"She's in jail, for Christ's sake!"
"Where? And why?"
"Los Angeles. For drunken driving. She was in some kind of little accident, nobody hurt, thank God, but they hauled her in and gave her the test, and she didn't pass."
"What do you want me to do?"
"I don't know. Go to LA and see what you can do about it."
"I'll call you from Los Angeles," said Bat.
6
Jo-Ann, her face flushed and her eyes puffy from crying, sat behind a screen of wire mesh. She wore the gray cotton uniform of Sybil Brand Institute, the Los Angeles County women's jail.
"It's just three days," said Bat. "That's the mandatory minimum sentence for operating under the influence, and there was no getting you out of it. So ... Thursday, Friday, and Saturday."
"So goddamned humiliating," she sobbed.
"We've posted a bond that allows you to drive, though your license is technically under suspension for one year. You don't know how lucky you are. You might have killed yourself. Or someone else."
"I might have been better off."
"Forget that kind of talk."
"Have you talked to Ben?" she asked.
"Yes."
"He hasn't come to see me."
"He can't. You're allowed to see family members and lawyers, no one else. We could get an exception, but you'll be out of here before it would come through."
"I don't want him to see me in here anyway."
"Now, I've got something else to tell you. I've checked you into the Sunset Hills Clinic. I'll pick you up when you're released and take you there."
"A drying-out clinic," said Jo-Ann despondently. "I don't ... want to go there. I'll be locked up as much as I am here."
"If you don't go, our father will cut off your allowance."
She sobbed. "The goddamned allowance! Always the goddamned allowance! I have to do what he says, no matter what, to keep the goddamned allowance! And you have to do whatever he says to keep your goddamned job. You think you're independent of him? No more than I am, big brother. Nobody's independent of Jonas. How long do I have to stay in that place?"
"At the end of the month they'll evaluate your case."
She blew a loud sigh. "You drink. He drinks. Why do I have to be warehoused in a psycho ward because I drink?"
"I don't have to tell you why. You know why."
"And when I get out, how different is anything going to be?"
"When you get out, I'm going to give you a job with Cord Productions."
"He won't let you."
"I'm going to do it whether he likes it or not."
7
Glenda sat down on the bed in the room Ben Parrish had rented in the Golden Evenings Motel. She had come off the set half an hour before and was still tense and sweaty.
"So, let me see this notorious tool of yours," she said.
Without hesitation Ben unzipped his fly and pulled out his penis.
"Oi!" she cried. "The biggest one in California, right?"
Ben smiled. He let it hang out, making no move to put it back inside his pants. "Well, I haven't seen all the others in California, have you?"
"No. Only about half of them," she said.
"Have you ever seen another one that would rival it?"
"You're proud of it, aren't you?" Glenda asked.
He seized his penis and pulled it out even more. It was thick, as well as long, with prominent blue veins showing under the skin. He lifted it in the palm of his hand. "Girls ask me to show it to them, even if they don't want it."
"Do you show it to them?"
"Once in a while."
Glenda began to undress. "That's grotesque," she said.
He undressed with her. "The one thing it can't stand is unemployment."
"And your girlfriend's shut up in a psychiatric clinic."
"She asked for what you might call a conjugal visit. They said no, only if we were married. She's angry and frustrated, but she signed herself in and can't get out. Bat took care of Jo-Ann. He doesn't seem to be taking care of you."
"When he came out here to make the arrangements for her, he called me, but he couldn't spare an hour to see me."
She was naked now. So was he. He stood facing her. She reached up and touched his mammoth penis, then tipped her head to beckon him to sit down beside her. He sat down and began to fondle her breasts.
"We're gonna have a good time," Glenda said softly. "We don't need the Cords. We're gonna have a good time!"
"Damn right we are," he said. "A good time. Both of us have been screwed by the Cords — more ways than one."
"Anybody's been screwed by you's been screwed," she said, squeezing him gently to be sure he was rigid and ready. "So, c'mon. Make me the envy of every girl in California."
He kissed her on the neck and ran his hands over her body one more time. He nodded. " 'Kay," he grunted.
Glenda scooted across the bed, lay down on her back, and spread her legs. He mounted her and slowly shoved his oversized organ into her until she groaned in protest. He pulled back a little but then began strokes, each one invading her a little more deeply. She moaned and whimpered — but only softly — and he continued until his belly touched hers and all of him was inside her. He was gentle. He had to be. And he didn't take long. By the time she decided he was hurting her too much, he was finished.
"My god, Ben!" She pressed both her hands to her crotch. She gleamed with sweat. "Like I said, a girl who's been screwed by you has been screwed."
"You're bein' screwed more ways than one," said Ben. His thoughts had remained on what he had been saying before she called on him to perform. "You know somethin', kid. You are Cord Productions. You're the only successful show they've got. When the time comes for contract renewal, you ought to hold them up for a bundle."
"The thought has occurred to me," she said.
"The show was an experiment, a gamble," said Ben. "But you're a hot property right now. But showbiz is fickle, as I don't have to tell you, and you should make every dime you can while you can."
22
1
THE AIRPORT JUST ACROSS THE ARIZONA LINE SOUTH OF Las Vegas where Jonas had landed in 1951 when he was ducking subpoenas was still there and was still used the same way. A sleek, fast private plane landed about noon.
The first man off the plane was Carlo Vulcano, capo of the Vulcano Family that controlled Cleveland's East Side. Wizened and white-haired, he was of medium height, but he looked short because he walked with his shoulders hunched and his head thrust forward. His suspenders held his trousers up almost to his armpits, and he carried a white handkerchief in his left hand, which he pressed to his mouth from time to time because he drooled.
Next was John Stefano, underboss of Detroit's Cosenza Family. He was a swarthy, dark-haired man with shifting brown eyes, about fifty years old. He paused just outside the airplane to light a big cigar.
Morris Chandler was waiting on the tarmac. He strode forward to greet Vulcano and Stefano. Jimmy Hoffa, cocky, happy, and wearing a big grin, passed him and reached Vulcano first.
The four men walked to the private club in the house at the end of the ramp. They sat down in solid maple chairs at one of the tables covered with a red-and-white-checkered tablecloth. Stefano reinforced the fire in his cigar by holding it in the flame of the candle stuck in a Chianti bottle.
"Not a bad place," said Vulcano, glancing around the dining room. "Are those girls hookers?"