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center, complete with eight-track tape deck and stereo speakers, was housed in an immense velvet-lined teak cabinet. A central workout square of polished wood was surrounded by a sea of cream shag carpeting, fitted wall to wall beneath the ubiquitous mirrors, and a disco ball hung in pride of place from the vaulted ceiling.
    “For the love of God, Duke, would you put some clothes on?” Seamus, Duke’s oldest childhood friend and now his right-hand man—a sort of hybrid manservant, PA, and business manager—had stuck his flushed, permanently jovial face around the door, giving a brief nod of acknowledgment to the trainer. “You have a meeting at eleven, you know? I know the dress code is casual in Hollywood, but I’m sure John McGuire would appreciate a pair of underpants at least.”
    Duke looked over his shoulder at his old pal and grinned. They were almost exact contemporaries, but Seamus looked nearly old enough to be his father. His hairline had receded so far that he appeared completely bald from the front, and a lifelong penchant for “the odd dram,” as he put it, had contributed to both his florid complexion and his spreading waistline. In anyone else Duke would have been scathing of such a lack of self-control, but he’d always considered Seamus a special case. Having battled his way through the vipers’ nest of scheming agents and unscrupulous studios in Hollywood, Duke knew just how rare loyalty and genuine friendship were. Seamus was a gem.
    “Go fuck yourself, wouldya?” he replied good-naturedly, scratching his balls for added effect. “I’m trying to enjoy the view here.”
    And quite a view it was. Immaculately manicured lawns rolled down the hill away from the house as far as the eye could see. An Olympic-size pool flashed and shimmered in the morning sunshine, surrounded by a haphazard collection of orange and lemon trees, all groaning with fruit. Tiny hummingbirds, their brilliant streaks of color clashing with the unbroken blue of the sky, flitted from flower to flower, enjoying the sunshine. It was hard to imagine that such a Garden of Eden could be completely man-made; that without ceaseless irrigation, planting, and tending, the whole of Hancock Park would have been nothing more than a lifeless desert. But then that was precisely what Duke loved about L.A. It was a place where you could turn a patch of dirt into paradise, if you worked hard and wanted it badly enough.
    Any one of the legions of Mexican gardeners and handymen on the lawns below could have glanced up and seen the master of the house stark naked, surveying his kingdom from the window, as they had on so many mornings before. Duke didn’t care. It was his house. He had worked for every square inch of it, and he could shit on the fucking floor if he wanted to. Besides, he liked being naked in front of the staff, because it drove Minnie insane with embarrassment. Humiliating his wife was one of Duke’s greatest and most enduring pleasures.
    “Eleven o’clock.” Seamus raised a reprimanding finger in the general direction of Duke’s naked rear view before scurrying off to prepare the paperwork for the day’s meetings.
    “Look at that, man.” Duke made a sweeping gesture through the window for Mikey’s benefit, once Seamus had gone. “What a terrific day!”
    “We’re in California, Duke. Every day’s a beautiful day.” The trainer zipped up his sports bag and leaned back against the mirrored wall. He wasn’t in any rush to leave. His next client was a hopelessly overweight Beverly Hills widow who couldn’t seem to get enough of his brown velour jogging suit and shoulder-length hair. Chewing the fat with Duke was a whole lot more fun. “So what’s put you in such a great mood all of a sudden? This wouldn’t have anything to do with . . . is it Catherine? What’s her name, your new girlfriend?”
    “Mistress, my new mistress.” Duke grinned. “I’m a hell of a lot too old for a ‘girlfriend.’” To