“We’re all just on a journey,” Judy said.

“Part of me looks at these…these girls, like lambs with the wolves around the pool, and I worry,” Margaret said. “Maybe it’s just the mom in me.”

“Those girls don’t need some housewife to protect them,” Judy said. “They’re fine. We’re fine.”

Among Rosselli’s insatiable appetites was a hunger for Hollywood gossip, and after his first sip of scotch, he began peppering Martin with questions about Natalie Wood.

“I mean, did you see West Side Story? Did you see Splendor in the Grass?” he exulted. “She’s an angel! And that figure—”

“You’re in luck, Johnny,” Martin said. “She and Bob Wagner are splitsville. Happy to introduce you if you’d like.”

“How old is she now? Maybe twenty-two?” Rosselli asked.

“Old enough,” said Martin with a leer that was quickly growing tiresome to Charlie. “I saw her on a date maybe two months ago with Chris Powell, that kid who died.”

“Oh yeah, poor guy,” said Rosselli. “And hello there, pretty lady,” he said appreciatively as the bikini-clad Judy made her way to the bar.

She ignored him and ordered a screwdriver. “I thought you were going to bring me a drink,” she said to Charlie.

“I always knew I liked you, Judy,” said Martin, and once again Charlie observed the power she held over these men by simply ignoring them. Judy settled herself comfortably on a barstool and waited for her drink.

“What was the story with Powell?” Charlie asked. “I heard he and Frank were fighting over a girl.”

“Lola,” said Judy.

“Frank doesn’t really care about any of these dames,” Martin said. “Not since Judy here broke his heart.”

“I’m telling you,” Rosselli said, laughing. “Did you see the shit he pulled with Lauren Bacall?”

“You two are worse than a couple of eighth-grade girls,” Judy said, prompting a chuckle from Maheu, whom Charlie had almost forgotten.

“What do you think happened to Powell?” Charlie asked, even though he also wanted to hear about the shit Sinatra pulled with Lauren Bacall.

“Dunno,” said Martin. “Didn’t know him well. Did you, Johnny?”

“I saw him a few times in LA at poker,” said Rosselli. “Had a tell like Durante’s nose.”

“Did he owe anyone money?” Charlie asked.

“Not that I know of,” said Rosselli. “And anyway, I never heard of anyone getting whacked for not paying. Maybe a broken leg, sure. Like when Harpo and Chico asked me to get money from Jack La Rue. But in this case…doesn’t make sense.”

The sun beat down on them. Maheu guzzled his screwdriver and ordered another. A foot-long iguana scampered at the edge of the pool.

“I need to go back in,” Judy said. “Jesus, it’s like we’re ten feet from the sun.”

“Is Sam coming down?” Rosselli asked Judy.