"Les," she said. She shook her head slowly and nibbled a little more from her glass.

"I don't know any Les," she said.

"You get photographed so much," I said. "It must be hard to remember."

She shook her head and buried her muzzle in the glass again. When she came up for air she said, "No. I only let a few people photograph me. I would know if anyone took my picture."

She shifted slightly as if in keeping with the slow slide of the sun in the western sky, her nearly still body absorbing all it could get like some kind of gorgeous lizard. She emptied her glass and held it out toward me.

"Be a darling," she said, "and freshen my glass."

I took it and went to the bar.

"The cut glass decanter, at the far right," she said.

I took it, took out the stopper and poured her glass nearly full. I took a discreet sniff as I poured. Vodka. No wonder she talked slowly. I put the stopper back and brought her the drink.

"So why would a guy named Les Valentine have a photograph of you to which he'd signed his name?" I said.

"Because he wishes people to think he has photographed me, but he has not."

"Because you are famous," I said.

She was making good progress on her refilled glass.

"Of course. It makes people think he is important. But he is not. If he were important I would know him."

"And he you," I said.

She smiled at me as if we knew the secret to eternal health.

"I'll bet you have big muscles," she said.

"No bigger than Bronco Nagurski," I said.

"Do you think I'm beautiful?" she said.

I nodded. She drank a little more of her drink and put the glass down and smiled at me.

"I think you're beautiful too," she said. "But you have not seen everything." She twisted suddenly and put her hands behind her back and unhitched her bra strap, then she rolled over and arched and with the same quick grace she slid out of the bikini bottoms. Then she lay back against the chaise again and smiled at me, her pale tan body naked as a salamander.