Hollywood Nocturnes Read online

  “We’ll be there.”

  Chris hugged me. “You know what I envy about your career?”

  “What?”

  “That at least you’re notorious. At least that draft dodger thing gives you something to…I don’t know, at least overcome.”

  A lightbulb went POP!—but I didn’t know what it meant.

  3.

  The Mocambo JUMPED.

  Buddy Greco was belting “Around the World”—working it scat-man style. Buddy not only sells you the song—he drives it to your house and installs it. Chrissy and another girl sang counterpoint—nightclub eyeball magnets.

  Leigh and I perched at the bar. She was pissed: I’d told her Bob Yeakel gave me an out on “Rocket to Stardom” number two—work repo back-up for Bud Brown and another finance clown named Sid Elwell. Bob had a shitload of Darktown delinquents—I was to divert the owners while Bud and Sid grabbed their sleds.

  I accepted Bob’s offer—the repo runs were scheduled for tomorrow. Leigh’s response: it’s another courage test. You don’t know how to pass on things like that.

  She was right. Chrissy’s lightbulb POP! flickered: “At least the draft dodger thing gives you something to overcome.”

  Buddy snapped lyrics—“I traveled on when love was gone, to keep a big fat swingin’ rendezvous”—the crowd snapped fingers along with him. Danny Getchell hopped ringside tables—snouting for Hush-Hush “Sinuendo.” Check Dot Rothstein by the stage: measuring Chrissy for a bunk at the Dyke Island Motel.

  Leigh nudged me. “I’m hungry.”

  I leaned close. “We’ll go to Dino’s Lodge. It won’t be long—Buddy usually closes with this number.”

  “No more will I go all around the world, cause I have found my world in you—ooblay-oooh-oooh-baa-baa-doww!”

  Big time applause—jealousy ditzed me. Dot sidled up to the bar and dug through her purse. Dig the contents: brass knucks and a .38 snubnose.

  She threw me a sneer. Check her outfit: Lockhead jumpsuit, tire tread sandals. Chrissy signalled from the stage door—the parking lot, five minutes.

  Dot chug-a-lugged a Scotch; the bartender refused payment. I stood up and stretched—Dot bumped me passing by. “Your wife’s cute, Dick. Take good care of her or someone else will.”

  Leigh stuck a leg out to trip her; Dot sidestepped and flipped me the finger. The barman said, “She’s supposed to be here on a stakeout for the West Hollywood Whipcord, but all she does is drool for the chorus girls. The Whipcord’s supposed to like good-looking women, though, so I guess that let’s Dot out as a decoy.”

  “The Whipcord’s Dot’s kind of guy. Maybe he can turn her straight.”

  The barman roared. I doubled his tip and followed Leigh out to the parking lot.

  Chrissy was waiting by the car. Dot Rothstein stood close by—bugging loiterers for ID’s. She kept one eyeball on Chris: strictly x-ray, strictly a scorcher.

  I unlocked the sled and piled the girls in. Ignition, gas, zoom—Dot’s farewell kiss fogged my back windshield.

  Heavy traffic on the Strip—we slowed to a crawl. Chris said, “I’m hungry.”

  I said, “We’ll hit Dino’s Lodge.”

  “Not there, please.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Buddy’s taking a group from the club there, and I’m betting Dot will crash the party. Really, Dick, anyplace but Dino’s.”

  Leigh said, “Canter’s is open late.”

  I hung a sharp right. Headlights swept my Kustom King interior—the car behind us swung right abruptly.

  South on Sweetzer, east on Fountain. The Dotster had me running edgy—I checked my back mirror.

  That car was still behind us.

  South on Fairfax, east on Willoughby—that car stuck close. A sports job—white or light gray—I couldn’t make out the driver.

  Deputy Dot Rothstein or ??????

  Scary alternatives: Chrissy’s old boyfriends, old dope customers, general L.A. friends.

  South on Gardner, east on Melrose—those headlights goose goose goosed us. Leigh said, “Dick, what are you doing?”

  “We’re being followed.”

  “What? Who? What are you—”

  I swung into a driveway sans signal; my tires plowed some poor fucker’s lawn. The sports car kept going; I backed out and chased it.

  It zooooomed ahead; I flicked on my brights and blipped its tail. No fixed license plate—just a temp sticker stuck to the trunk. Close, closer—a glimpse of the last four digits: 1116.

  The car ran a red on 3rd Street. Horns squealed; oncoming traffic held me back. Taillights flickered eastbound: going, going, gone.

  Leigh said, “I’ve got no more appetite.”

  Chris said, “Can I sleep at your place tonight?”

  4.

  Repo adventures.

  Cleotis De Armand ran a crap game behind Swanky Frank’s liquor store on 89th and Central, flaunting his delinquent 98 right there on the sidewalk. Bud Brown and Sid Elwell came in with cereal box badges and shook him down while I fed Seconal-laced T-Bird to the winos guarding the car. BIG fear: this was combustible L.A. Darktown, cop impersonation beefs probable if the ubiquitous LAPD swooped by. They didn’t—and I was the one who drove the sapphire-blue jig rig to safety while the guard contingent snored. Beginner’s luck: I found a bag of maryjane in the glove compartment. We toked a few reefers en route to our next job: boost a ’57 Starfire off Big Dog Lipscomb, the southside’s #1 streetcorner pimp.

  The vehicle: parked by a shoeshine stand at 103 and Avalon. Customized: candy-apple red paint, mink interior, rhinestone-studded mud flaps. Bud said, “Let’s strip the upholstery and make our wives fur stoles”—Sid and I were thinking the same thing.

  The team deployed.

  I unpacked my accordion and slammed “Lady of Spain” right there. Sid and Bud walked point on Big Dog Lipscomb: across the street, brownbeating whores. Someone yelled, “Hey, that’s Dick Contino”—Watts riff-raff engulfed me.

  I was pushed off the sidewalk—straight into Big Dog’s coon coach. An aerial snapped; my back hit the hood; I played prostrate and didn’t miss a note.

  Look, Mom: no fear.

  Foot scrapes, yells—dim intrusions on my reefer reverie. Hands yanked me off the hood—I went eyeball to eyeball with Big Dog Lipscomb.

  He swung on me—I blocked the shot with my accordion. Contact: his fist, my keyboard. Sickening cracks: his bones, my bread-and-butter baby.

  Big Dog yelped and clutched his hand; some punk kicked him in the balls and picked his pocket. His car keys hit the gutter—with Bud Brown right there.

  I was flipped and tossed in the car—Sid Elwell with some mean Judo moves. The sled zoomed—Sid with white knuckles on a mink steering wheel.

  Look, Mom: no fear.

  We rendezvoused at Teamster Local 1819—Bud brought the back-up sled. My accordion needed a face-lift—I was too weed-wafted to sweat it.

  Sid borrowed tools and stripped the mink upholstery; I signed autographs for goldbricking Teamsters. That lightbulb POP! flickered anew: “Draft dodger thing…gives you something to overcome.” That car chase crowded my brain: temp license 1116, Dot Rothstein after Chrissy or something else?

  Bud shmoozed up the Local prez—more information pump than friendly talk. A Teamster begged me to play “Bumble Boogie”—I told him my accordion died. I posed for pix instead—the prez slipped me a Local “Friendship Card.”

  “You never can tell, Dick. You might need a real job someday.”

  Too true—a wet towel on my hot fearless day.

  Noon—I took Sid and Bud to the Pacific Dining Car. We settled in behind T-bones and hash browns—small talk came easy for a while.

  Sid put the skids to it. “Dick…ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “You know…your Arm
y rap?”

  “What about it?”

  “You know…you don’t impress me as a frightened type of guy.”

  Bud piped in: “As Big Dog Lipscomb will attest to. It’s just that…you know.”

  I said, “Say it. It feels like I’m close to something.”

  Sid said it. “You know…it’s like this. Someone says ‘Dick Contino’, and the first thing you think of is ‘Coward’ or maybe ‘Draft Dodger’. It’s like a reflex, when you should be thinking ‘Accordion player’ or ‘Singer’ or ‘Good repo back-up.’ ”

  I said, “Finish the thought.”

  Bud: “What Sid’s saying is how do you get around that? Bob Yeakel says it’s a life sentence, but isn’t there something you can do?”

  Closer now—lightbulb hot—so HOT I pushed it away. “I don’t know.”

  Sid said, “You can always do something, if you’ve got nothing to lose.”

  I changed the subject. “A car was tailing me last night. I think it might be this lezbo cop who’s hipped on Chrissy.”

  Bud whooped. “Put her on “Rocket to Stardom.” Let her sing ‘Once I Had a Secret Love.’ ”

  “I’m not a 100 percent sure it’s her, but I got the last four digits of the license plate. The whole thing spooks me.”

  “So it was just a temporary sticker? Permanent plates only have three letters and three digits.”

  “Right, 1116. I thought Bob could call the DMV and get a make for me.”

  Bud checked his watch, antsy. “Not without all nine digits. But ask Bob anyway, after the show tomorrow. It’s a Pizza De-Luxe gig, and he always bangs his favorite ‘contestant’ after the show. Mention it to him then, and maybe he’ll call some clerk he knows and tell him to look up all the 1116’s.”

  A waitress crowded up menu first. “Are you Dick Contino? My daddy doesn’t like you ’cause he’s a veteran, but my mom thinks you’re real cute. Could I have your autograph?”

  * * *

  —

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Dick Contino welcoming you to ‘Rocket to Stardom’—where tomorrow’s stellar performers reach for the moon and haul down a few stars! Where all of you in our television audience and here at Yeakel Oldsmobile can seal your fate in a Rocket 88!”

  Canned applause/hoots/yells/whistles—a rocket launch straight for the toilet.

  Somebody spiked the punch—our live audience got bombed pre-showtime.

  Sid Elwell ID’d the crowd: mostly juiceheads AWOL from the County dry-out farm.

  Act #1—a Pizza De-Luxe male hooker. Topical patter de-luxe: Eisenhower meets Sinatra at the “Rat Pack Summit.” Ring-a-fucking-ding: Ike, Frank and Dino swap stale one-liners. The crowd booed; the applause meter went on the fritz and leaked steam.

  Act #2—A Pizza De-Luxe prostie/songbird. Tight capris, tight sweater—mauling “Blue Moon” made her bounce in two directions. A pachuco by the stage kept a refrain up: “Baby, are they real?” Bud Brown sucker-punched him silent off-camera; the sound man said his musings came through un-squelched.

  Act #3—“Ramon and Johnny”—two muscle queen acrobats. Dips, flips, cupped-hand tosses—nice, if you dig shit like that.

  Whistles, applause. Bob Yeakel said the guys worked shakedowns: extorting married fags with sodomy pix.

  Some spurned lover out-of-nowhere yelled, “Ramon, you bitch!”

  Ramon blew the audience a pouty kiss.

  Johnny spun in mid-toss; Ramon neglected to catch him. Johnny hit the stage flat on his back.

  The crowd went nuts; the applause meter belched smoke. Kay Van Obst drove Johnny to Central Receiving.

  #4, #5—Pizza De-Luxe torch singers. Slit-legged gowns, cleavage, goosebumps—both sang Bob Yeakel-lyriced ditties set to hit records. “The Man I Love” became “The Car I Love”; “Fly Me to the Moon” got raped thusly: “Fly me to the stars, in my souped-up 88; it’s got that V-8 power now, and its traction holds straight! In other words, OLDS IS KING!!!”

  Cleavage out-tractioned lyrics—the drunks cheered. Sid Elwell hustled a new car battery/applause meter on stage for Chris Staples’ bit and final bows.

  Chrissy:

  Running on fear—that car chase spooked her. I told her I’d have Bob Yeakel tap some DMV slave to trace the license—my backstage pitch shot her some last-minute poise.

  Chrissy:

  Scorching “Someone to Watch Over Me” like the Gershwins ALMOST wrote it for her—going hushed so her voice wouldn’t crack—the secret of mediocre songsters worldwide.

  Chrissy:

  Shaking it to “You Make Me Feel So Young”; putting the make out implicit: she’d call you at three o’clock in the morning.

  Chrissy:

  Wolf whistles and scattered claps first time out. Better luck at final bow time: Bob Yeakel hooked the applause rig up to an amplifier.

  Chrissy won.

  The crowd was too drunk to know they got bamboozled.

  Bob congratulated Chris and stroked her tail fins on-camera—Chris swatted his hand.

  Ramon moaned for Johnny.

  The sales crew snarfed Pizza De-Luxe pizza.

  Leigh called to say she’d caught the show on TV. “Dick, you were better off as Chucko the Clown.”

  I grabbed Chrissy. “Tell Bud and Sid to meet us at Mike Lyman’s. You gave me an idea the other day.”

  * * *

  —

  Bud and Sid made Lyman’s first. I slipped the headwaiter a five spot; he slipped us a secluded back booth.

  We huddled in, ordered drinks and shot the shit. Topics covered: “Rocket to Stardom” as epic goof; would my repo work spring me from my second producing gig? Bud said he spieled the car chase to Bob Yeakel; Bob said he’d try to DMV-trace the temp license. Sid reprised the Big Dog repo—I used it to steer talk down to biz.

  “I’ve been stuck with this ‘Coward’ tag for years, and I’m tired of it. My career’s going nowhere, but at least I’ve got a name, and Chrissy doesn’t even have that. I’ve got an idea for a publicity stunt. It would probably take at least two extra men to pull off, but I think we could do it.”

  Bud said, “Do what?”

  Chris said, “I’ve got a hunch I know where this is going.”

  I whispered. “Two hoods kidnap Chrissy and I at gunpoint. The hoods are psycho types who’ve got this crazy notion that we’re big stars who can bring in ransom money. They contact Howard Wormser—he’s the agent who gets both of us work—and demand some large amount. Howard doesn’t know the gig’s a phony, and either calls the fuzz or doesn’t call the fuzz. In either case, Chrissy and I heroically escape. We can’t identify the kidnappers, because they wore masks. We fake evidence at the place where we were held hostage and tough it out when the cops question us. We’re bruised up and fucked up from the ordeal. The kidnappers, of course, remain at large. Chrissy and I get a boatload of publicity and goose our careers. We pay off the fake kidnappers with a percentage of the good money we’re now making.”

  Three deadpans.

  Three-way silence—I clocked it at one minute.

  Sid coughed. “This is certifiably nuts.”

  Chris coughed and lit a cigarette. “I like it. If it works, it works. If it doesn’t, Dick and I go to jail. We’ve both been to jail, so we know we can survive. I say maybe this is the real “Rocket to Stardom,” and if it isn’t, c’est-la-goddamn-guerre. I say better to try it than not to. I say the entertainment business thrives on bullshit, so why not try to shovel some of our own?”

  Bud strafed me: wary eyes, working on sad. “It’s dangerous. It’s illegal, probably to the tune of a couple of years in jail. And you’re what the cops would call a ‘known associate’ of me and Sid. I could probably set you up with some guys more removed, so the cops couldn’t link you to them. See, Dick, what I’m thinking is: if you’re determined to do it, th
en maybe we could make some money by cutting down the chance you’ll get caught. If you’re determined to do it, hell or high water.”

  Those eyes—why so sad?

  “I’m determined.”

  Bud pushed his drink aside. “Then it has to look real. Let’s go, there’s a place you should see.”

  * * *

  —

  We convoyed up to Griffith Park and went hiking. There it was: a shack tucked into a box canyon a mile north of the Observatory.

  Hard to spot: scrub bushes blocked the canyon entrance off.

  Tumbleweeds covered the roof—the shack couldn’t be seen from the air.

  The door was open. Stink wafted out: dead animals, dead something. Dig the interior: a mattress on the floor, blood-encrusted pelts stacked on a table.

  Chris said, “Scalps,” and covered her nose.

  I looked closer—yeah—SCALPS.

  Sid crossed himself. Bud said, “I found this place a few years ago. I was on a hiking jaunt with a buddy and stumbled onto it. Those scalps spooked the living bejeezus out of me, and I checked with this cop pal of mine. He said back in ’46 some crazy Indian escaped from Atascadero, killed six people and scalped them. The Indian was never captured, and if you look close, you’ll see six scalps there.”

  I looked close. Six scalps, all right—one replete with braids and a plastic barette.

  Chris and Sid lit cigarettes—the stink diminuendoed. I said, “Bud, what are you saying?”

  “That at least one of your kidnappers should be made up to look like an Indian. That this dump as the kidnapper’s stash place would gain you some points for realism. That a psycho Indian who might be long dead makes a good fall guy.”

  Chris said, “If this works and my career takes off, I’ll give you each 10 percent of my gross earnings for the next ten years. If it doesn’t work, I’ll cash in some stocks my dad left me and split the money between you, and I’ll sleep with both of you at least once.”