“Don’t call him that. He was very kind. I had trouble with the MG, and I had to leave it at Reg’s. He was picking up his car and offered to bring me into town. He’s a reporter. He writes for a paper called the Challenger.” I decided not to mention his connection to Clarence, or that he had been at Julia’s funeral and the reading of her will.

“The Challenger is the voice of the NAACP,” said Leon. “The NAACP pretends to serve colored people, but they’re a Communist front, roiling up race relations.”

“Now, now, Pooks,” said Denise, tapping his arm. “Let’s talk about my new picture, Fly Me to the Moon.”

Leon glanced over at me briefly, uncomfortably, then looked away.

“Who will play Professor Bleeker?” asked Elsie. “Gary Cooper?”

“He’s too old,” Gordon protested, though with a quick look to Leon, he corrected himself. “I mean, why should we pay for the star power of an established actor when there are so many young actors who are cheaper? Rock Hudson. We’re thinking of Rock.”

“Dreamy,” said Elsie. “Positively dreamy.”

“He’s too tall for me,” said Denise with a small pout. “Every time I stand beside Rock, I’d look like a Munchkin. I’d look . . .” she sought the word.

“Diminished,” I offered without an ounce of irony.

“What about Alan Ladd, honey?” Denise tucked her hand through Leon’s arm. “He’s not very tall.”

“What about Jonathan Moore?” I volunteered.

“He has no comedy credits,” said Gordon. “Just a lot of sword-and-sandal crap.”

“Hardly comedic,” said Elsie. “I’m for Alan Ladd.”

“If Jonathan wants to audition, that’s fine with me,” said Leon. “Just because he’s never been in a comedy doesn’t mean he couldn’t do it.”

Talk turned to the cameras rolling in August and for the production schedule to be fast-tracked so Fly Me to the Moon could be released at the end of the year. “To qualify for the Oscars,” said Denise with a delighted smile.

I was relieved when Elliott and Charlie entered Pierino’s together, Charlie looking especially handsome, like a surfer Bill Holden in his new suit, his blond hair neatly brushed back and gleaming with Brylcreem. He was the perfect young writer, deferential, respectful, calling the men sir and the women ma’am, and telling Denise how much he had loved her in Banner Headline.

“You know the script needs rewrites, don’t you, Charlie?” asked Leon in a prosecutorial voice. “A few more contemporary touches.”

“Rewrites, sure,” said Charlie, his teeth flashing white in his tanned face. “I’d do anything to make you and Miss Dell happy.”