Sam’s directions had been a breeze up until now. The intersection where Sunset met Beverly was crammed with cars and people. I sat waiting for a break, hoping Sam wasn’t the impatient type. I glanced at the sights. The Garden of Allah. The name conjured up Moroccan architecture, Aladdin and his lamp, belly dancers and someone swooping in on a magic carpet. Yet the style replicated the white stucco and red tile so typical of the Hollywood area. Not that I would term anything else about the place before me “typical.” A grand two-story main building and a maze of one- and two-story private bungalows dominated lush grounds that included colored spotlights angled to show off select buildings and a smattering of palm trees. I’d heard about the complex, a former estate of Alla Nazimova, now a mix of apartments and hotel rooms favored by members of the literary and intellectual film communities. F. Scott Fitzgerald, Dorothy Parker, Robert Benchley, and Orson Welles were known to stop by; Greta Garbo and Errol Flynn dashed in for drinks or a meal now and again.
