“…For God’s sake Annie, don’t get messed up in this. Hello! Have you been listening to me? Movie people have a long, ugly history of hushing up murder. I can think of three suspicious deaths—no four, four that never came to trial. Don’t mess with these people. That is, if there’s anything really to mess with. Could all be a chemically induced delusion.”
“Even worse. And I’m talking about more than one person here. Anyway, you’d be surprised what grief can do to your head,” Natalie asserted. Anne studied the contents of her bowl and then looked up. “I’m not talking about you. Who wants to think their son partied too hard and died?”
“How about… Perverts of the Caribbean?” She rolled her eyes, “Buccaneer, oh pul-eeze! Who thinks of these things?” Suddenly she became indignant, “Why did Vasquez ask you that? Wait, Cliff didn’t ask you to go there with him, did he?”
“I can’t imagine they’d take on the liability. No. But I’m sure your fellow club mates would have plenty on hand. Do you think that’s why the detective wanted to know? That he thought Cliff went to The Buccaneers and—”
“See! I thought so. You’re talking about the thirties, or something,” accused Anne, “I know, it’s probably in your teaching syllabus: Depravity and Death in Art Deco L.A. What? Next you’re going to tell me Uncle Manny dated Thelma Todd. People can’t, people don’t do things like that anymore!