Lindy's Tavern was packed to the brim. Hearty voices and the belly laughter of sailors layered and overlapped into their own sweet form of a tenor-bass jazz tune, softened by the giggles of the fairer sex, the hum of the shipyard, and the tinkling of glasses and bottles at the bar. Darlene Pearse, perched on the lap of white pressed uniform, hummed along to the Anderson Sisters and she brought a cigarette lightly to her red lips. The woman's eyes were glued to the door, though, and she was less than her usual "attentive" self toward her present company... whatever his name was. Andy something. Or maybe Amos?
It was unmistakable when the polished reporter stepped into the joint. Her neat suit and matching hat stood out among the uniforms. The girl herself was the picture of loveliness and composure in the middle of hell's ballroom, and Darlene grinned at her quaint displacement.
" 'Scuse me, junior." was her throaty laugh as she slid from the man's lap and sidled her way through the throngs of people calling toward the door and pushing her way through the crowd.
"Lena! Doll!" the vixen was yelling over the din, "Welcome to San Diego! You look like a million!"