Since then, I had almost made a living as a private investigator. I had met a lot of people, made almost nothing and did some freelance bodyguarding for movie people, most of whom didn’t need it. I’d done some work for M.G.M. but not much and not lately.

One guy at the gate said:

“Peters?”

He was a lanky cowboy type in his fifties with grey hair and a weather-beaten face. His looks more than his ability probably carried him into his security job. I knew the route. When people did use me, it was generally for the way I looked rather than anything they knew about me.

My nose is mashed against my dark face from two punches too many. At 44 I’ve a few grey hairs in my short sideburns, and my smile looks like a cynical sneer even when I’m having a good time, which isn’t very often. I’m reasonably tough, but there are a lot around town just as tough and just as cheap. I fit a type, and in my business I was willing to play it up rather than try to cover.

The cowboy at the gate waited for my answer. His metal name tag read “Buck McCarthy.” I smiled and acknowledged my name.

“I got a call from Judy Garland,” I said. “She wants to see me.”

“I got the word,” the cowboy said. “Slide over.”

I slid over, and the cowboy got in to drive after nodding to his assistant to watch the gate. Metro was class. Two guards on a gate. I wondered if Jack Warner knew.

The cowboy switched the Buick into gear and took off slowly between the huge yellow-grey airplane hangers that served as buildings.

“You need a new heap,” the cowboy said, trying to find second.

“I just had it tuned,” I said. A normal man would have given up and let me drive, but he played his part to the end. No mangy Buick was going to get the better of Buck McCarthy. Buck rode my maverick past a few buildings and pulled in next to a line of low green bushes. A little man with a big hat was solemnly watering the bushes. He turned to watch as Buck stalled my car in second.