“In English?” she said.

She was at least as good at this as he was. He smiled, waited.

“Yeah, English.”

“Aglet,” she said.

He touched his finger to the indentation below his nose, over the lip.

“OK, what’s this called, the little dent?”

“The philtrum.”

“And the little thing that hangs down at the back of your throat?”

“The uvula.”

“This is kind of exciting,” Jimmy said. “I had no idea.”

She touched the lower part of the opening into her ear, above the lobe. It was as pretty and as perfect, at least tonight, in this light, as the rest of her.

“The intertragic notch,” he answered. And then, “Why do they call it that?”

“I have no idea,” she said.

He offered his hand. “I’m Jimmy Miles.”

“I know,” she said.

But then, before the next line, before he found out how she knew who he was, there were two gunshots. There was a beat and then a third shot, all from an adjacent room, too loud for the house, wrong for the scene. Everyone jumped, a few people screamed, but unconvincingly. Others laughed.

And they all moved off to investigate.

Jimmy stayed at the bar. Jean followed the others.

She looked back at him. There was a moment and then he followed her.

In the blond-paneled study there were floor to ceiling books — leather-bound, color-coded, looted from some Old Money family or bankrupt junior college — club chairs and ottomans, green shade lights and ashtrays big as hubcaps, for the cigars. Joel Kinser liked to tell people it was his favorite room in the house. The body on the floor had an effective bloody chest wound, still spreading. She was a woman in her twenties, brown hair, tight low jeans, black Gap shoes, one of those skimpy, navel-baring tees the kids called “a wife beater.” If she was breathing it was very shallow. Here was another actor thinking this would do her some good. Her eyes were closed. She was cute dead.