Last week the baleful word marijuana* was on every Hollywood tongue. The most self-conscious city of a self-conscious nation was in for a first-rate scandal, and it hated and feared every whisper of it.
Shortly after midnight, two detectives, who had been listening outside a rudely furnished three-room shack in Laurel Canyon, just back of Hollywood, fumbled at the kitchen door. Dancer Vickie Evans, hearing them, opened it from the inside. In the living room with the hostess, a pert blonde movie starlet named Lila Leeds, and Robin Ford, a scared real-estate man, the...
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