“Jesus,” Charlie said, stunned. He reflexively reached for his glass. “Nothing happened. The girl took off her bikini top, and I got out of the Jacuzzi almost immediately.” He took a big gulp. Charlie tried to think back to who might have taken the picture, and how.

“If you’re wondering who the enterprising shutterbug was, some of our rivals at Confidential and Hollywood Scandal Sheet have no problem climbing trees. If you’ve got a Nikon telephoto, you’re in business.”

“You’re not going to publish it, are you?”

Goode shook her head. “No,” she said. “That’s why I’m telling you about it. But if I have a copy, there are others. I’ll see if the negatives are for sale, but let’s talk later—here’s Margaret.”

Margaret shook her head as she took her seat. “I just can’t get over it,” she said. “Van Heusen writes all those lovely, romantic Oscar-winning ballads while also serving as a pimp.”

“He’ll probably get another Oscar this year for that song he did for Frank for El Cid,” Goode said.

“‘The Devil May Dance,’” Charlie said. It was one of those tunes that stuck with him, both for the haunting melody and the lyrics that rang too true, about compromising with evil.

Margaret’s mind was packed with thoughts of such compromise as well. How did Van Heusen recruit these desperate, aspiring starlets? Who were the women who’d been with them in Vegas? Were they getting paid? How much? By whom? Was Judy as independent as she acted? It terrified Margaret that her niece might be a part of this underworld where the casting process turned into a sort of human trafficking.

Margaret grasped Charlie’s hand across the table. “We can’t leave Hollywood without finding Violet.” Charlie nodded, slightly distracted by the thought of the photograph of him in the hot tub. How would Margaret react? Would she believe him that nothing happened?

“Well, well, well,” said Goode, “look who’s coming to dinner.” She nodded toward two figures entering through the kitchen.

“Giancana,” Margaret said.

“Was Giancana there the night Frank and John Wayne almost went at it?” Goode asked. “I don’t recall seeing him.”

“No,” Charlie said.

“That was quite a night,” said Goode.

“Yeah, two draft dodgers squaring up, then chickening out. Super-impressive,” said Charlie.

“Wayne dodged the draft too?” Margaret asked.

“Three-A,” Goode said.

“For dads with dependents?” asked Margaret.

“Yeah, he’s got five kids,” said Goode.

“Just like half the guys in my platoon,” said Charlie.

“Oh, Marion Morrison,” said Goode, using Wayne’s given name. “He’s never been ‘John Wayne’ in any way, and the masses will never know that, because knowing requires reading.”

Charlie and Margaret exchanged a glance.