Girls moved through the crowd, handing out finger cymbals and gongs to everyone. They turned out all the lights so our faces and bodies were lit only by the flames, and suddenly there burst among us Jonathan in a loincloth, shirtless, and barefoot, doing a wild dance. Amid the din and clang of instruments, the cheers and shouts, he finally snapped the loincloth off and fed it to the flames. Applause roared up with smoke. The sword-and-sandal actors each brought something symbolic to feed to the flames while they recited lines that had everyone clutching their guts with laughter. Clayton Strong shouted, “No more slaves!” and flung in some feathers. Some of the women who had appeared as snake-dancers or slave girls stripped down to their underwear. Diana Jordan, who had played a Roman prostitute who converted to Christianity, tore off her toga—and everything else. That was when we heard the sirens.

I got out of Casa Fiesta without being noticed because I didn’t have to put my clothes back on. But my hair smelled of smoke all night long, and I had a hangover.

The next morning, hair washed, hangover defeated, I got on PCH about eleven. I had the top down and the ocean waves breaking on the beach to my right, dry-stubbled hills rising up on my left. I turned up Sunset, drove to the Garden of Allah, parked the MG there (with such a smart car, no one would ever know it didn’t belong there), pushed the seats forward to protect the leather from the heat, and walked to Schwab’s. I was a woman on a mission.

Just in front of Schwab’s, Al Gilbert, who covered scurrilous stuff for a rag called Secrets of the Stars, was walking out. He was a big, wheezy man; I always thought of Al as sweat-stained even if you couldn’t see the sweat stains. He held the door for me like he was Charles Laughton playing Captain Bligh. “Hey, Roxanne, care to comment on last night’s orgy?”

“It was a church social and we all had strawberry ice cream.”

“Come on. It was a race-mixing debauch where people were naked.”

“I have a real story for you, Al. I heard it from a friend of mine.”

His bloodshot eyes actually brightened, and he reached in his coat pocket and took out a pencil and scrap of paper. “Speak.”

“A certain powerful man—”

“Who? I need names, Roxanne.”

“I’m not saying. I heard it from a friend. He called her into his office and when she got there, he wasn’t wearing any pants, and he comes up to her, and—”

Al gave a great guffaw. “That’s not a real story! That happens all the time!”

“Well, if you published her story, maybe it wouldn’t happen all the time.”