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 spies 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. P.P.S. — 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 getaway. 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.”