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The bartender showed no reaction, one way or the other, to Fulmar thanking him in German and walked away.

Fulmar smiled at Ingrid.

“Let’s change the subject, huh?”

“Okay,” she said.

She let go of his wrist and put her hands in her lap.

Shit! he thought. Maybe we should get back to discussing Sweet Ol’ Mom….

Fulmar picked up his beer.

“To reunions,” he said, holding it toward her.

She grinned.

“Why not?” she said, picking up her beer. “To reunions.”

They touched glasses and took sips.

Fulmar put his glass on the table and leaned forward.

“Tell me about yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“What are you up to these days?”

“I read the terrible scripts that my agent in Hollywood sends me, then scream at my agent for sending me terrible scripts.”

“What’s wrong with them?”

She let out her trademark laugh loud enough that, Fulmar saw in his peripheral vision, two of the sailors at the bar turned and looked and smiled along before going back to their conversation.

“What’s not wrong with them!” she said. “Forgive me, but these are roles even your mother would not take.”

She looked wistful.

“It’s hard in these days of war,” she went on, “particularly with a name like mine, to get good parts. I’m looking at changing agents. There’s a very young guy named Ovitz who I like a lot. Funny guy, and sharp as razor.”

“Stan Fine mentioned him once,” Fulmar said. “Had nothing but nice things to say, and that I understand is unheard of in Hollywood.”

He took a sip of beer.

“So you’ve got some time on your hands between scripts?”

She narrowed her eyes.

“What do you mean by that?”

Fulmar glanced around the room before replying.

“What we sometimes talked about in our letters.”

She raised one of her thin eyebrows, then looked at her cigarette and took a long pull on it.

Fulmar said, “You know who my father is, yes?”