"I have no intention of hurting Bob Easterbrook, Miss Wood," Dawn said. "I really like him. You didn't have to come here and threaten me."

"It wasn't a threat, it was statement of fact."

"Not that I think you could do a thing to harm me..."

"Oh! I'll be goddamned! Darling, let me let you in on a little secret. The real power at Metro-Magnum is Shirley Maxwell. Don't ever forget that. And just for the record, Shirley and I go way back. She was under contract, too, you know. We were in the chorus of a swimming-pool epic with Esther Williams... and we were sharing a dump like this. Anyhow, she once confided in me back then that she really loved that porcine dwarf she finally married. And I confided in her that I really loved Jake Dillon, and I was going to catch him in a weak mood and get him to marry me. The consequence of that is that Shirley knows that I'm the only female on the lot who's not trying to get her husband's undersized dork out of his pants and into her mouth. And Shirley likes Jake, too... and not only because of me. When I heard that Shirley said nice things to the dwarf about your test, I knew it was because of Jake. You're not bad-looking, and you have a fine set of boobs, but so do five thousand other girls out here. How long do you think you'd last if I went to Shirley and told her to keep an eye on the dwarf, he's got the hots for Whatsername, Dawn something, the one with the sexy voice and the big teats?"

They locked eyes for a moment.

"I think we understand each other, Miss Wood," Dawn finally said.

"Yeah, I think maybe we do," Veronica said, and then shifted back into the role of Pamela Hornsbury of Sarah Lawrence and Detroit. "And please call me Veronica. Now that you're going to be part of the Metro-Magnum family, it seems only appropriate, don't you think, darling?" Then she smiled and walked out of Dawn's apartment.

[THREE]

Cottage B

The Foster Beverly Hills

Beverly Hills, California

1325 Hours 5 November 1942

"May I come in?" the general manager of the Foster Beverly Hills said, inserting his head through the open door.

First Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, waved him in, then held up his index finger, asking him to wait. Pick was sitting on a couch whose wildly floral upholstery and faux-bamboo wood manifested, he supposed, a South Pacific ambience. There was a telephone at his ear.

"I know they're in the Federal Building," he said to the telephone. "Or maybe it's the Post Office Building. Would you keep trying? It's the West Coast, or Los Angeles, or something like that, Detachment of the Public Affairs Division of the Marine Corps. Thank you."

He put the handset in its cradle.

"Lieutenant Pickering, I'm Gerald Samson, the general manager. I'm so sorry about the mix-up. We just had no record of your reservation."

"No problem," Pick said. "All fixed." He gestured around the room. "This is very nice. Lieutenant Dunn and I feel right at home in here. There's only one thing missing."

"What's that?"

"Bare-breasted maidens in grass skirts," Pick said.

"And poisonous insects," Lieutenant Bill Dunn said, coming into the room. There was the sound of a toilet flushing. "Lots and lots of large poisonous insects."

Mr. Samson smiled uneasily. Thirty-five minutes previously, Paul Dester, the day manager, had telephoned him at home. Dester explained then that two Marine officers were in the lobby, insisting, they had a reservation made by the Andrew Foster in San Francisco. Though Dester found no record of such a reservation (it would have been in the name of a Lieutenant Pickering), he called the Andrew Foster to check. And the day manager there said he was quite positive that no reservation had been made for Lieutenant Pickering. He would have remembered; Lieutenant Pickering was Andrew Foster's grandson.

At that point Dester actually had to call to ask what he was supposed to do:

"Is there a cottage open?"

"Only B, and we're holding that for Spencer Tracy. For Mr. Tracy's friends. They'll be in tomorrow."

"Put Mr. Pickering in B, and send fruit and cheese and champagne. We'll worry about Mr. Tracy's friends later. I'll be right there."

When Mr. Samson came into the room, the fruit-and-cheese basket and champagne were untouched. The reason for that became almost immediately apparent when a bellman appeared with bottles of scotch and bourbon, glasses, and ice.

"How many bedrooms are there here?" Pick asked.

"There are three, Mr. Pickering."

"A guest of mine, and a guest of his, will be arriving sometime this afternoon. Captain Charles Galloway. They'll need the bigger bedroom."

"That would be the Palm Room," Samson said, indicating one of the doors with a nod of his head. "We'll be on the lookout for Captain Galloway, Sir."

"Thank you," Pick said, and then the telephone rang and he grabbed it.

"I've found a Marine Public Affairs Detachment, Sir. It's in the Post Office Building. Should I ring it?" the operator asked.

"Please," Pick said, and covered the mouthpiece with his hand. "We're about to have a little nip to cut the dust of the trail, Mr. Samson. Can we ask you to join us?"

"Los Angeles Detachment, Marine Corps Public Relations, Lieutenant Macklin speaking."

"I'm trying to find Major Dillon," his caller said.

"May I ask who is calling?"

"My name is Pickering."

"Lieutenant Pickering?

"Right."

"Where are you, Lieutenant?"

"I asked first. Where's Dillon?"

"One moment, please," Macklin said, and covered the microphone with his hand. He'd recently read an extract of the service record of First Lieutenant Pickering, Malcolm S., USMCR; and Pickering hadn't been a first lieutenant long enough to wear the lacquer off his bars.

I outrank him, and I don't have to tolerate his being a wise-ass. But on the other hand, we're going to be together for the next two weeks, and it would be better if an amicable relationship existed.

"Major, it's Lieutenant Pickering," Macklin said.

"Let me have it," Jake Dillon said, and took the telephone from Macklin. "Hey, Pick, where are you?"

"In the Beverly Hills."

"Dunn with you?"

"Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed."