“No way, José,” Goode said. “Luciano got out of prison but was banned from the U.S., so he called for all the bosses across the country to meet him in Havana to make him capo di tutti capi, the boss of bosses. Lansky, Costello, Three Finger Brown, and on and on.”

“Handsome Johnny and Wassy were drinking and gambling with us,” Margaret observed. “By that measure, someone could raise suspicions about Charlie and me.”

“Hm,” Goode grunted as she swerved out of her lane to pass a poky Nash spewing exhaust. “That’s pretty much what Frank said. ‘It was all just a coincidence, right place, wrong time, took me a couple days to realize what was going on, didn’t wanna be rude or ungracious to the fellas buying me drinks.’ More to it than that, of course. When Frank was trying to get out of his contract with Dorsey, Lucky spotted him about fifty Gs. So Frank’s trip to Havana was a way of paying him back—sing for his friends, drink with them, carouse; mobsters like celebrities as much as any of us do. That’s what Lucky says, anyway. There was also a rumor that Frank brought a suitcase full of unmarked bills for him. But who knows—hey, that’s my house!” Goode pointed out Margaret’s window to a nondescript two-story home that sat behind a line of palm trees. She’d been driving east on Sunset for a while now. “I’m in the basement. I rent from a nice family. Hospital executive and his wife, two kids.”

“Hollywood Nightlife must put you in touch with all sorts of characters,” said Margaret, thinking about Violet.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she replied. “Think about all the young things who flock to this town desperate for a speck of stardust. Then add a whole bunch of unscrupulous gangsters and the goniffs who run Hollywood—fat old men with insatiable appetites.”

“What can you tell me about Itchy Meyer?” Margaret said. “I saw him at the Daisy with my niece Violet, who ran away from home earlier this year.”

“Ugh,” Goode said. “He’s grotesque. He’s the perfect example of how power works in this town. He’s got millions of dollars and a government and law enforcement structure built around protecting the industry rather than the girls.”

“Do you think you might be able to help us track down my niece?” Margaret asked, unable to keep the rising fear out of her voice.

Goode shrugged. “I could try,” she said. “Tomorrow when I’m sober, call me and give me all the particulars.”

She paused to light yet another cigarette, then said, a bit too casually, “Say, what do you think about Chris Powell getting whacked? Do you buy that it was over gambling debts? Folks I know say he wasn’t really known for big bets, though he played the horses.”