Hollywood Nocturnes Page 7
Rabid dog stage-daddy—whoa!
“We want—”
I said, “Dave, I’ll call you,” and hung up. Sol was taking his bennie-jacked pulse—at 209 when I walked over.
“Can you stand some more excitement?”
“Just barely. The way Jane re-wrote that love scene is gonna get us Auschwitz’d by the Legion of Decency.”
I whispered. “I’m getting kidnapped right before we start shooting. It’s a put-up job with some pro muscle working back-up.”
Sol whispered. “I like it, and you can count on me to keep mum. What about Jane as your co-victim? Add cheesecake to beefcake for a real publicity platter.”
“That spot’s already filled.”
“Shit. Why are we whispering?”
“Because amphetamines induce paranoia.”
The warehouse door slid open; two pachucos struck lounging poses. Slit-bottom khakis, Sir Guy shirts—bantamweight punks on the stroll.
“Hey, Mr. Sol. You got trabajo?”
“When we get our movie work? Hey, Mr. Sol, what you got for us?”
Sol flipped. “I’m doing a new picture! No trabajo! No work! Get your green cards and you can play robots in Border Patrol! Amscray! Get out of here, I’m having a heart attack!”
The punks split with middle finger farewells; Sol broke out the saltines, took his pulse and noshed simultaneously. My fair co-star: dozing in a Border Patrol car.
I walked outside for some air. Heralds in a curbside newsrack—“New Whipcord Slayings!” on page one. Photos of the dead couple—the woman looked oddly like Chris Staples.
My bennie jag was wearing down—I stifled a yawn. A carload of pachucos cruised by; one vato eyeballed me mean. I walked back in to give the script a last look.
Sol had a saltine Dagwood going: peanut butter, lox spread, sardines. Jane was scoping her chipped tooth in a compact. I said, “Get your dad to set you up with a good dentist.”
“No. I’ve decided it will be my trademark. Dick, we were so close when that car hit us. We were so close that you couldn’t have refused me.”
Sol sprayed cracker crumbs. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Noise: front door scrapes, a bottle breaking. Then KAAAWHOOOOOOSH—fire eating sewing machines, garment racks, air.
Rushing at us, oxygen fed—
Sol grabbed his Cheez Whiz and ran. Jane’s knees went; I picked her up and stumbled toward the back exit. Big time heat behind us—I caught an over-the-shoulder glimpse of mannequins sizzling.
Sol hit the exit door—cool air, sunshine. Jane moaned in my arms and actually smiled. I risked a look back—flames torched the Border Patrol cars.
BOOM—an air clap hit me. Jane and I went topsy-turvy airborne.
* * *
—
A dim voice:
“…yeah, and we held it back from the press. Right…we had an eyeball witness on the last Whipcord snuffs. No, he only saw the killer’s vehicle. No license numbers, but the guy got away in a ’53 Buick Skylark, light in color. Yeah, needle in a haystack stuff…there’s probably six thousand of the fuckers registered in California. Yeah, right, I’ll call you—”
Bench slats raked my back. Not so dim: a phone slammed receiver to cradle. My eyes fluttered open behind a huge headache—a police squadroom came into focus.
A cop said, “You’re supposed to say, ‘Where am I?’ ”
Lightish ’53 Skylark/Whipcord vehicle/Chrissy.
I said, “Did the eyewitness say the car had a temporary license?”
Quick on the uptake: “No, the witness didn’t specify, and temp licenses only account for eight percent of all registered vehicles, so I’d call it a longshot that’s none of your business. Now, you’re supposed to say, ‘How did I get here’ and ‘Where’s the redhead that I was passed out with.’ ”
My head throbbed. My bones ached. My lungs belched up a smoke aftertaste. “Okay, I’ll bite.”
Fat Joe Plainclothes smiled. “You’re at the West Hollywood Sheriff’s Substation. You may not recall it, but you refused medical help at the arson scene and signed autographs for the ambulance attendants. The driver asked you to play ‘Lady of Spain,’ and you passed out again walking to your car to get your accordion. Sol Slotnick is in stable condition at the cardiac ward at Queen of Angels, and the redhead’s father picked her up and drove her home. There’s an APB out for the spics that tossed the Molotov, and Mr. DePugh left you a note.”
I reached out woozy; the cop forked a memo slip over.
“Dick—the bar at the Luau tonight at eight. There’s some boys I want you to meet. P.S.—Slotnick got the script pages out, so we’re still on schedule. PPS.—what happened to Janie’s tooth?”
Woozy—weak legs, hand tremors. The cop said, “Your car’s in the back lot with the keys under the mat. Go home.”
I woozy-legged it outside. Clear, smogless, so bright my eyes stung. Soot hung in the eastbound air—R.I.P., Sol Slotnick Productions.
* * *
—
Leigh was waiting on the Fort Contino porch. Armed: a .45 in her belt, a black & white glossy held up.
Jane DePugh and I—passed out entwined behind Sol Slotnick’s sweat shop.
“Marty Bendish from the Times brought this by. He owes Bob Yeakel a favor, so it won’t be printed. Now, will you explain your behavior for the past week or so?”
I did.
Chrissy, Bud Brown, scalps, redskin fall guys—publicity kidnap extroardinaire. Dave DePugh and horny daughter extrication; the People’s Collective/Sol Slotnick/Border Patrol! The off-chance that the tail car man and Whipcord were one; DePugh as the new kidnap mastermind.
Leigh said, “When you get out of prison I’ll be waiting.”
“That won’t happen.”
“My mother said Italians were all suckers for big gestures, which is why they wrote such great operas.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t act disingenuous and don’t look so handsome, or I’ll try to talk you out of it. And don’t let that chipped-toothed vixen french kiss you during your love scenes, or I will fucking kill you both.”
Anchovy pizza on Leigh’s breath—I kissed her long and hard anyway.
9.
“This is my daughter’s movie debut, so I want a good deal of publicity surrounding it. You need men with no police records to play the kidnappers, in case any eyewitnesses get called in to look at mugshots, but they’ve got to be real hard boys who can act the parts convincingly. Now, check these guys out. Are they not the stuff criminal nightmares are made of?”
Introducing:
Fritz Shoftel—blond, crew-cut, fireplug-thick Teamster thug. Wire-rimmed glasses, acne scars, six extra knuckles minimum per hand. Pop/pop/pop—he stretched a few digits to show me they worked. Loud—a man in the adjoining booth winced.
Pat Marichal—dark-skinned Paraguayan beanpole with a stark resemblance to the morgue pic of Chief Joe Running Car. A smiler—tiki table torch light made his too-bright dentures gleam.
I said, “I’m impressed. But Slotnick’s Border Patrol cars got fried, so I’m not entirely sure there’s going to be a movie.”
DePugh sipped his Mai-Tai. “I have faith in Sol. Any man that can eat cheese dip in the middle of a heart attack is resourceful.”
Shoftel stretched his fingers. “I studied acting under Stella Adler. My kidnapper’s motivation is that he’s a rape-o. I’ll maul the Staples babe a little bit for verisimilitude’s sake, you know, give her a few hickeys.”
Marichal chewed the fruit out of his Zombie. Those teeth—fucking incandescent. “I was a contract Indian at Universal until I got my Teamster card. My motivation’s a hatred of the white man. I drop a load of redskin grievance shit on you and Chris while I get ready to scalp you. You grab my tomahawk and slice me, then make your geta
way. When you bring the cops back to the shack, they’ll see those scalps from those unsolved snuffs back in ’46. See, Fritzie’s the guy with the ransom-sex perv motives, and I’m the out-of-control guy that fucks this genius plan up.”
I said, “Who do you hit up for the ransom?”
DePugh: “Sol, and Charlie Morrison, the owner of the Mocambo. You see, Dick, I’m a cop, and I know what all cops know: that kidnappers are brainless scum who don’t know shit from Shinola. You and Chris are not exactly big name kidnap bait, and Morrison and Sol wouldn’t lift a finger to save you. This crime has to reek of vicious incompetence, and Fritz and Pat are two guys who know how to play the part.”
Shoftel said, “My parents abused me when I was a kid, so that’s why I’m a rapist.”
Marichal said, “The white eyes stole my people’s land and got me hooked on fire water. I need scalps to sate my blood lust and the ransom money to set up an Indian curio shop outside Bisbee, Arizona.”
DePugh tiki-torched a cigar. “We do the snatch in broad daylight outside your house. Pat and Fritz will haul you and Chris out to a mud-smeared Chevy, then transfer you to another car and drive you to Griffith Park. Fritz will call Sol with the first ransom demand, and Sol will haul ass to the Hollywood Police Station. You said that Getchell guy gets first crack at the story, and you said he hangs out at the Hollywood Station chasing tips. Okay, he’ll be there and overhear Sol tell the cops about the ransom demand. These are solid embellishments, and we’ve got time to set things up right, because we can’t move until Sol gets financing for the movie and it’s ready to shoot.”
Fiends by torchlight: rape-o/scalper/stage-door dad/rogue accordionist. We shook hands all around—Shoftel’s knuckles popped castanet-loud.
* * *
—
I went by Queen of Angels to see Sol.
A clerk told me he’d checked out against doctor’s advice. His forwarding address: Pink’s Hot Dogs, Melrose and La Brea.
I doubled back west. Pink’s was SRO—feed lines counter to curb. Sol hogged a pay phone and table at the rear—spritzing with one eye on a row of half-gnawed wienies.
Spritzing: “I’m not wedded to Border Patrol! at the expense of your script, and I can get you Contino for an even grand!”
Spraying: sauerkraut strands, french fry morsels.
His color rose and fell; his medic-alert bracelet jangled. “Elmer, all right, your girlfriend can co-star. Yes, Elmer, I’ll relinquish my producer’s credit for a profit percentage! Listen, there’s a publicity angle rigged to Contino’s participation that I can’t reveal the details of, but believe me, it’s a doozie!”
Hot dog meat flew.
A pickle chunk hit a babe in a low-backed sweater; the mid-spine bulls-eye made her go, “EEEK!”
Sol saw me and smothered the phone to his chest. “Border Patrol! is now Daddy-O.”
10.
Genealogies:
Wetback! into Border Patrol! into Daddy-O. Pedro into Big Pete into Phil “Daddy-O” Sandifer: truck driver/singer/romantic lead. Maria Martinez to Maggie Martell to Jana Ryan; Jane DePugh to Sandra Giles—pitch-girl for Mark C. Bloome Tires, semi-regular on Tom Duggan’s TV gabfest.
Jane gave up her “Movie Star” option and switched her major to pre-law—“So I can be more like my dad.” She sent me a farewell gift: her chipped tooth enshrined in a locket.
Dave DePugh continued to boss the kidnap plot—“Hollywood publicist might be a shrewd career switch.”
Pat Marichal and Fritz Shoftel stayed on-board—Sol Slotnick promised them SAG cards if the scheme succeeded.
Ten days raced by.
Chris, Kay, and Nancy continued to bunk at Fort Contino.
Bob Yeakel sent Pizza De-Luxe over with daily injections of grease.
Chrissy seduced pizza boy Ramon.
Ramon renounced his homosexuality.
Ramon told Kay he had to pretend Chris was a man.
Yeakel double delivered: some DMV flunky was collating license slips. Leigh was helping him out—she wanted the Chrissy problem resolved and the Fort Contino red alert suspended.
No more “Fuck You To Death” notes arrived.
No cars tailed Chris on her out-of-fort journeys. My journeys ditto—no suspicious vehicles, period.
I spilled my insider lead to Nancy and Chris: the West Hollywood Whipcord drove a light-colored ’53 Skylark. Crime Queen Nancy cut me off short: the Whipcord only snuffed couples; single-o women and hate notes weren’t his MO.
“Sex killers never change their modus operandi. I’ve been intimate with enough of them to know that’s true.”
Sol Slotnick found a pad down the street from Pink’s and secured his Daddy-O financing via high-interest loan from Johnny Stompanato. Stomp said he’d use his pay-back cash to market a new woman’s tonic—a Spanish fly compound guaranteed to induce instant and permanent nymphomania.
Chris and I joined Pat and Fritz for acting practice. Both men were “Motivation” obsessed. Fritz picked up a lightweight case of paranoia—sometimes he imagined a primer-gray sports car tailing him. Practice, dress rehearsals—waiting for a Daddy-O GO date.
Schizo days.
I rehearsed with the Scalper and the Rapist; I rehearsed with the Daddy-O director, Lou Place. David Moessinger’s Daddy-O script replaced Border Patrol!—it was tighter, but lacked political punch. Sol rescued his nightclub set from sweat shop rubble—it would serve as both the “Rainbow Gardens” and “Sidney Chillis’ Hi-Note”—major Daddy-O venues. The new screenplay called for me to sing—I learned “Rock Candy Baby,” “Angel Act” and “Wait’ll I Get You Home” pronto. My Daddy-O co-stars—Sandra Giles, Bruno VeSota, Ron McNeil, Jack McClure, Sonia Torgesen—were swell, but Scalp Man and Rape Man claimed my soul.
We’d hike up into the Griffith Park hills and bullshit. Pat Marichal brought fire water—he was working the “Method” on his Chief Joe Running Car persona. A few shots, a few yuks. Then the inevitable segue to the topic of courage.
My best take: you never knew when it was real or just moonshine to impress other people.
Pat’s best take: you know when you’re scared, but do what you’re scared of anyway—nobody else can ever know.
Fritzie’s best take: give the world what it respects to get you what you want, and keep close watch on your balls when nobody’s looking.
Time schizzing by—this fine L.A. winter fading out breezy.
Sol called and hit the brakes: Daddy-O was set to go four days hence.
The word flashed:
Mastermind/Scalper/Rapist to Victims—forty-eight hours until kidnap morning.
11.
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.
Leigh left for the DMV early.
Nancy and Kay left with her—baby Merri ditto.
Tick tick tick tick tick.
Chris and I watched the door.
Tick tick tick—my pulse worked triple-digit overtime. Chrissy’s neck veins pop-pop-popped—every cigarette drag made them throb.
8:00 even—the doorbell.
“Hello? Is anyone home? My car’s broken down, and I need to call the Auto Club.”
Good neighbor Dick opens up.
Two men in stocking masks sap him prone. He’s grabbed and hauled outside, good neighbor Chris likewise—she gets off her muffled scream right on cue.
Manhandled across the street—Stanislavsky Method tough. Weird: no mud-smeared Chevy in view.
More weird:
I made Pat Marichal through his mask. Nix on the other man—he was half a foot taller than Fritz Shoftel.
Slammed into a copper-colored sport coupe. Skewed glimpses: “Skylark” in longhand chrome, a spanking new metal license plate. My shoulder rubbed the door—paint smeared—a primer-gray spot showed through.
The car MOVED—Chris and I
backseat-tangled—Pat driving.
The other man held a cocked Roscoe on us.
Down into Hollywood, speed limit cautious. Pat spoke out of character. “This is Duane. Fritz had an appendicitis and sent him in as a sub. He says he’s solid.”
Blip: Fritz said he’d been tailed by a primer-gray car.
Blip: Skylark/fresh paint/new permanent license.
Blip: tails on Chrissy.
Blip: light-colored and primer-gray = similar.
Chris shook from plain tension—she didn’t waft hink. The other man spoke in character. “Baby, you look so gooooooooooood. Baby, It’s gonna be so gooooooooooood.”
Talking stretched his mask. I recognized him: the scarf trick geek from the “Rocket to Stardom” try-outs.
Silk sashes—fashioned into hangman’s knots.
Blip: THE WHIPCORD.
Fountain and Virgil looming—the car switch—our only chance.
Chris, improvising nice: “You’re a filthy degenerate shitbird.”
Whipcord/sash man: “Baby, I want to fuck you to death.”
Neon bright hink—Chris flashed me this big HOLY SHIT!
On-cue—Pat pulled into the deserted Richfield Station.
Off-cue—I kicked the Whipcord’s seat and slammed him against the dashboard.
Go—
Whipcord—stunned. Pat, stunned—this wasn’t in the script. A ’51 Ford by some gas pumps—the transfer/getaway car.
Very very fast:
I kicked the seat again.
Chris tumbled out the passenger door. I got one leg out—and kicked Whipcord with the other.
Chrissy stumbled and fell.