There was frenzied dressing, as Graus barked at his playmate to hurry. Holding his shoes and socks—and the tape—Graus fled the room, followed by the maid, clutching her clothing closed. After a second, the room door shut.

I waited, fearing their return. Then, after a proper interval, I ran from the place myself.

—

On the top step of the stairs that led to my own hall, I stopped again. Graus was banging on my door.

“Come out, little scum boy!” he was saying. “I know what you did!” Then he added, with mockery, “Don’t worry! I won’t hurt you!”

Finally, disgusted, fuming, he walked away.

Cautiously, I sneaked in.

I raced around my room, not sure what I meant to do. Instinctively, and irrationally, I started to pack, prepared again to flee.

The tape had been stolen. It wasn’t Clown; it was, most probably, footage Dena’s father took of her as a child. Graus had been surprised to see it, so he wasn’t a suspect. He thought I had replaced his porn with it. But why would I have done that?

I was pretty sure I knew who had.

As I stuffed my clothes into my bags, a piece of paper fluttered out. I stooped to retrieve it. I recognized it as Marthe’s letter, folded in its cream stationery.

It had only been read to me by Johnny on the plane; I’d never perused it myself. So, hastily, I unfolded and scanned it.

Most of the information was familiar: Gratey, Thor, Troy. Regret about Clown. Then a few lines at the end told me something new.

I don’t know who this Johnny Cooper is. He wasn’t invited to Troy’s party. He was crashing in. (sic) No one ever heard of him. Just a head up (sic)

I glanced up from the page, feeling chilled. Suddenly, a merry knock came at the door. Shave and a haircut, two bits.

“Come on!” Johnny called. “Let’s have some fun!”

WE WERE GOING TO HAARLEM.

Not Harlem, Haarlem. It was a town north of Amsterdam, known for its cosmopolitan center and famous art museum. A train ride would show me the Dutch countryside at dusk.… At least that’s what Johnny and Katie told me.

The compartment was first class; we had it to ourselves. It was palatial and elegant, nothing like a dingy American commuter train. Yet enjoying the exotic aspects of another country was the last thing on my mind. Sitting opposite them, I couldn’t stop staring at Johnny.

“I wish Graus could have come,” he said benignly. “But they called him back to the set for some pickups.”

“He seemed to have been loaded for bear,” Katie said. “Pissed off about something.”

“Is that right?” Johnny asked. “Huh.”

“Yeah, I wonder why that is,” I said, pointedly, never taking my eyes off him.

He didn’t take the bait, only pointed out the window.

“Look at the fields, Roy,” he said. “You can actually see tulips.”

“Fascinating,” I said.

There was an uncomfortable silence. Katie kept looking confusedly at the two of us. Something told me that, no matter what was happening, she was innocent of it. At least I hoped so.

“How about a little—” Johnny gestured between the cars and made the universal symbol for dope smoking.

“None for me, thanks,” Katie said, curling up for a nap.

“Roy?”

I shook my head no. But, yawning, Katie gave me a scowly face.

“Go on,” she said. “It might cheer you up. Everyone’s so grumpy today.”

In a second she was asleep. Johnny kept staring at me, the only sound the mild hum of the modern train. Maybe being alone with him was the answer now, I thought. The prospect, however, made me shaky.

“Okay,” I said.

—

We stood in the narrow space between cars, sheltered from the ground on either side by chains. If I strained, I could see passengers through the glass doors before and behind us. Otherwise, it was just me, Johnny, and the quickly darkening world.

He lit up the joint, took a deep toke. I needed my head clear, so when I accepted the limply rolled cigarette, I held it between my teeth.

“What was the name of that Bruce Willis one?” he asked, casually.

“Which?”

“The abandoned one. Recently. Lee Grant was directing. It was a comedy. He was a boxer, or something. The Battler, or—”

“Something like that,” I said. “The Broadway Brawler. In ninety-six.”

“Right. Creative differences, they said. Or the one with Brando? And Johnny Depp and Debra Winger? They were already shooting in Ireland. In, like, ninety-five. Brando played a priest. The money dried up.”

“Right.”

“What was the name of that one? Divine Rapture?”

“Can’t remember.”

In honesty, the dope fumes were having an effect, inhaled or not. I wasn’t used to it, and was starting to feel fuzzy. I handed the thing back to Johnny.

“It doesn’t really matter now, does it?” I asked. “Because it’s over.”

I made this comment as pointed as I could. Johnny had no idea what I meant.

“Yeah, well. The film probably would have sucked, anyway.”

“No, I mean this. This is over, Johnny,” I said, trying to sound tough, feeling a little nauseated.