"Thinking about it."
"Just serve the pastries, Roman."
"It's a comedy."
She held out a half-empty bottle of champagne. "From the producer's private stash. He won't notice. His parrot just exploded from grief. Long story."
"You look like you're about to jump," she said, not smiling.
"Do you know who that is?" Roman nodded toward a gaunt, chain-smoking man in a wrinkled suit, standing alone by the koi pond. "That’s James Ellroy. The Demon Dog of American Literature. Author of L.A. Confidential . And he just asked me if the spinach dip had 'that cop-killer aftertaste.'"