“Everything in New York is jake?” Goode asked. “Kids good?”

“All well,” Margaret said. “Growing like weeds. It was wonderful to be home. And it looks as though Charlie will have the challenger of his dreams this November, a city councilman who’s been indicted like three times.”

Goode grunted supportively, turned down an alley, and walked up to a sturdy green metal door sealed by three different locks she needed three separate keys to open.

“Welcome to Hollywood Nightlife,” Goode announced as she hit the light switch and led Margaret in. Much to Margaret’s surprise, the square, windowless newsroom was relatively immaculate. The walls were covered in calendars, posters, and schedules pinned on floor-to-ceiling corkboard. At the far wall stood ten filing cabinets, different colors, each secured with a thick padlock. Goode walked to her desk in a nook in the far left of the room, Margaret following closely behind.

“It’s shockingly organized,” she said.

“You mean for a crappy scandal sheet?” Goode asked, reaching into one of her desk drawers.

“For any press outlet,” Margaret said, though Goode had read her correctly. Charlotte took a long swig from a silver flask sitting on her desk, then began perusing her reporter’s notebook, occasionally marking passages with a felt-tip marker.

“It’s not usually this empty,” Goode said, distracted.

Margaret walked to the file cabinets, which were thick metal, almost safety-deposit-box quality. The drawers were marked with anodyne labels—years, the names of film studios, awards, and some that didn’t make sense to Margaret, like TOYS and TOTS and TULIPS and DAISIES.

“So where’s Charlie this evening?” Goode asked, not looking up from her task. “Rancho Mirage?”

He was, in fact; he’d been picked up by Lawford in the late afternoon. “How did you know that?”

Goode shrugged. “We know everything.” She leaned back in her chair and stretched like a cat in the sun. “We have this whole town wired. Cops. Nurses. Bartenders. Doormen.”

“I’m impressed.”

“The proletariat work for scraps, but the tsars have other motivations,” Goode said, “ones contained in those file cabinets.” She pointed vaguely in their direction. “Feel free to take a look around the office,” she said, clearly distracted. “I’ll be done in a sec.”

“Please,” Margaret said. “I’ll just freshen up.”

“Oh, sure, right over there,” Goode replied, pointing toward a door in a corner.

Margaret walked into the cramped bathroom, painted yellow and barely more spacious than a restroom on an airplane. The most recent edition of the tabloid sat on the floor under the toilet paper roll. “Sinatra and Prowse Splitsville” blared the headline next to an illustration of a torn photo of the couple. “Dancer’s Refusal to Embrace Motherhood Leaves Blue-Eyed Crooner Blue.”