Prologue

Summer 1948

The bar was called The Blue Fox and sat on the less glamorous end of the Sunset Strip. He'd been there before with an ex-Marine who'd seen combat in the Pacific. That worked out for a while, but then the ex-Marine decided to return home to Ohio.

He'd decided to go to The Blue Fox because it was less frightening than the places downtown near Pershing Square. Those places scared him, and not just because they were more likely to be raided. The people you met there—well, a lot of them were best avoided.

When it happened, he was dancing with an attractive man named Ivan. The club was a big storefront, having originally been a stationery store. The windows in front had been blacked out, the bar built on one side, with the dance floor taking up most of the space, and a collection of eight or nine tables pushed into the back. In the corners there were two large fans with streamers cooling off the dancers.

There weren't any nooks or crannies; it wasn't even that dark. Everyone could see everyone else. There were men dancing with men, women with women. The jukebox played a lot of Doris Day. Many of the men wore short sleeve shirts. He was more formal in a suit and tie. He couldn't help it. He'd been brought up that way.

After introducing himself, Ivan asked, "And you are?"

"Patrick."

"What do you do, Patrick?"

"What do you mean?"

Ivan smirked, "I mean for a living."

"Oh. I'm a lawyer."

"That's wonderful. You look like a lawyer. I love the Perry Mason books. I've read most of them. Who could read them all? I adored the most recent, The Case of the Vagabond Virgin. Just delicious."

"I don't practice that kind of law. Entertainment mainly. Very dull. Duller than you'd think. I suppose I'm a disappointment."

"Not at all," Ivan said, pulling him closer. "Not at all."

A few moments later, the lights flashed off, then back on. Everyone stopped dancing and quickly shuffled about. Ivan was gone and a short girl with nearly blonde hair slipped into his arms. She wore a green dress, tight in the bodice with a full skirt. It matched her eyes.

"My name is Vera. This is our third date. We met on the Santa Monica Pier. We've never been here before. Quickly, tell me about you."

"What's happening?"

"Don't worry about that, tell me who you are."

"Patrick. Patrick Gill. I work at a law firm downtown."

"Your family doesn't know about me. My last name is Korenko. My parents are Czech. Your family doesn't approve of immigrants."

The lights came on bright. Sheriff's officers streamed into the bar.

"Oh my God, I'll be disbarred," Patrick said.

"Hold my hand, stay close to me, you'll do fine."

When he looked over at the officers, he noticed they seemed surprised, uncomfortable. They'd expected to walk in on a scene of depravity, naked bodies writhing around in the dark. Instead, they found a room full of men and women who appeared to have been out on dates, now clinging to each other. They were perplexed by that.

Patrick relaxed, thinking, just be what they think you are. Something he had a great deal of experience with. Vera nestled herself more tightly under his arm. It was as though she knew what he'd just thought. Or maybe it was her mind he'd just read.

In a few minutes, they were being interviewed by an officer who was young enough to still have pimples. He asked for their names, and then, "Do you know what kind of place this is?"

Vera said, "We've never been before. A friend of mine said she and her boyfriend come here."

"You didn't notice anything strange?"

"Honestly, I didn't notice anything but Patrick." Then she looked up at him, and smiling said, "Isn't he swell?"

After declining to answer, the officer asked a few more questions. Patrick barely said anything, Vera was doing such a good job doing the talking. Finally, the officer walked over and spoke to his superior for a moment, then came back and told them they could go.

Outside, the air was cooler than in the bar but still hot and heavy. They rushed across the street. Shaken, Patrick asked, "Do you mind if I take my jacket off?"

"You can do whatever you want. Why would I care?"

Patrick took off his jacket, his white shirt underneath was drenched in sweat. Vera said, "You should take that off, too. You'll catch cold."

"I really shouldn't."

"You're wearing an undershirt. I can see it. Why are you wearing an undershirt on a day like today?"

"I suppose I'm a bit straitlaced."

Patrick took the shirt off. He didn't know how hot it had gotten that day. He hadn't wanted to know.

Then Ivan and a girl came out of the bar. Ivan saw them and they crossed the street.

"That is such a good idea," he said, before removing his own shirt.

The girl with him started to giggle. To Vera she asked, "Are you making them strip tease?"

"This is Gigi," Vera said to Patrick. "She's my real date. Oh, take that undershirt off. It's sopping. You poor thing."

Taking the T-shirt off, he peeked at Ivan who raised his eyebrows.

Ivan said, "My car is just down here."

They followed him half a block to an almost new, cream-colored Cadillac Series 62 convertible. He'd left the top down.

"Let's go to my house," he said, opening the driver's door.

"Where is it?" Vera asked.

"Not far. Holmby Hills."

"Fancy," Gigi said.

"It's nice enough. Barbara Stanwyck lives a few blocks away. Hop in."

The girls climbed into the back, Ivan and Patrick in the front. The boys stuck to the leather seats but were still so much cooler. As they pulled away from the curb, Gigi asked, "Do you think we could drop in on Miss Stanwyck for a night cap?"

"Absolutely," Ivan said, tongue in cheek. "I know she'd like to meet a girl like you."

That made them laugh. As they drove off, the warm night air caressed them, and the sound of their laughter overflowed and spilled onto the street.