South on Sweetzer, east on Fountain. The Dotster had me running edgy — I checked my back mirror.
That car was still behind us.
South on Fairfax, east on Willoughby — that car stuck close. A sports job — white or light gray — I couldn’t make out the driver.
Deputy Dot Rothstein or??????
Scary alternatives: Chrissy’s old boyfriends, old dope customers, general L.A. friends.
South on Gardner, east on Melrose — those headlights goose goose goosed us. Leigh said, “Dick, what are you doing?”
“We’re being followed.”
“What? Who? What are you—”
I swung into a driveway sans signal; my tires plowed some poor fucker’s lawn. The sports car kept going; I backed out and chased it.
It zooooomed ahead; I flicked on my brights and blipped its tail. No fixed license plate — just a temp sticker stuck to the trunk. Close, closer — a glimpse of the last four digits: 1116.
The car ran a red on 3rd Street. Horns squealed; oncoming traffic held me back. Taillights flickered eastbound: going, going, gone.
Leigh said, “I’ve got no more appetite.”
Chris said, “Can I sleep at your place tonight?”
4.
Repo adventures.
Cleotis De Armand ran a crap game behind Swanky Frank’s liquor store on 89th and Central, flaunting his delinquent 98 right there on the sidewalk. Bud Brown and Sid Elwell came in with cereal box badges and shook him down while I fed Seconal-laced T-Bird to the winos guarding the car. BIG fear: this was combustible L.A. Darktown, cop impersonation beefs probable if the ubiquitous LAPD swooped by. They didn’t — and I was the one who drove the sapphire-blue jig rig to safety while the guard contingent snored. Beginner’s luck: I found a bag of maryjane in the glove compartment. We toked a few reefers en route to our next job: boost a ’57 Star-fire off Big Dog Lipscomb, the southside’s #1 streetcorner pimp.
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.