"You'll get the hang of it eventually. It's really not that hard. At CIW, I was the resident styling maven. Hair, makeup, clothes, all of it. I could've taught a class." She paused to check her watch. "Let's get a move on. Time to party."

We sped south on the 101 with Reba at the wheel.

I said, "I'm not sure this is smart. Why go to a place where everyone's drinking?"

"I'm not going there to drink. I haven't had a drink for twenty-three months, fourteen and a half days."

"Then why put yourself in harm's way?"

"I told you. Because that's where Onni is. She goes out every Thursday night to hustle guys." I opened my mouth to protest, but she shot me a look. "You're not my mother, okay? I promise I'll call my sponsor the minute I get home. At least, I would if I had one, which I don't."

Bubbles was a Montebello wine-and-champagne bistro that had once done a lively business in concert with the Edgewater Hotel and another high-priced piano bar called Spirits. The three were in easy driving distance of one another and formed a triangle traveled by every rich, hot, single person on the market back then. All three places were heavy on atmosphere – glitz, glitter, live music, small dance floors, and low lights. Drinks were pricey, served in oversize glasses, and food was an afterthought, meant to get you home again without a fatal accident.

In the mid-seventies, for reasons unknown, Bubbles became a magnet for escort services, girls working high-end out-call and "models" from Los Angeles, who drove to Montebello cruising for love. Eventually cocaine became prevalent and the county sheriffs department stepped in and shut the place down. I'd been there on occasion because my second husband, Daniel, was a jazz pianist who played the three night spots in rotation. Early in the relationship, I realized if I didn't make a point of being there with him, I might not see him until breakfast the next day. He claimed he was out "jamming" with the guys, which turned out to be true, in both the literal and metaphorical senses.