"No. I ducked and he missed." Mason laid a finger against the half-moon-shaped scab. "I got this when a whitecap flipped me and I got clipped by the board."

"So what happened next?"

"On my second day in the Valley, I knocked on the door of a little pink bungalow in Santa Clarita, and a very pretty blonde in shorts and a halter top greeted me with a smile. When I told her what I wanted, she didn't slam the door like the others. She invited me in and offered me iced tea."

"What's her name?"

"Her real name is Frieda Gottschalk, but she started calling herself Shania Bauer six years ago when she moved to Hollywood from Duluth to try to make it in the movie business."

"How'd that work out?"

"Not well. After a couple of years, she gave it up and started doing p.o.r.n under the names Peachy b.u.t.t and Sugar Sweet."

"Does she have a peachy b.u.t.t?"

"If that means what I think it does, I'd have to say yes."

"Is she sugar sweet?"

"I resisted the urge to taste."

"So what did she tell you?"

"First I showed Frieda the records indicating she had contributed five thousand dollars to the governor's reelection campaign three years in a row."

"I'd prefer that you refer to her as Peachy b.u.t.t."

"Why?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Okay. Peachy b.u.t.t confirmed that the records were accurate. She also acknowledged contributing two thousand dollars each to our house and senate judiciary committee chairmen. When I asked her why she made the contributions, she said Sal Maniella told her to."

"Did she tell you where she got the money?"

"She said Sal gave it to her."

"Did she know this was illegal?"

"She didn't say. I forgot to ask her that."

"Why do you suppose she told you all this?"

"She said Maniella trimmed his roster of actors a few months ago when he opened a new studio in Rhode Island. She's one of the ones who got dumped, and she's not pleased about it."

"Did she lead you to some of the others?"

"To five of them, yes. She even called them and said they should talk to me. Those five led me to still more, and by the end of the week I had seventeen on-the-record interviews. I could have gotten more, but I figured that was enough."

"They all told the same story?"

"Pretty much, yes."

"I don't suppose you recorded the interviews."

"I videotaped them with the Sony camcorder I brought along to doc.u.ment my vacation."

"They didn't mind?"

"Not at all. They were quite accustomed to being on camera."

"Great job, Thanks-Dad. You're really getting the hang of it. Don't forget what street reporting is all about when you land the big job in the corner office."

"I won't."

"After you write this up, let me look it over before you give it to Lomax, okay?"

"You can have it tomorrow. It's already written; I finished it on the plane."

"Good."

"Double byline, right?"

"h.e.l.l, no," I said. "Why share the credit when you did all the work?"

"There wouldn't have been a story if you hadn't pointed me in the right direction," he said. "I think your name should be on it."

"You don't have to do that."

"I want to."

"Up to you," I said. "Lomax will want to hold the story for Sunday and strip it across page one. It's gonna make a h.e.l.l of a splash."

But first, I owed a couple of people a heads-up.

46.

The maid answered the bell and ushered me into the library, where Sal Maniella was waiting for me. I found him seated on the couch, admiring the autograph on the t.i.tle page of Ian Fleming's Moonraker. Copies of Casino Royale, From Russia with Love, and On Her Majesty's Secret Service were fanned out on the coffee table.

"From the Swann Galleries auction?" I asked.

"Yes."

I'd looked up the auction results online. The signed first edition of Moonraker had sold for more than fifty thousand dollars.

I sat beside him and placed both volumes of the Grant biography on the coffee table. "Thanks for letting me borrow them," I said.

"You're most welcome. Let me know if there's anything else you want to read. After all, what good are books if you can't share them?"

"I never got around to reading Moonraker," I said, "but if I ever find the time, I'll buy a used paperback. I'd be afraid to even breathe on this copy."

"Don't be," he said, and placed it in my hands. "You can read it here if you like; it shouldn't take more than a couple of hours. But I'm sure you understand why I'd prefer it didn't leave the premises."

"Of course."

"By the way," he said, "I've been meaning to talk to you about your collection of pulp detective magazines."

"The magazines that were in the boxes you don't know anything about?"

"Those would be the ones."

"What about them?"

"Take special care with the June 1935 edition of Black Mask. It contains the first printing of a story by Raymond Chandler, and except for the tiny coffee stain on the spine, it's in remarkable condition."

"I suppose it is."

"If you ever decide to sell it, let me know. The last one that sold at auction brought five hundred dollars."

"You'll be the first one I call," I said. I could sure use the money, but I hated the idea of parting with it.

"So," he said, "why did you want to see me?"

I told him.

He picked up the crystal decanter, poured himself a shot of Scotch, and offered me one. I shook my head.

"Well," he said, "this will certainly cause some trouble for the governor."

"For you, too, I imagine."

"No, not really. Yolanda will plead me guilty to violating the state campaign finance law, and I'll have to pay a four-figure fine. But of course the governor's campaign committee will have to return the money, so I'll use that to pay the fine and be well ahead of the game."

"They'll return the money to the p.o.r.n actors, not to you," I said. "I doubt you'll ever see any of it."

"Excellent point," he said.

"When the story breaks, there'll be a lot of pressure on the governor and the legislature to outlaw prost.i.tution," I said.

"I imagine so."

"If they do, it will ruin Vanessa's brothel business."

"I very much doubt that."

"Really?"

"Really."

"How come?"

"I'd rather not say."

"The story's going to run Sunday, page one," I said. "We need some kind of quote from you and Vanessa."

"Just put us down for a 'No comment.'"

I walked into Hopes expecting to find Fiona at her usual table. Instead she was holding down a stool at the far end of the bar.

"You look exhausted," I said.

"I am. I spent last night trying to comfort Daniel and Carla Arruda."

"The parents of the kidnapped Pawtucket girl?"

"Yeah."

"How are they holding up?"

"Carla can't stop crying and begging G.o.d to send her little girl home. Daniel has already given his daughter up for dead and wants to shed blood; but he doesn't know who to kill, and it's driving him f.u.c.king crazy."

I didn't have anything to say to that, so I stared at the bar top for a moment.

"I bet you could use some good news," I said.

"You got any?"

"I do," I said, and then I told her.

"That's fantastic," she said. "How'd you find out?"

"I didn't," I said. "It was Thanks-Dad." And then I told her how he'd done it.

"Pretty slick," she said.

"I think so, too."

"Of course, they'll all wriggle off the hook," she said. "Maniella will get fined and can grab enough cash to cover it by looking under his sofa cushions. The governor and the two committee chairmen will be shocked, shocked, about where the campaign contributions came from, and they'll give the money back. But the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds won't dare to hold up my antiprost.i.tution bill now. If they do, I'll make it look like they were all bought and paid for."

"Which they were," I said. "You were right all along."