Charlie looked to the docks of Tom Sawyer Island. “Sorry,” he said. “It reminded me of the war.”

It took him another second before he fully rejoined his friends.

“Bad memories, man,” Davis said. “They can pop up and block everything else out. Like Nosferatu, man.”

“Let’s just focus on your niece for tonight,” Lawford suggested. “And not try to save every woman in Disneyland.”

They walked from the docks, passed a giant faux Old Mill to their left, and proceeded straight down a row of tiki torches as if headed to a Hawaiian wedding, signs beckoning them to stray and explore other sights: Injun Joe’s Cave, Smuggler’s Cove, Tom and Huck’s Treehouse.

Three lanky, skinny teenage girls walked toward them, dressed as stereotypical squaws.

“…said he had the opportunity of a lifetime for me,” one of them was saying. “He said he would introduce me to the most important man I could meet.”

They were young and blond and gawky. It was difficult to see their faces in the dark, but they resembled so many Hollywood teens, girls with big Keane-painting eyes. They noticed Lawford and Davis, did double takes, and approached them.

“You boys going to Fort Wilderness?” one of them asked.

“What’s that, doll?” Davis said. The words were characteristic Sammy Davis charm, but to Charlie they rang hollow, suggesting the singer was maybe as nervous as he was.

Davis put a cigarette in his mouth and was about to light it when the girl closest to him reached over and took it. He lit it for her, then held out the pack for the other two to partake. As they leaned toward the lighter, Charlie got a better look at their faces. Kids, he thought. They were just kids.

The first one took a drag of the cigarette, exhaled, then said: “Fort Wilderness is where all the fun is happening. Keep going down the lane.”

“Do you know a girl named Violet?” Charlie asked. “About your age, from Ohio?”

The three girls looked at each other, rolled their eyes, and laughed.

“There are a lot of girls there,” said the first. “Dunno names. We’re heading to the treehouse, there’s reefer there.” They tee-heed and ran off.

“Jesus, it’s past their bedtime,” Davis said.

“Weird that no one has asked if we belong here,” Charlie noted.

“When you’re famous, no one stops you to ask questions,” said Lawford.

The three men continued down the dark path, the sounds of music, drums, and revelry growing louder.

Sheryl Ann cautioned Margaret to slow down as they proceeded east on Sunset.

“We can’t get pulled over,” she said, looking at the dashboard clock: 3:04.

They had rushed out of Charlotte Goode’s basement apartment, walked briskly to the car, and tore down the street.

“Should we call the police?” Sheryl Ann asked.