“And I had her. To Julia,” I said, lifting my glass to Irene’s, though I did not add that I now knew my grandmother had helped out the NAACP for years, or that I had met August Branch, the man who had accepted Julia’s bequest.

Suddenly Jonathan Moore burst into the restaurant, halted briefly by the maître d’, who was unaccustomed to men with big fat bruised lips bounding in. We waved, and the waiter let him pass. He was flushed with excitement, calling out in his imperious way, “Waiter! Bring us a bottle of champagne!” He gave us each a hurried kiss on the cheek, plopped himself down in a chair, and beamed. “I got called back for the Dr. Bleeker role!”

“So you took my advice and auditioned for Fly Me to the Moon,” I said, feeling smug. “I’m waiting for your abject gratitude.”

He laughed. “I’ve never done comedy, but I thought, well, what the hell? I wore a rumpled coat and a pair of thick horn-rimmed glasses and greased my hair up and let it hang in my eyes. I slouched and muttered and looked generally brilliant and unworldly. And even with my busted lip, I think they were really impressed.”

“Did they say anything about the Comet Club?” I asked.

“I made some lighthearted reference to the raid and the cops, but Phil Tobin, the director, didn’t think it was funny. And Leon definitely didn’t think it was funny.”

“It’s not funny,” said Irene, blowing out a plume of smoke. “Getting beat up and arrested in a Negro jazz club is never funny.”

“We weren’t arrested, Irene,” I insisted. “We got beat up by the photographers who were there to snag Diana.”

“Let that be a lesson to you. Don’t befriend women who are sleeping with Negroes.”

“Oh, I don’t want to talk about lessons or Negroes!” cried Jonathan as the waiter brought the champagne. “I want to talk about how I’m going to get the part! I couldn’t believe it when I read Fly Me to the Moon. It’s a damned fine script, crisp and witty. I never thought Charlie Frye was that smart, Roxanne. You must have been sending him to one of those Learn to Write in Your Spare Time courses you see advertised on the backs of matchbooks.”

“Ah, Charlie Frye!” sighed Irene with a snide, sidelong glance to me. “Tanned and handsome, and now an irresistible success! A three-year contract at Empire! Everything a young writer could ever want. What a great client! What a great lover! I wonder what dazzling script he’ll turn out next.”

I kept my gaze on the bubbles rising in the champagne glass. I could admit to no one, not even Thelma, my fears about Charlie, my mistake in choosing him to front for Max.

“Am I missing something?” Jonathan asked in the long, awkward silence.