Hollywood Nocturnes (4 page)

  Nancy, Kay and Leigh screened "Rocket to Stardom" applicants--I wanted to weed out the more egregious geeks before I began formal auditions. Bob Yeakel drooled whenever Chris Staples slinked by--I convinced him to put her on payroll as my assistant. Grateful Chrissy gave Bob a thank-you gift: her _Nugget Magazine_ fold-out preserved via laminated wall plaque.

  My Yeakel run nine days in: a righteous fucking blast.

  Nine days sans "Draft Dodger" jive--some kind of Contino world record.

  We held auditions in a tent behind the lube rack; Bud Brown stood watchdog to keep obvious lunatics out. The girls had compiled a list: forty-odd individuals and acts to be winnowed down to six spots per show

  Our first finalist: an old geezer who sang grand opera. I asked him to belt a few bars of _Pagliacci_; he said that he possessed the world's largest penis. He whipped it out before I could comment-- it was of average length and girth. Chrissy applauded anyway--she said it reminded her of her ex-husband's.

  Bud hustled the old guy out. Pops was gone--but he'd set a certain tone.

  Check this sampling:

  Two roller skating bull terriers--sharklike dogs with plastic fins attached to their backs. Their master was a Lloyd Bridges lookalike--the whole thing was a goof on the TV show "Sea Hunt."

  Nix.

  An off-key woman accordionist who tried to slip me her phone number with Leigh right there.

  Nix.

  A comic with patter on Ike's golf game--epic Snoresville.

  Nix.

  A guy who performed silk scarf tricks. Deft and boring: he cinched sashes into hangman's knots.

  Nix.

  Over two dozen male and female vocalists: flat, screechy, shrill, hoarse--dud Presley and Patti Page would-be's.

  A junkie tenor sax, who nodded out halfway through a flubbednote "Body and Soul." Bud Brown dumped him in a demo car; the fucker woke up convulsing and kicked the windshield out. Chrissy summoned an ambulance; the medics hustled the hophead off.

  I confronted Nancy. She said, "You should have seen the ones that _didn't_ make the cut. I wish the 'West Hollywood Whipcord' had a viable talent--it would be fun to put him on the show"

  Only Nancy found sash cord strangling/bumperjack bashing fiends alluring.

  I braced Bud Brown. "Bud, the show's forty-eight hours off, and we've got nobody."

  "This happens sometimes. When it does, Bob calls Pizza DeLuxe."

  "What--"

  "Ask Bob."

  I walked into Yeakel's office. Bob was eyeballing his wall plaque: Miss Nugget, June '54.

  "What's Pizza De-Luxe?"

  "Are your auditions going _that_ bad?"

  "I'm thinking of calling those roller skating dogs back. Bob, what's--"

  "Pizza De-Luxe is a prostitution racket. An ex-Jack Dragna goon who owns a greasy spoon called the Pizza Pad runs it. He delivers pizza 24 hours a day legit, and if you want a girl or a dicey boy on the side, a male or female prostitute will make the delivery. All of the hookers are singers or dancers or Hollywood riff-raff like that, you know, selling some skin to make ends meet until they get their so-called 'big break.' So . . . if I get strapped for decent contestants, I call Pizza De-Luxe. I get some good pizza, some good 'amateur' talent, and my top-selling salesman of the month gets laid."

  I checked the window A transvestite dance team practiced steps by the grease rack--Bud Brown and a cop type shooed them off. I said, "Bob, call Pizza De-Luxe."

  Yeakel blew his wall plaque kisses. "I think Chrissy should win this next show"

  "Chrissy's a professional. She's singing back-up for Buddy GreCo at the Mocambo right now"

  "I know that, but I want to do her a solid. And I'll let you in on a secret: my applause meter's rigged."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah. It's a car battery hooked up to an oscilloscope screen. I've got a foot pedal I tap to goose the needle. I'm sure Chris would like to win--it's a C-note and a free down payment on a snappy new Oldsmobile."

  I laughed. "With debilitating _monthly_ payments?"

  "Normally, yes. But with Chrissy I'm sure we could work something else out."

  "I'll tell her. I'm sure she'll play along, at least as far as the 'free' down payment."

  Bob's phone rang--he picked up, listened, hung up. I scoped the window--Bud Brown and the fuzz type saw me and turned away, nervous.

  Bob said, "I might have a way for you to buy out of your second "Rocket to Stardom" commitment."

  "I'm listening."

  "I've got to think it over first. Dick, I'm going to call Pizza DeLuxe right now. Will you. . ."

  "Talk to Chrissy and tell her she just won an amateur talent contest rigged by this car kingpin who wants to stroke her 'Tail Fins'?"

  "Right. And ask for what she wants on her pizza."

  *   *   *

          Chris was outside the sales shack, smoking.

  I spilled quick. "Bob's bringing in some quasi-pro talent for Sunday's show He wants you to sing a couple of songs. You're guaranteed to win, and he's got mild expectations."

  "If he keeps them mild, he won't be disappointed."

  Smoke rings drifted up--a sure sign that Chrissy was distracted.

  "Something on your mind?"

  "No, just my standard boogie man."

  "I know what you mean, but if you tell me you'll probably feel better."

  Chris flicked her cigarette at a Cutlass demo. "I'm 32, and I'll always earn a living as an entertainer, but I'll never have a hit record. I like men too much to settle down and have a family, and I like myself too much to sell my tush to clowns like Bob Yeakel."

  "And?"

  "And nothing. Except that a car followed me after my Mocambo gig last night. It was scary--like the driver was checking me out for some reason. I think it might be Dot Rothstein. I think she got re-hipped on me after she saw me at your show at the Crescendo."

  "Was she at the Mocambo last night?"

  "Yes. And it's in L.A. _County_ jurisdiction, and she's an L.A. County Deputy Sheriff, which means. . . shit, I don't know. Dick, will you and Leigh come to Buddy's show tonight? Dot knows you're friends with Mickey Cohen, and it might discourage her from making any moves."

  "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 scatman 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, rhinestonestudded 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 breadand-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 weedwafted 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 Army 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