“As in Spain.”

“Yeah. As in Spain. As in Captain from Castile. That’s an old movie you may have seen.”

“I’ve seen it. Tyrone Power’s in it. He’s dead. In a few seconds you can ask him what he thought of the film.”

“What, do you think I’m stalling?”

“Two.”

“Anyway, his name is Jerry Castile.”

“I heard that name some place.”

“Probably have. He makes movies.”

“What kind of movies?”

“The kind you’re thinking. Porno.”

“Go on.”

“He’s up here working on a film. A porno flick.”

“And?”

“And he’s here with some people who are staying at this ski lodge or hunting lodge or something. It’s off in the boonies.”

“How far off?”

“Just a few miles from here, actually. But it’s off the main roads. Back deep in a wooded place. They’re all staying there, cast and crew and everybody. At first they weren’t. They were at the Playboy Club, at Lake Geneva, that hotel or whatever the fuck over there. That was a week ago. Last five days they been at this lodge.”

“And the mark is Jerry Castile.”

“That’s right.”

“That’s not a bad story. Try again.”

“Try again? Quarry, you crazy fucker… you wave that goddamn Browning at me all night and count to five and count to five hundred and I won’t be able to give you any other story, except a lie, Quarry, and what good would that do you?”

The hell of it was I believed him. He simply wasn’t that good an actor, not that good a liar, either, to bluff this way, so thoroughly and so well. I’d been standing by the window, looking now and then toward my A-frame, and not a flicker, not a thing was going on in Turner’s face by way of reaction, and while his life depended on the quality of his acting, I knew from past experience he wasn’t up to this kind of performance. Unless he’d improved a hell of a lot in five years…

“I suppose you have notes,” I said.