Page 67 of The Happy Month

“Did she?”

“I don’t know. I never heard anything about her after Vera died.”

“You talked to Wallace Philburn for his book.”

“Asshole.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Nothing he wrote in that book was true. He made it sound like she was just another girl who came to Hollywood wanting to be a star and ended up getting chewed up and spit out. That’s not what happened. She didn’t want to be in the movie industry. I don’t even think she liked movies. She liked sunshine. That’s why she was here. She didn’t die for a dream. She died because men are evil.” She looked from me to Junior, then added, “No offense.”

I shrugged and said, “A lot of men are evil. Somedays I’d say most.”

She looked me up and down and said, “You’ve been around.”

Then Junior, who’d been suspiciously quiet said, “Rocky, I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for gays and lesbians everywhere. You’re a real hero.”

“Want to know a secret?”

“Oh I love secrets. I promise I’ll never tell.”

I was sure it would take him less than an hour to break that promise.

“Being in all those groups in the fifties and sixties… best way to get laid. Better than a bar.”

I had to laugh. “So, you did it to get laid?”

“You bet your ass.”

“Well, you’re still a hero in my book,” Junior said. “I have to admit the things I did to get laid weren’t always as noble.”

I turned the conversation back to business. “There was another murder in nineteen sixty-eight. Do you remember that?”

“Yeah. I knew that girl, too.”

“What was her name?”

“Shirley Kessler.”

“How did you know her?”

“I was bartending at a place in Studio City. We met there.”

“And you became friends.”

“I was never as close to her as I was to Vera. But when she was killed, well, it struck a chord, you know? I did get involved in trying to get the police to do more to find her killer. Didn’t work.”

“Do you think there was a connection between the murders?”

“There were similar, we all knew that. But I don’t knowwhat the connection would be. There was almost twenty years between them.”

“Maybe there was no connection,” I said.

“A serial killer, is that your guess?”

I shrugged. “It’s possible.”

“Then you’ll probably never know, will you?”