there on his dime, too. So the first thing I did was phone Dena at her dad’s in Maine.

“I’ve been worried sick,” she said. “When I called L.A., a guy with a gravelly voice told me just ‘the Angel has flown.’ Then he hung up.”

“That was Troy,” I told her. “I’m surprised he’s still alive.”

“After that, I tried your mother in New Jersey. A woman there told me that because of lack of money, your mother ‘just had a relapse.’ Did I do something wrong?”

I sighed, deeply, thinking of Aunt Ruby. “No. Not at all.”

I explained my strange arrival in Amsterdam, making sure to add that clues might be forthcoming, from an actual cast member of Clown.

“But have you watched the tape?” she asked.

My head still thick, I remembered its existence. Did I tell Johnny Cooper about it? Probably not; I’d been unable to say much of anything.

“I, uh, don’t think so,” I said.

There was a long pause, as Dena clearly reevaluated my efficiency. She took on her familiar, quiet, somewhat irritated tone. “I’m not going to ask what happened in L.A., Roy. But I found diaries of my father’s. They’ve had a lot of water damage, but you can still read some of them. Maybe there’s something there. I’m going to copy and fax the remaining pages to you. Do you think you’ll be able to handle it?”

I tried to restrain some knee-jerk pique. Still, Dena had a point. I had gotten nothing from Howie Romaine and nearly been killed at Troy Kevlin’s. Second-case jitters, I told myself; the sophomore jinx, as they say in showbiz.

Dena, however, was still completely competent, undeterred even by sentiment in her dead father’s house. I thought of The Only Game in Town, the 1970 movie in which Warren Beatty had replaced Frank Sinatra opposite Elizabeth Taylor. The result was a mismatch. I didn’t share this info with her.

“Of course I can handle it,” I said, my voice unfortunately cracking. I rustled up hotel stationery with the address. Then I told her where to fax the pages.

“Well, look on the bright side,” she said. “The guy chasing you probably won’t come overseas.”

“That’s true,” I said, considering it.

“Take care of yourself, Roy,” she said, with sudden, reluctant affection.