"Well, I have ways," Ron said with a twist.

"You and Her Royal Highness, Antonia. Where you her bridesmaid or flower girl?"

"What makes you think I'm British?"

"My dear, you're no wop with that accent."

"You speak excellent English. Were you born in this country?"

"In Mexico. I sneaked across the border. A patrol officer caught me. He didn't send me to jail. He got me a small apartment in L.A. then I went to night school. He made me go home and come back legally. He even helped me get my citizenship papers. The hell of it was he was married and had a tough time getting away from his wife. It was wonderful until some low down dog told her about us. She made him stop seeing me. It nearly killed me. His name was Dennis. He was much older than I am but I like older men. They've got more sense. They're a lot kinder than younger guys. I hate cruising but how am I going to get another guy if I don't?"

Ron didn't know. Whenever life in London became dull he put on his zircon and posed. It seemed so useless to waste time looking in windows, pretending to be interested in their displays when all the time you were waiting for the other to make the break. A pose and glances usually turned the trick. Ron carefully smoothed a stray hair back in its orderly place then adjusted his tie. "I liked a big strong guard at Buckingham Palace but he wouldn't even look at me. All of them behave like that; its part of their training. Every time I had a chance I stood near the palace gate with my ring on. Just as I was leaving one day I dropped my card with my name and address on it near him. He came to my flat that night. I'd just bought a gorgeous Venetian lace negligee at a benefit. It had belonged to a duchess. He put it on and paraded around in it. He had me call him Sue. He was so muscular he just didn't look right in it but he wore it every time he came."

Jorge took Ron in his '50 Ford to a restaurant in Old Olvera Street. Ron ate his first tacos and enchiladas and liked them. He told Jorge that the atmosphere made him feel like Carmen. Had Jorge ever known any bull fighters?

"No, but plenty of throwers. Hollywood's filled with them. Yeah, and a lot of rats posing as vice squad officers. They carry badges and use the same technique the real guys use. Should you ever run into one and need help, I'll give you my phone number. You can reach me there any time."

Jorge returned Ron to the Knickerbocker. He hated to leave him alone. He was such a babe in Hollywood's wolf packed woods he could easily lose his shirt. Then what? Luckily he had a round trip ticket.

Ron stayed in his room long enough to powder his thin face and dab Monteil's 'Seduction' behind his ears... He started for Hollywood and Vine but got no farther than the lengthy sidewalk newspaper stand on Las Palmas. Another busy place. Never had he seen so many young men in skin tight levis. He marveled at the frank display of male anatomy. But the women in their tight slacks ran them a close second. A greying, flat chested diesel was berating a giggling blonde for keeping her waiting. Near them a young Hindu, slender and dark in her rose tinted sari, chatted with a Stetson hat, Hollywood cowboy, his spotless suede outfit redolent with Max Factor's Desert Flower. Two blondes, their moon shaped derriers threatening to burst through their knitted slacks and waists piled out of a Lincoln convertible and yelled, "You cheap bastard," at a shining bald head behind the wheel. Nearby in a window cluttered with plas-

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