Hollywood Nocturnes (5 page)

  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, then 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."

  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 pussywhipped 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/S 1" 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."