Джеймс Эллрой - Hollywood Nocturnes

The vehicle: parked by a shoeshine stand at 103 and Avalon. Customized: candy-apple red paint, mink interior, rhinestone-studded mud flaps. Bud said, “Let’s strip the upholstery and make our wives fur stoles” — Sid and I were thinking the same thing.

The team deployed.

I unpacked my accordion and slammed “Lady of Spain” right there. Sid and Bud walked point on Big Dog Lipscomb: across the street, browbeating whores. Someone yelled, “Hey, that’s Dick Contino” — Watts riff-raff engulfed me.

I was pushed off the sidewalk — straight into Big Dog’s coon coach. An aerial snapped; my back hit the hood; I played prostrate and didn’t miss a note.

Look, Mom: no fear.

Foot scrapes, yells — dim intrusions on my reefer reverie. Hands yanked me off the hood — I went eyeball to eyeball with Big Dog Lipscomb.

He swung on me — I blocked the shot with my accordion. Contact: his fist, my keyboard. Sickening cracks: his bones, my bread-and-butter baby.

Big Dog yelped and clutched his hand; some punk kicked him in the balls and picked his pocket. His car keys hit the gutter — with Bud Brown right there.

I was flipped and tossed in the car — Sid Elwell with some mean Judo moves. The sled zoomed — Sid with white knuckles on a mink steering wheel.

Look, Mom: no fear.

We rendezvoused at Teamster Local 1819 — Bud brought the back-up sled. My accordion needed a face-lift — I was too weed-wafted to sweat it.

Sid borrowed tools and stripped the mink upholstery; I signed autographs for goldbricking Teamsters. That lightbulb POP! flickered anew: “Draft dodger thing... gives you something to overcome.” That car chase crowded my brain: temp license 1116, Dot Rothstein after Chrissy or something else?

Bud shmoozed up the Local prez — more information pump than friendly talk. A Teamster begged me to play “Bumble Boogie” — I told him my accordion died. I posed for pix instead — the prez slipped me a Local “Friendship Card.”

“You never can tell, Dick. You might need a real job someday.”

Too true — a wet towel on my hot fearless day.

Noon — I took Sid and Bud to the Pacific Dining Car. We settled in behind T-bones and hash browns — small talk came easy for a while.

Sid put the skids to it. “Dick... ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“You know... your Army rap?”

“What about it?”

“You know... you don’t impress me as a frightened type of guy.”

Bud piped in: “As Big Dog Lipscomb will attest to. It’s just that... you know.”

I said, “Say it. It feels like I’m close to something.”

Sid said it. “You know... it’s like this. Someone says ‘Dick Contino’, and the first thing you think of is ‘Coward’ or maybe ‘Draft Dodger’. It’s like a reflex, when you should be thinking ‘Accordion player’ or ‘Singer’ or ‘Good repo back-up.’”

I said, “Finish the thought.”

Bud: “What Sid’s saying is how do you get around that? Bob Yeakel says it’s a life sentence, but isn’t there something you can do ?”

Closer now — lightbulb hot — so HOT I pushed it away. “I don’t know.”

Sid said, “You can always do something, if you’ve got nothing to lose.”

I changed the subject. “A car was tailing me last night. I think it might be this lezbo cop who’s hipped on Chrissy.”

Bud whooped. “Put her on “Rocket to Stardom.” Let her sing ‘Once I Had a Secret Love.’”

“I’m not a 100 percent sure it’s her, but I got the last four digits of the license plate. The whole thing spooks me.”

“So it was just a temporary sticker? Permanent plates only have three letters and three digits.”

“Right, 1116. I thought Bob could call the DMV and get a make for me.”

Bud checked his watch, antsy. “Not without all nine digits. But ask Bob anyway, after the show tomorrow. It’s a Pizza De-Luxe gig, and he always bangs his favorite ‘contestant’ after the show. Mention it to him then, and maybe he’ll call some clerk he knows and tell him to look up all the 1116’s.”

A waitress crowded up menu first. “Are you Dick Contino? My daddy doesn’t like you ‘cause he’s a veteran, but my mom thinks you’re real cute. Could I have your autograph?”

“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Dick Contino welcoming you to ‘Rocket to Stardom’ — where tomorrow’s stellar performers reach for the moon and haul down a few stars! Where all of you in our television audience and here at Yeakel Oldsmobile can seal your fate in a Rocket 88!”

Canned applause/hoots/yells/whistles — a rocket launch straight for the toilet.

Somebody spiked the punch — our live audience got bombed pre-showtime.

Sid Elwell ID’d the crowd: mostly juiceheads AWOL from the County dry-out farm.

Act #1 — a Pizza De-Luxe male hooker. Topical patter de-luxe: Eisenhower meets Sinatra at the “Rat Pack Summit.” Ring-a-fucking-ding: Ike, Frank and Dino swap stale one-liners. The crowd booed; the applause meter went on the fritz and leaked steam.

Act #2 — A Pizza De-Luxe prostie/songbird. Tight capris, tight sweater — mauling “Blue Moon” made her bounce in two directions. A pachuco by the stage kept a refrain up: “Baby, are they real?” Bud Brown sucker-punched him silent off-camera; the sound man said his musings came through un-squelched.

Act #3 — “Ramon and Johnny” — two muscle queen acrobats. Dips, flips, cupped-hand tosses — nice, if you dig shit like that.

Whistles, applause. Bob Yeakel said the guys worked shakedowns: extorting married fags with sodomy pix.

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.