The kid beckoned her to the edge of the floor and whispered in her ear. From across the room Litsky could see her eyes narrow; then she rattled off instructions like a drill sergeant; and as the kid headed back to his car, she grabbed Dehavvy by the hand. She led her through the crowd, behind the bandstand, and toward the kitchen door.

Litsky snatched his bag from under his stool. He hoisted himself onto the bar and swung his legs over it, toppling a bottle of beer.

—Hey! Ol’ Man River shouted from around the bend.

Litsky scurried out the loading door into the night. Rounding the back of the club, he could see the lights of the kitchen shining through the screen door just as a pine green Packard appeared from the other direction. Litsky was barely ready when the door swung back and out came the blonde dragging Dehavvy behind her. Litsky steadied himself, whistled, and pulled the trigger. With a great pop the flash went off. Sparks fell to the ground filling the air with the smell of brimstone. The blonde wouldn’t let go of Dehavvy until she had her safely in the car; then with her teeth bared, she turned toward Litsky—but he was gone.

He was already cutting a wide circle through the underbrush headed toward Central Ave, where he’d had the good sense to leave his car. He slipped under the wheel, set her in gear, and turned onto Shepherd. In the lot of El Rey’s he could see the cops conferring in a tight circumference with los Capuletos y los Montagues. He saluted them all as he passed, and then he switched on the radio.

It was another heart warmer from that happy-go-lucky huckster, Bing Crosby.

He hated Bing Crosby.

But he left the dial where it was and found himself singing along soon enough. For in the instant the flash had gone off and the girls had looked up in surprise, as clear as crystal he could see that Dehavvy had stepped on the hem of her dress while scampering out the door. Because her left shoulder strap had snapped free—and peeking out from behind the silky red fabric was a million-dollar indiscretion.

AS LITSKY DROVE ALONG Santa Monica Blvd., he watched the buildings slinking past his windshield. It was like turning the pages of the Oxford History of Class Acts: At the corner of Highland Ave was the hotel where Errol Flynn had tried to lower himself from a third floor window by a towel; two doors down from La Brea was the Cancan where Gloria Swanson had almost plucked out the eyes of the Blue Angel; and a few blocks later, he passed Antonio’s, where Louis Mayer had begun dining on lettuce for fear that he soon wouldn’t be able to cross his fat little fingers when crossing his heart and hoping to die.