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 9/18/51” 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.”