10:39 p.m.

I felt ridiculous.

I stood in front of the Roosevelt Hotel, across from the courtyard of Grauman’s Chinese. I did not look like a whore. I looked like a prairie girl who’d misjudged the local climate.

My dress was winter-weight, pleated, and fell below the knee; the matching jacket fit loosely. The red silk blouse showed scant cleavage. My mink coat was too much for L.A. at Christmas. A mothball scent made me sneeze.

Elmer, Brenda and Bill Parker were up in suite 813. They were stationed behind a wall peek. A tripod-rigged camera pointed into the living room. The room was microphone-fitted. Elmer and Brenda knew Fletch B.’s “quirk” and assured me that this was strictly a living room deal.

Parker appeared to be off the sauce. He issued abrupt orders and comported himself with brusque civility. He agreed to the shakedown without a moment’s pause. It astonished me.

I waited. Mayor Fletch was due momentarily. My broken nose was cosmetically masked and showed no sign of recent fracture. I chain-smoked; I watched rubes congregate outside Grauman’s and slide their feet into movie stars’ footprints. A pretty girl led a blind man through the courtyard and helped him compare his feet to Cary Grant’s. It was heartbreakingly lovely.

A Lincoln sedan pulled to the curb, directly in front of me. The driver flashed his headlights twice—my signal. I leaned into the passenger window. Pinch me—it was Fletcher Bowron.

He looked over at me and leered. He wore Kiwanis, Moose, and Elks lodge pins, along with a Pearl Harbor mourning armband. I said, “Suite 813. Please give me a few minutes.”

Fletch gave me the high sign. I walked into the hotel, took the elevator up and let myself into the suite.

It was Brenda’s standing tryst spot. The living room and bedroom featured peeks built into wall-mounted mirrors. Camera stations stood in crawl spaces behind the walls; three people could crouch and covertly film assignations. Brenda, Elmer and Parker were behind the living room peek. I had been told to position myself sideways, eight feet from the wall. Elmer warned me that Fletch night be nervous and told me to have a stiff drink waiting.

I did a little soft-shoe and waved at the peek. Brenda yelled, “No mugging, Citizen. This ain’t no high school play.”

I laughed and walked to the bar. I poured Fletch a triple and siphoned in club soda. I smoothed my hair and heard the doorbell.

I carried the drink over and opened the door. Fletch snatched the glass and chugalugged it. I shut the door and threw the bolt.

He said, “You think I’m Fletcher Bowron, Esquire, but I’m not. That guy’s a pantywaist. The War Department’s got me traveling incognito, and I’ll admit I look a little bit like Fletch. Let me have it, sister. Tell me who you’ve got standing here.”

Fletch always worked off a script. I had my part memorized.

I said, “You’re Race Randall, the ace spy. You’ve been transporting secret documents from the Continent, and you’re all tuckered out.”

“That’s right. I’ve been monitoring the progress of the eastern-front war, and I’m starting to think we should cut a deal with Hitler while we’ve still got the chance. Those Nazi boys have got oomph, and since I’m a man with lead in my pencil, I know oomph when I see it.”

I walked to the bar and built another triple. I said, “Geopolitics fascinates me. Please tell me more.”

Race snatched the glass. He chugalugged his drink and did a little cock-’o-the-walk strut.

“Russia’s all right, if you like gruel and lezbo discus throwers, but Deutschland’s got the goods. I was there with the L.A. Trade Commission in ’38, and I say der Führer’s been getting a bum rap. The Abwehr tried to recruit me, but Race Randall’s devoted to the good old U.S. of A. You know what they say about me, don’t you, sister?”

I certainly did. “Everyone knows about you, Mr. Randall. You’ve got the biggest and the best.”

Race reeled and sloshed his bourbon. “Marlene Dietrich will attest to that, sister. We were with some of the boys at a schnitzel palace on the Goetheplatz. You know the Horst Wessel song? ‘Die Fahne hoch! Die Reihen dict geschlossen! SA marschiert mit ruhig festem Schritt.’ ”

We were squarely in line with the wall peek. Race killed off his drink and began goose-stepping. He goose-stepped the length of the room, three times. I stood back and watched; I heard foot scuffs along the crawl space and observed the evening’s climax before ace spy Race Randall did.

Citizens Brenda, Elmer and Bill were standing by the bedroom doorway. Race would see them the moment he turned and began goose-stepping back our way.

He goose-stepped.

He froze in mid-step.

He dropped his glass and screamed.

Brenda said, “We go back a coon’s age, Fletch. But business is business.”

Parker said, “No ‘derogatory profile.’ A closed-chambers, grand jury–sanctioned conference at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow. Immediate subpoenas for Preston Exley and a man named Pierce Morehouse Patchett. They may bring an attorney. I’ll be the grand jury’s ad hoc counsel.”

I said, “Race, you’ve got the biggest and the best.”