When an acquaintance of Saxon’s, bit actor and part-time male prostitute Robbie Bingham, dies in a mysterious car explosion and the police don’t seem to care, Saxon goes into action. His investigation leads into the netherworld of dimly lit gay bars of West Hollywood and the boardrooms of a television network, and climaxes with a sudden, fiery death.
Along the way, Saxon manages to run afoul of a vindictive pimp, a pompous game show host, a cadre of venal and frightened TV executives, an ice-cold Beverly Hills homicide detective, and a movie sex goddess fighting the encroachment of the years with straight bourbon and a lover twenty years her junior. He also encounters Marvel—one of the “lost children” of Hollywood, who survives on the streets and who makes sure Saxon will never look at things quite the same way again.
This was a warm Sunday afternoon; Sheldon Scott, Investigations—my downtown L.A. office—was closed, and I was invited to a party. A Hawaiian party at that: luau, roast pig, the works. From behind the house somewhere I heard a happy squeal. A happy feminine squeal. Sounded like a good wild party. There was a lot of hellish yelling and whooping. At the top of six cement steps I found a buzzer on the right of the massive door, poked it as chimes went off to the tune of How Dry I Am.