City of Mirrors by Melodie Johnson-Howe

her?”
    â€œSuch as?”
    â€œI don’t know.” She shrugged, and for a moment her square, defiantly unfeminine jaw appeared soft and weak. It was as if her strength had been drained from her. “I don’t believe in good and evil. But if I did, Jenny would be evil.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œShe sensed people’s weaknesses. Knew how to use them.”
    â€œDid she know yours?”
    â€œMy fear of never working again? That’s my weakness. Who doesn’t have that fear in this town?”
    Her gaze settled on a man lurking in the shadows of a large potted palm, surrounded by his walking-around guys. It was as if he was too sensitive to come out into the light.
    â€œPedro!” She waved, nudging me toward him.
    My hand automatically went up to smooth my hair. And for the first time in the entire day, I thought about my lack of lipstick, blush, mascara, and powder. But it was far too late for any of that.
    â€œPedro Romero, this is Diana Poole, the actress Robert told you about,” she announced.
    â€œI know who she is.” A small, thin man with dark slicked-back hair took a few tentative steps toward me, then bowed slightly.
    â€œI’ll leave you two to chat.” Duty accomplished, she hurried back toward Zaitlin’s office.
    â€œYou carry death with you.” Romero’s eyes twinkled darkly.
    â€œMy mother’s ashes.”
    â€œAh, Nora Poole. I always wanted to meet her.”
    I couldn’t help notice that he didn’t say he’d always wanted to work with her.
    â€œIt is very Latin of you to be so intimate with death,” he said. “In my country we celebrate it, we make fun of it, and we defy it.” Raising a fist, he pulled his legs together and thrust out his chest. He was a matador.
    â€œNo, I’m afraid it’s very American of me. The door locks on my car don’t work, and I was worried someone might steal her.”
    He chuckled. “You mean ‘American’ in that you always have a more pragmatic reason?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI like that you do not apologize for being American. Most everyone here does.” He flipped a small hand indicating the guests. Then his eyes burrowed in on me, and I watched him studying the planes of my face with the impersonal eye of a camera.
    â€œI enjoyed our conversation very much,” he said, as if he had just finished editing a film. He took my hand and kissed it so softly I barely felt his finely trimmed mustache. Patting the urn, he added, “I finally get to meet Nora Poole.” He slipped away toward the living room, his guys miraculously appearing around him again.
    â€œDiana!” Ben Zaitlin pushed his way through a group pretending to listen to a newly axed but still famous news anchor pontificate. “My mother sent me out here to give you this.” Ben held out a plate piled with food. “And I’m not to mention the ashes.” His smooth pale skin was flushed from too many drinks. Black hair flopped around a lean pointed face.
    â€œThanks for the food but I’m not hungry, besides I don’t have enough hands to hold the plate. Happy birthday, Ben.”
    Ben balanced the plate on the balustrade. He had the same elegance as his mother, and the same aura of sadness. He was dressed in a stylishly hip suit with a pink rumpled shirt hanging, untucked.
    â€œI haven’t seen you in a long time. How’s Princeton?” I asked.
    Putting their children in Ivy League colleges was still important to Hollywood royalty. After all the years on the West Coast they were still looking for East Coast acceptance.
    â€œI flunked out. Mother was pissed.” He shoved his hands into his pants pockets and swayed as if he were trying to balance on a rowboat.
    Surprised, I said, “So you’re living at home again?”
    â€œI have my own place. Please don’t ask the next question, Diana.”
    â€œAnd what would