(See Cover)
The green ranch house is midcentury, middle-class suburban. Its picture windows, once the pride of a wrong-armed infielder named Preston Ward (since departed for Kansas City), glare across the scrubby, rattlesnake-infested foothills toward the San Fernando Valley. As the Thunderbird flies, the place is 12 smoggy miles from the manicured canyons of Bel Air and Beverly Hills, where a movie star ought to live. By classical Hollywood standards, this pad is so far out that it might as well be in Oshkosh or Altoona or on a space platform, and the...
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