So Loraine Collins comes from Los Feliz into Hollywood to hand off an automatic, which magically whacks a KA from Compton. Something dirty here. Something involving a young Otis Chandler, a slumming Jean Simmons, and an avuncular Howard Jarvis.
Loraine, her crocodile tears turning evil intent into soggy relief:
Or maybe not. Maybe it’s just a tragic accident. Eisenhart kills his buddy and has to live with it the rest of his life. He walked from his place here:
To go to the party here, where a heart beat strong and innocently in his pal’s chest. 
And those characters outside? Tragic accident or not, they’re about to be set up as some “crawled through the window with a gun†killers.
