Hollywood Nocturnes Page 5

  Sid howled. Chris poked a scalp and said, “Ick. Icky lizard.”

  I said, “Count me in, minus the bed stuff. If the gig doesn’t fly or get results, I’ll fork over the pink slip on my 88.”

  Four-way handshakes. A bird squawked outside—I flinched wicked bad.

  5.

  Scalps.

  Indian fall guys.

  Teamster goons.

  Encore: Dick Contino, truculent guinea hood.

  Who didn’t tell his wife: I’m knee-deep in a hot kidnap caper.

  Monday morning twinkled new-beginning-bright. I walked out for the paper—a fuzz type was lounging on my car. I’d seen him before: hobknobbing with Bud Brown at Yeakel Olds.

  I eeeased over guinea hood coool. Fear: my legs evaporated.

  He held up a badge. “My name’s DePugh. I’m an investigator for the McClellan Senate Rackets Committee. Bud Brown snitched you for Conspiracy to Kidnap, Conspiracy to Defraud and Conspiracy to Perpetuate a Public Hoax, and believe me, he did you a big favor. Hand me the contents of your outside jacket pockets.”

  I complied. Felony bingo: repo run reefers. Bud Brown: lying rat motherfucker.

  DePugh said, “Add Possession of Marijuana to those charges, and put that shit back in your pockets before your neighbors see it.”

  I complied. DePugh whipped out a sheet of paper. “Dear Dick: I couldn’t let you and Chrissy go through with it. You would have gotten caught in your lies and everybody would have gotten hurt, me and Sid included. I told Mr. DePugh, who is a nice guy, so that he would stop you but not get you in trouble. Mr. DePugh said there is a favor you could do for him, so my advice is to do it. I’m sorry I finked you off, but I did it for your own good. Your pal, Bud Brown.”

  My legs returned—this wasn’t a jail bounce. Shit clicked in late: Bud pressing the Teamster Prez for info; Bud hinky on the kidnap plan from jump street. “Brown’s an informant for the McClellan Committee.”

  “That’s correct. And I am a nice guy with a beautiful and impetuous nineteen-year-old daughter who may be heading for a fall that you can help avert.”

  “What?”

  DePugh smiled and clicked into focus: a cop from Moosefart, Minnesota, with a night school law degree. “Dick, you are one good-looking side of beef. My daughter Jane, God bless her, goes for guys like you—although I’m pretty sure she’s still a virgin, and I want to keep her that way until she finds herself some nice pussy-whipped clown that I can control and marries him.”

  “What?”

  “Dick, you keep asking me that, so I will now tell you that one hand washes the other, a stitch in time saves nine, and if you scratch my back I’ll scratch yours. I.e.: I’ll let your fake kidnapping happen, and I’ll even supply you with some muscle far superior to Bud and Sid—if you do me a favor.”

  I checked the kitchen window—no Leigh—good. “Tell me about it.”

  DePugh tossed an arm around me. “Jane’s an undergrad at UCLA. She’s flirting with pinko politics and attending some sort of quasi-Commie coffee klatch every Monday night. The klatch is an open thing, so anybody can show up, and with that bum Korean War deal of yours, you’d be a natural. See, Dick, I’m afraid the Feds have infiltrated the group. I’m afraid Janie’s going to get her name on all kinds of lists and fuck her life up. I want you to infiltrate the group, woo Janie, but don’t sleep with her, and make it look like she just joined the group to chase men, which Janie implied to her mother is true. You join the ‘Westwood People’s Study Collective,’ put some moves on Jane DePugh and pull her out before she gets hurt. Got it?”

  Holy Jesus Christ.

  “And no reprisals against Bud and Sid. Really, Dick, Bud did you an all-time solid by bringing me into this scheme of yours. You’ll see, I’ll find you some good boys.”

  I said, “I like the scalp angle. I want to keep it.”

  DePugh pulled out photos. The top one: a dead Indian on a morgue slab. Three bullet holes in his face; “Sioux City, S.D. Coroner’s Office 9/18/51” stamped on back.

  “Bud Brown and I are old pals from Sioux City. When I was on the Sheriff’s there, Chief Joe Running Car here got drunk and scalped his wife. I picked him up, and he copped to those Griffith Park snuffs. Chief tried to escape, and I killed him. Bud and I are the only ones who know that he confessed to the L.A. killings, and the only ones who’ve got the shack pegged. Chief Joe here—he’s your fall guy.”

  Three bullet holes/one tight circle—DePugh took on a new panache. “Show me the other picture.”

  He held it up. “Aah, my Janie.”

  Nice: a redhead hot for some mischief. Sleek—Julie London minus 10,000 miles.

  Leigh banged on the window and drew a question mark.

  DePugh caught it. “You’ll think of something. Just don’t fuck my daughter, or I’ll kill you.”

  6.

  Green eyes scorched me—I shaved some miles off Jane DePugh’s odometer.

  In session: the Westwood People’s Study Collective.

  The boss Pinko droned on: the labor strike aesthetic, blah, blah. Some collective: me, a few beatniks, a Hollywood “Producer” named Sol Slotnick—a wolf with fangs for sweet Janie.

  My mind wandered. Sol and Jane made me walking in—Jane’s horns grew right on-cue. Now it was Commie biz as usual.

  Blah, blah—the LAPD as management enforcers. A cheap one-room pad; shit-strewn cat boxes placed strategically. Bum furniture—my chair gouged my ass.

  “It is well known that Chief William H. Parker has formed anti-labor goon squads at the request of wealthy contributors to LAPD fund drives.”

  I called Chrissy and spilled on Dave DePugh’s shakedown—she agreed not to tell Leigh about it. I told her the kidnap scheme was still on—with DePugh supplying some pro muscle. Scared Chris: a light-colored sports car tailed her briefly last night. I mentioned Yeakel’s DMV contacts—a temp license trace might be possible.

  Chrissy’s new instinct: Dot wasn’t the tail fiend. “I don’t know, Dick. I think maybe Dot’s too fat to pull shit that sinister.”

  “…it is thus not untoward to state that police violence is violence aimed at subjugating the lower stratas of society.”

  I flicked a cat turd off my chair. Jane crossed her legs my way—ooooooh, daddy!

  A man walked in and sat down. Thirty-fiveish, hipster garb: sandals, Beethoven sweatshirt. I made him: an FBI face in the crowd at my desertion trial.

  He made me: a ½ second quizzical look.

  He didn’t make me make him—I glued on a deadpan quicksville.

  Fed sharks circling—Janie, watch your mouth.

  The Head Red called for questions. Jane said, “My dad’s an investigator with the McClellan Committee. They’re investigating corrupt labor unions, so I hope you’re not going to tell us that all unions are squeaky clean.”

  Sol Slotnick raised a hand. “I ditto that sentiment. I made a picture once called Picket Line! I had some connections in the garment rack—I mean trade, and I had a kickback—I mean a reciprocal agreement going with the owner of a sweat sh—I mean factory, who let me film his peons—I mean workers, at work. Uh…uh…uh, I saw good on both sides of the picket line, which…uh…is why Picket Line! was the title of the movie.”

  Sol looked at Jane. Jane looked at me. The Fed inched his chair away from a cat box.

  The beatniks walked out oozing boredom. The Commie Commissar harumphed.

  Sol, eyes on Jane: “I’m, uh, thinking of making a picture about that killer that’s strangling those kids up on the Strip, you know, the West Hollywood Whipcord. I want to show him as a…uh…out-of-work union guy who got fucked—I mean loused up by corrupt management practices. And…uh…when the cops shoot him, he’s gonna decry the corruption of the system while he spits blood and repents. It’s gonna be like Picket Line! I’m gonna show good and bad on both sides of
the fence. I might even go the whole hog and have a Negro cop! See, this schvartze gas station attendant I know has taken some acting classes. I think I could do good business with this picture and do some social good to boot. I think I’ll call it Sunset Strip Strangler!”

  Sol looked at Jane.

  Jane looked at me.

  The Fed looked at Sol.

  The Boss Pinko said, “Mr. Contino, you’re acquainted with the dark side of the police experience. Would you care to offer comments?”

  “Yeah. I agree with everything Jane said.”

  Jane threw me a swoon. Sol muttered, “Goyische prick”—I barely caught it. Mr. Commissar sighed. “Sometimes I think I’m running a lonely hearts club. And on that note, let’s call it a night. We’ll have coffee at the usual place, and I’ll do my best to upgrade the conversation.”

  * * *

  —

  We hit Truman’s Drive-In and commandeered a booth. Sol slid in next to Jane; I sandwiched her from the flip side.

  The Fed and the Red sat buddy-buddy close. Jane pressed into me—her nylons went scree-scree.

  I signalled a waitress—coffee all-around.

  The Fed said, “My name’s Mitch Rachlis.”

  Introductons flew quick—the Commie tagged himself Mort Jastrow. I ditzed Rachlis: “You look familiar, Mitch.”

  Smart fucker: “My wife’s a fan of yours. We caught you at the El Rancho Vegas way back when, and a couple of times at the Flamingo lounge. We always sit up close, so maybe that’s why I look familiar.”

  Smart fucker/good improvisor.

  Sol moved on Jane. “Have you ever considered a career in motion pictures?”

  Jane scrunched my way. “I’m keeping that option open. In fact, right now I’ve narrowed my career choices down to doctor, lawyer or movie star.”

  “I could help you. If Sunset Strip Strangler! floats, you could play one of the victims. Can you sing?”

  “I certainly can. In fact, that’s my fourth career option: recording star.”

  “Sweetie, that’s wonderful. See, I could cast you as a nightclub songstress that attracts men like flies on sh—I mean like moths to the flame. The West Hollywood Whipcord gets a big boner—I mean a big thing going for you, and you get to perform a few numbers to showcase your singing skills.”

  Mitch Rachlis butted in. “What are you working on now, Mr. Slotnick?”

  “A picture called Wetback! It blows the lid off the treatment of migrant fruit pickers. It’s gonna stir up a load of shit—I mean controversy, and establish me as a producer of socially conscious pictures that deliver a message but don’t fuck with—I mean sacrifice a good story in the process. Sweetie, write your number down for me. I might need to call you soon for an audition.”

  Jane complied—twice. One napkin slip went to Sol; one snaked into my pants pocket. Jane’s hand/my thigh—oooh, daddy!

  Mitch the Fed looked at Sol—stone puzzled. Mort the Red scoped the whole group—stone disgusted.

  Janie pressed up to me. “We should get together. I’d love to hear about your political struggle and what it’s like to play the accordion.”

  “Sure, I’d like that,” came out hoarse—our leg to leg action crossed the line.

  The Fed said, “See you all next week,” and hotfooted it. Jane lit a cigarette—Miss Teen Sophisticate, 1958. I checked the window—and spotted Rachlis outside by the pay phones.

  Janie smiled—teen steam wilted my pompadour. I put a dollar on the table, mumbled good nights and split.

  The parking lot spread out behind the phone bank. Rachlis stood in an open booth, his back to me. I eased by just inside earshot.

  “…and of all people, Dick Contino was at the meeting.”

  “…the whole thing wasn’t exactly what you’d call subversive.”

  “…no, I don’t think Contino made me…yeah, right, I was there at his trial.”

  “…yes, sir…yes, sir…Slotnick is the one we’re interested in. Yes, that wetback movie does sound pro-Communist…yes, sir, I’ll…”

  I walked down Wilshire, relieved: Joe Fed wasn’t after Jane—or me. Then guilt goosed me: this extortion gig felt like a blight on my marriage. Another phone bank by the bus stop—I called Chrissy.

  Her service answered: “Miss Staples will be spending the night at OL-24364.”

  My number. Chris probably called Leigh and asked to sleep over—that car probably tailed her again.

  Shit—no kidnap scheme/extortion scheme confidante.

  A directory by the phone. I looked up Truman’s, dialed the number and paged trouble.

  Jane came on. “Hello?”

  “This is Dick. Would you like to have dinner tomorrow night?”

  “Oh, yes! Yes, I would!”

  Please God: protect me from this Teenage Temptress—

  7.

  The mail arrived early. I went through it on the sly—half expecting notes from the dangerous DePughs. Irrational: I only met them yesterday.

  Leigh was still asleep; Chrissy sawed wood on the couch. She confirmed it last night: the light-colored sports car tailed her again—and she thought the driver was wearing a Halloween mask. I insisted: you’re our guest until this bullshit resolves. Her DePugh Dilemma advice: warn Sol Slotnick on the Feds and let Jane down easy. Buy her dinner, be her pal—but no wanka-wanka. PROTECT OUR RELATIONSHIP WITH DAD AND OUR BOSS KIDNAP CAPER.

  Bills, Accordion Quarterly Magazine. A letter to Miss Christine Staples, no return address on the envelope.

  Waa! Waa!—baby Merri back in her bedroom.

  Chrissy stirred and yawned. I said, “There’s a letter here for you.”

  “That’s odd, because nobody knows I’ve been staying here on and off.”

  I tossed the envelope over; Chris opened it and pulled a sheet of paper out. Instant heebie-jeebies—she trembled like Jell-O with the DT’s.

  I grabbed it—one yellow legal pad page.

  Swastika decals circling the borders—model airplane stuff. Glued-on newspaper letters: “I WANT TO FUCK YOU TO DEATH.”

  My brain zipped:

  Dot Rothstein or ???? The tail car, temp license 1116—who? The tail car geek might have followed Chris here and glommed the address—but why send a letter here? The fiend might have seen Chris and I on “Rocket to Stardom”; he could have bagged my address from the phone book. Longshot: he could have resumed his tail after I chased him that first night Chrissy slept here.

  Chris reached for her cigarettes; a half dozen match swipes got one lit. I said, “I’ll take this to the cops. We’ll get you some proper protection.”

  “No! We can’t! It’ll screw the kidnap thing up if we’ve got cops nosing around!”

  “Sssh. Don’t wake Leigh up. And don’t mention the kidnap gig when she might hear you.”

  Chris spoke soto voce. “Talk to Bob Yeakel about checking with his DMV people on the license again. Maybe we can get a name that way, and turn it over to Dave DePugh. Then maybe he can lean on the guy to make him stop. I don’t think this is Dot Rothstein, because I don’t think she could squeeze into a sports car.”

  “I’ll talk to Bob. And you’re right, this isn’t Dot’s style.”

  Chris stubbed her cigarette out. Shaky hands—the ashtray jittered and spilled butts. “And ask Bob to give us some time off. Remember, he said he’d cut you loose on your second show if you helped out with those repossessions.”

  I nodded. Leigh walked in cinching her robe; Chris held her mash note up show-and-tell style. My stoic wife: “Dick, go to your father’s house and get his shotguns. I’ll call Nancy and Kay and have them bring some ordnance over.”

  * * *

  —

  My dad kicked loose two .12 gauge pumps. I called Bob Yeakel and batted 500: yes, Chris and I could have a few more days off; no, his DMV contact was out of
town—there was no way he could initiate a license check. I buzzed Dave DePugh’s office to pitch a kidnap skull session—the fucker was “out in the field.”

  The White Pages listed Sol Slotnick Productions: 7481 Santa Monica Boulevard. I drove out to West Hollywood and found it: a warehouse down the block from Barney’s Beanery.

  I shoved the door open; industrial smells wafted up. Sweat Shop City: rows of garment racks, sewing machines and pressers. Signs in Spanish posted, easy to translate: “Faster Work Means More Money”; “Mr. Sol Is Your Friend.”

  I yelled—nobody answered.

  Cramped—I scissor-walked to the back. Three Border Patrol cars stood on blocks; a nightclub set stood on a platform: bar, tables, dancefloor.

  Homey: sleeping bag, portable TV Foodstuffs on the bar: crackers, Cheez Whiz, canned soup.

  “Yeah, yeah, I live here. And now that you have witnessed this ignominy, state your business.”

  Sol Slotnick, popping through bead curtains in a bathrobe.

  “I also swiped this robe from the Fountainbleu Hotel in Miami Beach. Contino, what is this? First you steal Jane DePugh’s heart, and now you come to torment me?”

  Why mince words?

  “I’m happily married, and I’ve got no interest in Jane. I was sent in to pull her out of that Commie group before she hurts herself. You should get out, too. There’s an FBI plant in the group, and he’s interested in you. The local FBI’s got some bee in its bonnet that Wetback! is pro-Red.”

  Sol grabbed a bar stool and steadied himself. Rainbow time: he went pale, then flushed bright-red. Lunch time: he wolfed a stack of saltines and Cheez Whiz.

  His color stablizied. A belch, a smile—this clown digested grief fast. “I’ll survive. I’ll shift gears like when I lost my backing for Tank Squadron! and doctored the script into Picket Line! Besides, I just joined that fakoktah group to chase trim. I saw Jane on the Street up by UCLA and followed her to my first meeting. You know, I think I want to marry her as well as drill her. I’m forty-nine years old, and I’ve had three heart attacks, but I think a young cooze like that could add another twenty years to my lifespan. I think this is one Jew she could seriously re-JEWvinate. I could make her a star, then trade her in for some younger poon before she starts cheating on me with handsome young greaseballs like you. Contino, tell me, do you think she’d consent to a nude screen test?”