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.