Hollywood Nocturnes Read online

  The spritz had me reeling. Sol built a cracker/Cheez Whiz skyscraper and snarfed it. Fishbelly white to red and back again—the spritz hit overdrive. “You know, I’d love to use you in a movie—you and Janie, what a pair of filmic lovebirds you could be. Most of your publicity has been poison, but it’s not like you’re Fatty Arbuckle, banging starlets with Coke bottles. Dick, a wholesome young slice of low-fat cheese like Jane DePugh could ream me, steam me, dry clean me and get me off this B-movie treadmill to Nowheresville that has had me exploiting aggrieved schvartzes and taco benders to glom the cash to make these lox epics that have given me three heart attacks and a spastic colon. Dick, I own this factory. I hired illegal aliens to sew cut-rate garments until the INS nailed me for harboring wetbacks, because I let them sleep here on the premises in exchange for a scant one-half of their pay deducted from their checks. The INS nailed me and fined me and shipped most of my slaves—I mean workers—back to Mexico, so I glommed some Border Patrol cars for buppkis at a police auction and decided to make Wetback! to atone for my exploitation sins and defer the cost of my fine. Now the Feds want to crucify me for my egalitarian tendencies, so I won’t be able to shoot Wetback! I’ve got these Mex prelim boxers lined up to play illegals, but they’re really illegals, so if I shoot the movie, the INS will round them up and put them on the night bus to Tijuana. Dick, all I want to do is make serious movies that explore social issues and turn a profit, and slip the schnitzel to Jane DePugh. Dick, I am at a loss for words. What do you recommend?”

  My head whizzed. I ate a cracker to normalize my blood sugar. Sol Slotnick stared at me.

  I said, “I’ve got a date with Jane tonight, and I’ll put in a good word for you. And I know an FBI man pretty well. I’ll tell him that you’re not making Wetback!, and ask him to pass the word along.”

  “You’re friends with one of J. Edgar Hoover’s minions?”

  “Yeah, Special Agent Pete Van Obst. His wife’s the President of my National Fan Club.”

  “What’s the current membership? We might make a picture together, and statistics like that impress financial backers.”

  “The current membership is sixty-something.”

  “So you add a few zeros and hope they don’t check. Dick, be a gentleman with Jane tonight. Tell her I think she has movie star potential. Tell her you’ve heard rumors that I’m hung like Roy Rogers’ horse Trigger.”

  Dismissal time—Sol looked exhausted. I grabbed a few crackers for the road.

  * * *

  —

  Kay Van Obst brought three .45 autos—FBI issue, “borrowed” from husband Pete. Nancy Ankrum brought a sawed-off loaded with rat poison-dipped buckshot—Caryl Chessman told her where to find one. Add my dad’s .12 gauge pumps and call the pad “Fort Contino”—L.A.’s cut-rate Alamo.

  Ammo boxes on the coffee table.

  Front and back window eyeball surveillance—four women in rotating shifts.

  Four women packing kitchen knives in plastic scabbards—Kay hit a toy store on her way over.

  Time to kill before my “Date”—I took a snooze.

  Ink-smeared dreams:

  COWARD REDEEMED; KIDNAPPERS STILL AT LARGE!

  CONTINO FOILS FIENDS; SAVES BACK-UP SINGER FROM TORTURE AND RAPE!

  L.A. FUZZ NIX PUBLICITY STUNT SPECULATION: “THIS CAPER WAS REAL!”

  Chris held down by salivating psycopaths.

  Cops swarming the kidnap shack.

  Chief William H. Parker holding up scalps.

  CONTINO KIDNAP PLOT REVEALS BIZARRE LINKS TO UNSOLVED MURDERS!!!

  REDSKIN RESERVATIONS RAIDED IN SEARCH FOR KIDNAPPERS!!!

  APACHE CHIEF SAYS, “HEAP BAD BUSINESS! ME SEND UP SMOKE SIGNALS TO TRAP SCALP KILLER!”

  Chris woke me up. “You should get ready. I told Leigh you were jamming with some studio guys, so take your accordion.”

  A last headline flickered out:

  CONTINO CONQUEST CONTINUES! KIDNAP TOPS LINDBERGH SNATCH IN POPULAR POLL!

  * * *

  —

  “I’m sure you must think that I’m just a naive young thing. You must think that any girl who hasn’t narrowed her career choices down any better than doctor, lawyer, movie star or recording star must be rather silly.”

  Jane picked the restaurant: a dago joint off Sunset and Normandie. The Hi-Hat Motel stood cattycorner—“Vacancy” in throbbing neon made me sweat.

  I drank wine. Jane drank ginger ale under protest—feeding minors liquor was a contributing beef.

  “I don’t think you’re silly. When I was nineteen I was a recording star, but I just fell into it. You should finish college and let things happen to you for a while.”

  “You sound like my dad. Only he doesn’t push the ‘let things happen’ part, because he knows that I have the same appetites my mom had when I was her age. I look like my mom, I act like my mom and I talk like my mom. Only my mom married this rookie cop from Sioux Falls, South Dakota, who got her pregnant when she was eighteen, and I’m too smart for that.”

  Scorch/scorch/twinkle—green eyes offset by Chianti bottle candlelight. “Sol Slotnick might fit that ‘let things happen to you’ bill. He likes you, and he’s a legit movie producer who could get you work.”

  Jane futzed with her bread plate. “He’s a lech and a fatty-patty. He followed me to my first collective meeting, so he’s one step up from a wienie wagger. My dad used to drive me around when he was a detective in Sioux Falls. He wanted to show me what I had to look forward to as far as men were concerned. He showed me all the pimps and panty sniffers and winos and wienie waggers and rag sniffers and gigolos that he dealt with, and believe me, Sol Slotnick fits right in. Besides, he has small hands, and my mom told me what that means.”

  I sipped dago red. Jane said, “You have big hands.”

  “Vacancy” throbbed.

  Questions throbbed: Who’s gonna know? Who’s gonna care? Who’s gonna tell?

  Easy—you/you/you—straight across.

  “Jane, Sol’s the kind of guy that makes dreams come true.”

  “Sol Slotnick is a long-distance wrong number. My mom reads Variety, and she said Picket Line! was one of the big low grossing losers of 1951. Sol Slotnick, ick.”

  I dipped some bread in my wine glass and bit off a crust. Jane said, “You’re both earthy and sensitive. You’re politically aware, but not didactic. You’ve been wronged by society, but you’re not a martyr. My mom said that men with ambiguous qualities like that make the best lovers, because they keep you guessing, and that postpones the inevitable letdown of sex getting stale.”

  “Your dad must be quite a guy.”

  Jane giggled. “You mean my dad’s brother Phil. I figured that out because Uncle Phil used to come around a lot when my dad was out of town on extradition assignments, and I got sent to the movies all the time. And, I used to sneak peeks at my mom’s diaphragm, which sure was out of its case a lot when Uncle Phil was around. And you know what? Uncle Phil’s hands were much bigger than my dad’s.”

  I checked out my own mitts. Big—accordion practice gave them their girth.

  A waiter hovered—I signalled him away. Jane laced fingers with me. “Did you ask me out just to shill for Sol Slotnick?”

  “Did you join the Westwood People’s Collective just to chase men?”

  “No fair. You answer first.”

  I pulled my hands free. “I was bored and shopping around for kicks, so I went to the meeting. You looked like kicks, but I’ve decided not to cheat on my wife.”

  Hot potato—Jane winced. “Okay, so I joined the group for the same reason. And you can tell Sol Slotnick that I won’t sleep with him until the twelfth of never, but I will audition and strip down to a bikini if you’ll chaperone me.”

  “I’ll tell him, and I’ll chaperone you. And I’ll warn you now: you should quit going to those
meetings, or your name will end up on some goddamn blacklist that could break your heart.”

  Jane smiled. My heart swelled—just a little.

  “There’s a meeting tomorrow night that I have to go to, because Mort’s going to discuss FBI malfeasance, and I want to get some lines to tease my dad with. Besides, that man with the Beethoven sweatshirt looks cute.”

  “He’s an FBI agent taking names.”

  “Well, then at least my dad will approve of him. My dad’s so right-wing. He thinks that slavery should be reinstated and that streets should be privately owned, so the owners can charge protective tariffs. My mom’s a liberal, because she had a Brazilian lover once. He had really big hands, but he tried to pimp her out to cover some track bets he made, and my mom said ‘No, sir,’ and called a cop.”

  “What did the cop do?”

  “The cop was my dad. He got her pregnant.”

  I called for the check. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

  * * *

  —

  Jane snuggled close in the car. Chanel #5 tickled my nose—I cracked the window for relief. The McGuire Sisters on the radio—I let “Sincerely” wash over me like Jane and I were for real.

  It started drizzling. I hit the wipers and adjusted the rear-view—a car was glued to my back bumper.

  Spooky.

  I punched the gas; the car behind us accelerated.

  Jane slid off my shoulder and into my lap.

  I hung a sharp left, sharp right, sharp left—that car birddogged collision close.

  Jane burrowed into my lap.

  I felt myself responding.

  Left turn, right turn—the steering wheel brushed Jane’s hair. Hands on my zipper—something told me to hit the brakes.

  BAM!—two car bumper-locked pile-up—in the middle of a pissant L.A. side street.

  I quit responding. Jane said, “Shit, I think I chipped a tooth.”

  I got out. French kissing: my Continental Kit and a ’56 De Soto grille.

  ???—no white sports job—???

  I ran back.

  The De Soto driver got out, weak-kneed. Streetlamp glow lit him up good: Danny Getchell, Hush-Hush Magazine.

  “Dick, don’t hit me, I’ve got pictures!”

  I charged him. A flashbulb popped and blinded me—Getchell bought some seconds.

  “The waiter at the restaurant recognized you and called me!”

  My sight came back blurry—I charged and sideswiped a tree.

  “Dick, I’ve got pix of you and the redhead holding hands!”

  A flashbulb popped—I picked myself up seeing stars.

  “I’ve got a shot of you and the twist walking by the Hi-Hat Motel!”

  I charged the voice—“Dick, you can buy out with money or trade out with a story! Don’t you know some queers you can rat?”

  I tripped on a hubcap and went sprawling. Jane yelled, “My dad’s a policeman and a lawyer, you extortionist cocksucker!”

  Flashbulb pop-pop-pop—my whole world went bright white.

  “Dick, your zipper’s down!”

  I flailed on my knees and glimpsed trouser legs. Those legs went spastic—I caught a blurred shot of Jane shoving Getchell.

  Gray flannel up close—I grabbed and yanked. Getchell hit the pavement; Jane smashed his camera on the curb.

  “I dropped the film off, you dumb guinea shitbird!”

  My hands/his neck—made for each other. My voice, surreal to my own ears: “If you tell Leigh, I’ll kill you. I’ve got no money, and the only story I’ve got is too good for you.”

  Choking out raspy: “You bluff. I call.”

  I tightened my grip. Choking out bone dry: “You bluff. I call.”

  Door slams, background voices. Jane said, “Dick, there’s witnesses. My dad says eyewitnesses get killers the death penalty.”

  Getchell, bedrock bone dry: “You bluff. I call.”

  I let go. Getchell hunkered up and ass-scooted away. I pulled him back by the hair and whispered, “I’m working out a fake kidnap thing with some pros. I won’t give you the exclusive, but I’ll give you first crack at my own account.”

  Getchell choked out, “Deal.”

  Jane helped me up. Miss Teen Temptress was snaggle-toothed now.

  8.

  Fort Contino, cabin-fevered up.

  Leigh and Chris practiced knife throws; the “I want to fuck you to death” note corkboard-mounted served as a target. Nancy Ankrum kept her snout stuck in the Herald: the West Hollywood Whipcord hit again. Kay Van Obst on maintenance duty: oiling pistols and shotguns.

  The girls had spent the night—“Barracks Contino.” Bob Yeakel sent a food supply over: a half-dozen Pizza De-Luxe pizzas. A note accompanied them: “Chrissy Dear, be of strong heart. My pal at the DMV goes back to work in a week, and I’ll have him start checking temporary licenses then. Dinner soon? Romanoff’s or Perino’s?”

  Leigh kept me under fisheye surveillance: I came home last night with ripped pants and a mangled car. My excuse: some punks tried to hijack my accordion. Leigh was skeptical. I kept smelling Jane’s shampoo—maybe Alberto VO5, maybe Breck.

  I got Kay alone. “Can you call Pete and deliver sort of a cryptic message? I’ll explain later.”

  “Well…sure.”

  “Tell him to talk to the agent assigned to the Westwood People’s Study Collective. Tell him to tell the agent that I know for a fact that Sol Slotnick is not going to shoot the movie Wetback! Tell Pete that Slotnick is not a Red, he’s just a movie clown trying to make money and get laid.”

  Kay got it straight and grabbed the hall phone; I covered her so Leigh wouldn’t hear. Whispers, whispers—a nudge in my back.

  “Pete said he’ll pass it along, and he said that you’ve got a certain credibility. He said that if the agent isn’t at the meeting tonight, you’ll know he bought your story.”

  Good—some intrigue resolving my way. The doorbell rang—Nancy checked the peephole and opened up smiling.

  Pizza De-Luxe with three piping hot pies. Sizzling cheese and anchovies—unmistakable. Ramon of “Ramon and Johnny” trilled, “Buon Appetite!”

  * * *

  —

  I got lost: lunch by myself, a cruise to the beach, dinner solo. I stewed, I fretted—shakedown Danny Getchell, my ratched-up car. Dave DePugh and Janie, Sol Slotnick, the kidnap—some four-or-five-or-six-horse parlay buzz-bombed my brain. Wires crossed, sputtered and finally made contact—I drove straight to the Westwood Collective and parked with an eye on the door.

  7:58—Sol Slotnick walked in.

  8:01 to 8:06—assorted beatniks walked in.

  8:09—Jane DePugh walked in.

  8:09 to 9:02—no Fed man in sight—Pete Van Obst probably put the fix in.

  9:04—I stationed myself by that door.

  Jane and Sol walked out first; I gathered them up in one big embrace. “Not Wetback!, Border Patrol! You’ve got the cars, and you can hire some non-illegals to play illegals! The movie stars Janie and me, and we can start working on the script tonight! Sol, I pulled the Feds off your ass, so now we can work this deal free and clear!”

  Jane said, “I’ll call my dad and tell him I’ll be home late.”

  Sol said, “Border Patrol!…. Riiiiiiight….”

  * * *

  —

  I zoomed by Googie’s and copped some bennies off Gene the Queen, this transvestite that deals shit from the men’s room. Va va voom!—I chased a handful with coffee and hit Sol’s warehouse hummingbird buzzed.

  Sol and Jane filled their fuel tanks: Maxwell House, double x Benzedrine. Pencils, notebooks, the Wetback! script to work from, go—

  We changed heroic fruit picker Pedro to Big Pete—a Border Patrolman/accordionist hot to foil a Communist band exporting wetbacks to a secret slave labor camp
in the Hollywood Hills. Big Pete is in love with torch singer Maggie Martell, formerly leftist earth mother Maria Martinez. Maggie is being pursued by evil scientist Dr. Bob Kruschev, who’s brainwashing the wetbacks and implanting slogan devices inside their heads. Big Pete/Maggie/Kruschev—a hot love triangle!!! Big Pete serenades illegals from the back of a truck; his accordion lures them into surrender and deportation! Kruschev sends his sloganeering robots into the bracero community, where they spout Commie rebop and corrupt a youth group that Big Pete has been indoctrinating into Americanism. The robots and corrupted youths advance on a Border Patrol station; Big Pete makes an impassioned anti-Red speech that instantly un-corrupts the young pachucos and inspires them to attack their corruptors. The robots are demolished; Dr. Bob Kruschev makes a last-ditch effort to corrupt Maggie with a pinko love potion that makes all Commies and fellow travelers irresistible! Maggie unknowingly drinks the evil brew and puts the make on a roomful of visiting Soviet spies! Big Pete arrives on the scene, lures the spies outside with accordion music and guns them down! The movie ends with a citizenship swear-in: all the wetbacks that fought the Reds are issued green cards!

  We finished the script at 6:00 A.M.—Benzedrine blasted, exultant. Jane called her dad to say she was a movie star—Sol just offered her five hundred scoots to play Maggie Martell.

  I wondered how “Dad” would react.

  Jane cupped a whisper. “Dick, Dad wants to talk to you.”

  I grabbed an extension; Jane hung up. DePugh came on the line. “I approve, Contino. But I want this Slotnick clown to up the payoff to six hundred. Plus: no gratuitous cleavage during her nightclub scenes. Plus: no heavy make-out scenes with you. Plus: I say we tie the kidnapping in to the movie. I say we do it just as the movie starts shooting. I’ve got some Teamster guys to play the kidnappers, and I think you should audition them. Dick, this caper is tied to Janie’s career now, so I want to do this right. We want a realistic abduction backed by eyewitness testimony. We want—”