I always try to answer truthfully.
I always write off the leaping car as movie magic.
In all candor, I made that supercharged/dual-quad/cheater-slicked motherfucker FLY. There’s a story behind it — my loving farewell to L.A. back then.
1.
I was bombing.
Atom bombing: sweaty hands, shakes pending. My back-up combo sounded off-sync — I knew it was me, jumping ahead of the beat. BIG ROOM FEAR grabbed my nuts; headlines screamed:
“Contino Tanks Lackluster Crowd at Crescendo!”
“Contino Lays Pre-Easter Egg at Sunset Strip Opening!”
“Bumble Boogie” to “Ciribiribin” — a straight-for-the-jugular accordion segue. I put my whole body into a bellows shake; my brain misfired a message to my fingers. My fingers obeyed — I slammed out the “Tico-Tico” finale. Contagious misfires: my combo came in with a bridge theme from “Rhapsody in Blue.”
I just stood there.
House lights snapped on. I saw Leigh and Chrissy Staples, Nancy Ankrum, Kay Van Obst. My wife, my friends — plus a shitload of first nighters oozing shock.
“Rhapsody in Blue” fizzled out behind me. BIG ROOM FEAR clutched my balls and SQUEEZED.
I tried patter. “Ladies and gentlemen, that was ‘Dissonance Jump,’ a new experimental twelve-tone piece.”
My friends yukked. A geek in a Legionnaire cunt cap yelled, “Draft Dodger!”
Instant silence — big room loud. I froze on Joe Patriot: booze-flushed, Legion cap, Legion armband. My justification riff stood ready: I went to Korea, got honorably discharged, got pardoned by Harry S Truman.
No, try this: “Fuck you. Fuck your mother. Fuck your dog.”
The Legionnaire froze. I froze. Leigh froze behind a smile that kissed off two grand a week, two weeks minimum.
The whole room froze.
Cocktail debris pelted me: olives, ice, whisky sour fruit. My accordion dripped maraschino cherries — I slid it off and set it down behind some footlights.
My brain misfired a message to my fists: kick Joe Patriot’s ass.
I vaulted the stage and charged him. He tossed his drink in my face; pure grain spirits stung my eyes and blinded me. I blinked, sputtered, and swung haymakers. Three missed; one connected — the impact made me wah-wah quiver. My vision cleared — I thought I’d see Mr. America dripping teeth.
I was wrong.
Joe Legion — gone. In his place, cut cheekbone-deep by my rock-encrusted guinea wedding ring: Cisco Andrade, the world’s #1 lightweight contender.
Sheriff’s bulls swarmed in and fanned out. Backstopping them: Deputy Dot Rothstein, 200+ pounds of bull dyke with the hots for my friend Chris Staples.
Andrade said, “You dumb son-of-a-bitch.”
I just stood there.
My eyes dripped gin; my left hand throbbed. The Crescendo main room went phantasmagoric:
There’s Leigh: juking the cops with “Dick Contino, Red Scare Victim” rebop. There’s the Legionnaire, glomming my sax man’s autograph. Dot Rothstein’s sniffing the air — my drummer just ducked backstage with a reefer. Chrissy’s giving Big Dot a wide berth — they worked a lezbo entrapment gig once — Dot’s had a torch sizzling ever since.
Shouts. Fingers pointed my way. Mickey Cohen with his bulldog Mickey Cohen, Jr. — snout deep in a bowl of cocktail nuts. Mickey, Sr., nightclub Jesus — slipping the boss deputy a cash wad.
Andrade squeezed my ratched-up hand — I popped tears. “You play your accordion at my little boy’s birthday party. He likes clowns, so you dress up like Chucko the Clown. You do that and we’re even.”
I nodded. Andrade let my hand go and dabbed at his cut. Mickey Cohen cruised by and spieled payback. “My niece is having a birthday party. You think you could play it? You think you could dress up like Davy Crockett with one of those coonskin caps?”
I nodded. The fuzz filed out — a deputy flipped me the bird and muttered, “Draft Dodger.”
Mickey Cohen, Jr., sniffed my crotch. I tried to pet him — the cocksucker snapped at me.
Leigh and Chris met me at Googie’s. Nancy Ankrum and Kay Van Obst joined us — we packed a big booth full.
Leigh pulled out her scratch pad. “Steve Katz was furious. He made the bookkeeper pro-rate your pay down to one half of one show for one night.”
My hand throbbed — I grabbed the ice out of Chrissy’s water glass. “Fifty scoots?”
“Forty and change. They counted it down to the penny.”
Demons hovered: Leigh’s obstetrician, the Yeakel Olds repo man. I said, “They don’t repossess babies.”
“No, but they do repossess three month delinquent Starfire 88’s. Dick, did you have to get the Continental Kit, ‘Kustom King’ interior, and that hideous accordion hood ornament?”
Chrissy: “It was an Italian rivalry thing. Buddy Greco’s got a car like that, so Dick had to have one.”
Kay: “My husband has an 88. He said the ‘Kustom King’ interior is so soft that he almost fell asleep once on the San Bernardino Freeway.”
Nancy: “Chester Boudreau, one of my favorite sex killers of all time, preferred Oldsmobiles. He said Oldsmobiles had a bulk that children found comforting, so it was easy to lure kids into them.”
Right on cue: my three-girl chorus. Chrissy sang with Buddy Greco and sold Dexedrine; Nancy played trombone in Spade Cooley’s all-woman band and pen-palled with half the pervs in San Quentin. Kay: National President of the Dick Contino Fan Club. We go back to my Army Beef: Kay’s husband Pete bossed the Fed team that popped me for desertion.
Our food arrived. Nancy talked up the “West Hollywood Whipcord” — some fiend who’d strangled two lovebird duos parked off the Strip — just blocks away. Chris boo-hooed my Crescendo fracas and bemoaned the end of Buddy’s Mocombo stand two weeks hence.
Nancy interrupted her: Whipcord mania had her by the shorts. She was laying odds already: the Whipcord would reign as 1958’s #1 psycho-killer.
Leigh let me read her eyes:
Your friends co-sign your bullshit, but I won’t.
Your display of manly pique cost us four grand.
You fight the COWARD taint with your fists, you must make it worse.
Radioactive eyes — I evaded them via small talk. “Chrissy, did you catch Dot Rothstein checking you out?”
Chris choked down a hunk of Reuben Sandwich. “Yes, and it’s been five years since the Barbara Graham gig.”
“Barbara Graham” tweaked Nan the Ghoul. I elaborated: “Chrissy was doing nine months in the Woman’s Jail downtown when Barbara Graham was there.”
Nancy, breathless: “And?”
“And she just happened to be in the cell next to her’s.”
“And?”
Chris jumped in. “Quit talking about me like I’m not here.”
Nancy: “And?”
“And I was doing nine months for passing forged Dilaudid prescriptions. Dot was the matron on my tier, and she was smitten by me, which I consider a testimonial to her good taste. Barbara Graham and those partners of hers, Santo and Perkins, had just been arrested for the Mabel Monohan killing. Barbara kept protesting that she was innocent, and the D.A.’s Office was afraid that a jury might believe her. Dot heard a rumor that Barbara went lez whenever she did jail time, and she got this brainstorm to have me cozy up to Barbara in exchange for a sentence reduction. I agreed, but stipulated no sapphic contact. The D.A.’s Office cut a deal with me, but I couldn’t get Barbara to admit anything vis-a-goddamn-vis the night of March 9, 1953. We exchanged mildly flirtatious napkin notes, which Dot sold to Hush-Hush Magazine, and they published with my name deleted. I got my sentence reduction and Barbara got the gas chamber, and Dot Rothstein’s got herself convinced that I’m a lezzie. She still sends me Christmas cards. Have you ever gotten a lipstick smeared Christmas card from a two hundred pound diesel dyke?”