Charlie jumped when he noticed that in the shadow of the ticket booth was a tall, broad man in a dark suit. The man waved Charlie and Lawford through the turnstile. Charlie didn’t know what he was walking into, nor did he know how much he could rely on his Rat Pack pals. The constant boozing and the estrangement from Margaret had destabilized him; it was like removing ballast from a ship.

Charlie, Lawford, and Davis proceeded under the Santa Fe and Disneyland Railroad locomotive, which circled the perimeter of the park, and onto Main Street. Even in the dim streetlamps around the town square, the shiny red of the horse-drawn Disneyland Fire Department wagon popped out from the grays and blacks of the night. Down the faux avenue they strolled, passing the Wurlitzer Music Shop and the Main Street Cinema.

“Why here?” Charlie asked. “Why not at some Xanadu at the Hearst Castle? Behind locked and guarded gates, far from the street, away from any chance of discovery.”

“Getting away with it is part of the rush,” Lawford said.

Davis pointed to a giant cartoon image of Mickey Mouse hanging in a storefront, illuminated by an old-time streetlamp. “Always amazes me how minstrel Mickey is,” Davis said.

“What?” asked Charlie.

“Look at that mouse, man!” Davis said. “The elastic black arms and legs, the white mouth, the gloves—the whole thing is a classic coon character. Oh, man, this gets me crazy.”

“Don’t get him started on that fucking mouse, Charlie,” Lawford said, chuckling. “He’ll take it back to Steamboat Willie and ‘Turkey in the Straw.’”

They crossed the street, went past the Crystal Arcade and the Carnation Ice Cream Parlor.

“Who are the girls at these parties?” Davis said. “I assume if this is verboten, the fräuleins are of ill repute.”

“The question is whether they’re of ill repute willingly,” Charlie said.

They came to a large wooden map and Lawford took out his lighter and flicked its spark wheel to see better.

“Tomorrowland, man,” Davis said, pointing to the top right corner of the map. “That’s where Frank and I rode on that little motorway in 1955 in that TV special when they opened the park.”

“Neat,” Lawford said.

“Disaster,” Davis corrected him. “Traffic jam on the Santa Ana—I mean a horror show, even for SoCal. Hundred-degree heat meant gummy tar on Main Street, snagging the moms’ high heels. Counterfeit tickets, so sardine-can crowds, which meant the vendors ran out of food and drink. Plumbers’ strike, so no water fountains. The company rushed the open, so the best rides weren’t even running yet. Only thing really open was Autopia, which was just regular cars. Tomorrowland was pretty much Todayland.”

“We’re going here, to Frontierland,” Charlie said, pointing to the top left corner of the map.

“Lead on, Macduff,” said Lawford.