Yeah, you know all the names of the streets, Hollywood and Vine, Sunset Boulevard, Mulholland Drive, Rodeo Drive, and twenty others, streets where the American dream, celluloid version, was to come true for sweet sixteens from Omaha, Cincinnati, and, hell, Greenwood down in Mississippi too. All the towns where girls had dreams, Lana Turner dreams, meaning every town (and for black Mississippi girls Lena Horne stormy weather dreams). Guys, hulks too from Toledo, Scranton and Biloxi. Every color, every sex, every religion, including those without, getting hopes up high as the sky after landing at the bus station over on Vine (or maybe some hitchhike highway let-off point if he or she was in a hurry for fame and didn’t have the bus or train fare) Hoping beyond hope that if they sat at just the right drugstore soda fountain at just the right time they would be “discovered.” Problem, was, is, that the dream was fit to size for only a small number of those hordes who bussed in from Lansing, Yonker, and Portland (east or west take your pick), Clarksdale too. And that is where the knight in shining armor, the old wind-mill chaser, the old Los Angeles fixture private eye, Michael Philip Marlin, came in, came in to try and save one such weary traveler cold before the lights went out. Before she turned up in some party-girl whorehouse, some private “blue” movie, or dead because returning home to some white picket fence dream was not an option after tinsel-town.