I wandered further into the room and threw the torch beam around some more. “Maybe this is where it’s going to happen. Where they’re going to give Jake his award.”

“Of course it is. Where I found this”-she held up the statuette-“there were other ones too. Best Newcomer. R &B Album of the Year. That kind of stuff. It’s going to be a big event.”

Now my eyes had adjusted, I could see the place better, even though the flashlight wasn’t so powerful. And for a moment, as I stood there looking up at the stage, I could imagine the way the place would look later on. I imagined all the people in their fancy clothes, the record-company men, the big-time promoters, the random showbiz celebrities, laughing and praising each other; the fawningly sincere applause every time the MC mentioned the name of a sponsor; more applause, this time with whoops and cheers, when the award winners went up. I imagined Jake Marvell up on that stage, holding his trophy, the same smug smile he’d always have in San Diego when he’d finished a solo and the audience had clapped.

“Maybe we’ve got this wrong,” I said. “Maybe there’s no need to return this. Maybe we should throw it in the garbage. And all the other awards you found with it.”

“Yeah?” Lindy sounded puzzled. “Is that what you want to do, sweetie?”

I let out a sigh. “No, I guess not. But it would be… satisfying, wouldn’t it? All those awards in the garbage. I bet every one of those winners is a fake. I bet there isn’t enough talent between the lot of them to fill a hot-dog bun.”

I waited for Lindy to say something to this, but nothing came. Then when she did speak, there was some new note, something tighter, in her voice.

“How do you know some of these guys aren’t okay? How do you know some of them don’t deserve their award?”

“How do I know?” I felt a sudden tide of irritation. “How do I know? Well, think about it. A panel that considers Jake Marvell the year’s outstanding jazz musician. What other kind of people are they going to honor?”

“But what do you know about these guys? Even this Jake fella. How do you know he didn’t work really hard to get where he has?”

“What is this? You’re Jake’s greatest fan now?”

“I’m just expressing my opinion.”

“Your opinion? So this is your opinion? I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised. For a moment there, I was forgetting who you were.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean? How dare you speak to me that way?!”

It occurred to me I was losing my grip. I said quickly: “Okay, I’m out of line. I’m sorry. Now let’s go find this office.”

Lindy had gone silent, and when I turned to face her, I couldn’t see well enough in the light to guess what she was thinking.

“Lindy, where’s this office? We need to find it.”

Eventually, she indicated with the statuette towards the back of the hall, then led the way past the tables, still not speaking. When we were there, I put my ear against the door for a few seconds, and hearing nothing, opened it carefully.

We were in a long narrow space that seemed to run parallel with the ballroom. A dim light had been left on somewhere, so we could just about make things out without the flashlight. It was obviously not the office we were after, but some kind of catering-cum-kitchen area. Long extended work counters ran along both walls, leaving a gangway down the middle wide enough for staff to put final touches to the food.

But Lindy seemed to recognise the place and went striding purposefully down the gangway. About halfway along, she stopped suddenly to examine one of the baking trays left on the counter.

“Hey, cookies!” She seemed completely to have regained her equanimity. “Too bad it’s all under cellophane. I’m famished. Look! Let’s see what’s under this one.”

She went on a few more steps, to a big dome-shaped lid, and raised it. “Look at this, sweetie. This looks really good.”

She was leaning over a plump roast turkey. Instead of replacing the lid, she laid it down carefully next to the bird.

“Do you think they’d mind if I pulled off a leg?”

“I think they’d mind a lot, Lindy. But what the hell.”

“It’s a big baby. You want to share a leg with me?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Okay. Here goes.”

She reached towards the turkey. Then suddenly she straightened and turned to face me.

“So what was that supposed to mean back there?”

“What was what supposed to mean?”

“What you were saying. When you said you weren’t surprised. About my opinion. What was that about?”

“Look, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be offensive. Just thinking aloud, that’s all.”

“Thinking aloud? Well, how about thinking aloud some more? So I suggest some of these guys may have deserved their awards, why is that a ridiculous statement?”

“Look, all I’m saying is that the wrong people end up with the awards. That’s all. But you seem to know better. You think that’s not what happens…”

“Some of those guys, maybe they worked damn hard to get where they have. And maybe they deserve a little recognition. The trouble with people like you, just because God’s given you this special gift, you think that entitles you to everything. That you’re better than the rest of us, that you deserve to go to the front of the line every time. You don’t see there’s a whole lot of other people weren’t as lucky as you who work really hard for their place in the world…”

“So you don’t think I work hard? You think I sit on my ass all day? I sweat and heave and break my balls to come up with something worthwhile, something beautiful, then who is it gets the recognition? Jake Marvell! People like you!”

“How fucking dare you! What do I have to do with this? Am I getting an award today? Has anyone ever given me a goddamn award? Have I ever had anything, even in school, one lousy certificate for singing or dancing or any damn thing else? No! Not a fucking thing! I had to watch all of you, all you creeps, going up there, getting the prizes, and all the parents clapping…”

“No prizes? No prizes? Look at you! Who gets to be famous? Who gets the fancy houses…”

At that moment someone flicked a switch and we were blinking at each other under harsh bright lights. Two men had come in the same way we had, and were now moving towards us. The gangway was just wide enough to let them walk side by side. One was a huge black guy in a hotel security guard’s uniform, and what I first thought was a gun in his hand was a two-way radio. Beside him was a small white man in a light-blue suit with slick black hair. Neither of them looked particularly deferential. They stopped a yard or two away, then the small guy took an ID out of his jacket.

“LAPD,” he said. “Name’s Morgan.”

“Good evening,” I said.

For a moment the cop and the security guard went on looking at us in silence. Then the cop asked:

“Guests of the hotel?”

“Yes, we are,” I said. “We’re guests.”