We hit Truman’s Drive-In and commandeered a booth. Sol slid in next to Jane; I sandwiched her from the flip side.
The Fed and the Red sat buddy-buddy close. Jane pressed into me — her nylons went scree-scree.
I signalled a waitress — coffee all-around.
The Fed said, “My name’s Mitch Rachlis.”
Introductons flew quick — the Commie tagged himself Mort jastrow. I ditzed Rachlis: “You look familiar, Mitch.”
Smart fucker: “My wife’s a fan of yours. We caught you at the El Rancho Vegas way back when, and a couple of times at the Flamingo lounge. We always sit up close, so maybe that’s why I look familiar.”
Smart fucker/good improvisor.
Sol moved on Jane. “Have you ever considered a career in motion pictures?”
Jane scrunched my way. “I’m keeping that option open. In fact, right now I’ve narrowed my career choices down to doctor, lawyer or movie star.”
“I could help you. If Sunset Strip Strangler! floats, you could play one of the victims. Can you sing?”
“I certainly can. In fact, that’s my fourth career option: recording star.”
“Sweetie, that’s wonderful. See, I could cast you as a nightclub songstress that attracts men like flies on sh — I mean like moths to the flame. The West Hollywood Whipcord gets a big boner — I mean a big thing going for you, and you get to perform a few numbers to showcase your singing skills.”
Mitch Rachlis butted in. “What are you working on now, Mr. Slotnick?”
“A picture called Wetback! It blows the lid off the treatment of migrant fruit pickers. It’s gonna stir up a load of shit — I mean controversy, and establish me as a producer of socially conscious pictures that deliver a message but don’t fuck with — I mean sacrifice a good story in the process. Sweetie, write your number down for me. I might need to call you soon for an audition.”
Jane complied — twice. One napkin slip went to Sol; one snaked into my pants pocket. Jane’s hand/my thigh — oooh, daddy!
Mitch the Fed looked at Sol — stone puzzled. Mort the Red scoped the whole group — stone disgusted.
Janie pressed up to me. “We should get together. I’d love to hear about your political struggle and what it’s like to play the accordion.”
“Sure, I’d like that,” came out hoarse — our leg to leg action crossed the line.
The Fed said, “See you all next week,” and hotfooted it. Jane lit a cigarette — Miss Teen Sophisticate, 1958. I checked the window — and spotted Rachlis outside by the pay phones.
Janie smiled — teen steam wilted my pompadour. I put a dollar on the table, mumbled good nights and split.
The parking lot spread out behind the phone bank. Rachlis stood in an open booth, his back to me. I eased by just inside earshot.
“... and of all people, Dick Contino was at the meeting.”
“... the whole thing wasn’t exactly what you’d call subversive.”
“... no, I don’t think Contino made me... yeah, right, I was there at his trial.”
“... yes, sir... yes, sir... Slotnick is the one we’re interested in. Yes, that wetback movie does sound pro-Communist... yes, sir, I’ll...”
I walked down Wilshire, relieved: Joe Fed wasn’t after Jane — or me. Then guilt goosed me: this extortion gig felt like a blight on my marriage. Another phone bank by the bus stop — I called Chrissy.
Her service answered: “Miss Staples will be spending the night at OL-24364.”
My number. Chris probably called Leigh and asked to sleep over — that car probably tailed her again.
Shit — no kidnap scheme/extortion scheme confidante.
A directory by the phone. I looked up Truman’s, dialed the number and paged trouble.
Jane came on. “Hello?”
“This is Dick. Would you like to have dinner tomorrow night?”
“Oh, yes! Yes, I would!”
Please God: protect me from this Teenage Temptress—
7.
The mail arrived early. I went through it on the sly — half expecting notes from the dangerous DePughs. Irrationaclass="underline" I only met them yesterday.
Leigh was still asleep; Chrissy sawed wood on the couch. She confirmed it last night: the light-colored sports car tailed her again — and she thought the driver was wearing a Halloween mask. I insisted: you’re our guest until this bullshit resolves. Her DePugh Dilemma advice: warn Sol Slotnick on the Feds and let Jane down easy. Buy her dinner, be her pal — but no wanka-wanka. PROTECT OUR RELATIONSHIP WITH DAD AND OUR BOSS KIDNAP CAPER.
Bills, Accordion Quarterly Magazine. A letter to Miss Christine Staples, no return address on the envelope.
Waa! Waa! — baby Merri back in her bedroom.
Chrissy stirred and yawned. I said, “There’s a letter here for you.”
“That’s odd, because nobody knows I’ve been staying here on and off.”
I tossed the envelope over; Chris opened it and pulled a sheet of paper out. Instant heebie-jeebies — she trembled like Jell-O with the DT’s.
I grabbed it — one yellow legal pad page.
Swastika decals circling the borders — model airplane stuff. Glued-on newspaper letters: “I WANT TO FUCK YOU TO DEATH.”
My brain zipped:
Dot Rothstein or???? The tail car, temp license 1116 — who? The tail car geek might have followed Chris here and glommed the address — but why send a letter here? The fiend might have seen Chris and I on “Rocket to Stardom”; he could have bagged my address from the phone book. Longshot: he could have resumed his tail after I chased him that first night Chrissy slept here.
Chris reached for her cigarettes; a half dozen match swipes got one lit. I said, “I’ll take this to the cops. We’ll get you some proper protection.”
“No! We can’t! It’ll screw the kidnap thing up if we’ve got cops nosing around!”
“Sssh. Don’t wake Leigh up. And don’t mention the kidnap gig when she might hear you.”
Chris spoke soto voce. “Talk to Bob Yeakel about checking with his DMV people on the license again. Maybe we can get a name that way, and turn it over to Dave DePugh. Then maybe he can lean on the guy to make him stop. I don’t think this is Dot Rothstein, because I don’t think she could squeeze into a sports car.”
“I’ll talk to Bob. And you’re right, this isn’t Dot’s style.”
Chris stubbed her cigarette out. Shaky hands — the ashtray jittered and spilled butts. “And ask Bob to give us some time off. Remember, he said he’d cut you loose on your second show if you helped out with those repossessions.”
I nodded. Leigh walked in cinching her robe; Chris held her mash note up show-and-tell style. My stoic wife: “Dick, go to your father’s house and get his shotguns. I’ll call Nancy and Kay and have them bring some ordnance over.”
My dad kicked loose two .12 gauge pumps. I called Bob Yeakel and batted 500: yes, Chris and I could have a few more days off; no, his DMV contact was out of town — there was no way he could initiate a license check. I buzzed Dave DePugh’s office to pitch a kidnap skull session — the fucker was “out in the field.”
The White Pages listed Sol Slotnick Productions: 7481 Santa Monica Boulevard. I drove out to West Hollywood and found it: a warehouse down the block from Barney’s Beanery.
I shoved the door open; industrial smells wafted up. Sweat Shop City: rows of garment racks, sewing machines and pressers. Signs in Spanish posted, easy to translate: “Faster Work Means More Money”; “Mr. Sol Is Your Friend.”