I kicked him in the head and lifted his wallet. He mama-moaned anew. The cast and crew wolf-whistled.
The wallet weighed in heavy. I fanned the cash compartment and counted a sea of C-notes. I handed them to the blonde. She dropped them in her purse and dropped a dollar on her ex-hubby. She said, “For old times. He was good in the sack.”
I laffed. I reached in my pocket and handed her a card. Understated class: my name, phone number, and “Mr. Nine Inches.”
She dropped the card in with her cash stash. A guy yelled, “You’re up, Joi! Scene 16-B!”
She winked and walked away from me. I handcuffed Jug-ears behind his back and pay-phone-called the station. Holly-weird: they filmed the scene with the ex coma-conked and cuffed on the floor.
I walked outside and smoked a cigarette. A black-and-white cruised by and hauled the ex to Georgia Street Receiving. I thought of Ralph Mitchell Horvath. A kid brought me a cup of coffee and returned my calling card. She’d written on the back:
“Joi Lansing. 39-25-38. Googie’s, tonight at 8:30.”
I had a wolf’s lair above the Strip. It was furnished with Jap flags and shadow-boxed Lugers. I never made it overseas. I spent the war at Parris Island, South Carolina. There’s a periscope affixed to my back porch. I use it to spy on neighbor women.
I’ve always voyeurized.
I’ve always studied people.
I’ve always wanted to know their secret shit.
My bedroom featured a walk-in closet. I blew my burglary stash on Sy Devore suits. My dresser drawer was full of lacy lingerie. My lynx-like lovers left me magnificent mementoes.
I’ve got a file on Ralph Mitchell Horvath. I culled it from PDs and penitentiaries statewide. I knew all Ralphie’s secrets.
He poked a Mexican sissy in reform school. He fathered two half-wit kids. He pimped his wife to cover his poker debts. He scored prescription goofballs from a Chink pharmacist.
It bought me some distance on Ralphie. The more you know about people, the less they get to you. I’ve known that godless gospel since my crib.
I dressed sharp for Joi Lansing. I wore my crocodile loafers and slipped my heater into a shoulder rig. A spritz of Lucky Tiger — and a two-minute stroll to the meet.
Googie’s was a coffee cave on Sunset and Crescent Heights. The Space Age aesthetic rubbed me raw. Fluorescent lights, Naugahyde, chrome. A hopping hive for showbiz shitheels headed for hell.
I walked in and watched Joi Lansing table-hop. She wore a too-tight gown and a mink stole with a pawnshop tag attached. The joint was bustling about a sneak peek in Glendale. A Googie’s regular had an on-screen love scene with Bob Mitchum. Bad Boy Bob kept slipping her tongue. They shared a reefer in the RKO backlot. She blew him in Howard Hughes’s limousine.
A hubbub juked the joint — I knew I radiated FUZZ. I crashed into a booth and unbuttoned my jacket. A fag flamed by and ogled my piece. He joined a hen party one booth over. More dirt spilled: the barman at the Cockpit Lounge ran an all-boy slave auction. Adlai Stevenson got enthralled and embroiled. The hens hooted — ha, ha, ha!
Joi sat down. I pointed to the pawnshop tag. She pulled it off and dropped it in the ashtray.
I said, “Thanks for the invitation.”
Joi said, “Thanks for the revenge. That guy fractured my left wrist on Saint Patrick’s Day ’49.”
“You’re too young to have an ex-husband.”
“Yeah, and I’m estranged from number two. I’d head to Reno for a quickie, but it might not work. We got hitched in TJ, so the paperwork could get dicey.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Well, you’re a policeman.”
I lit a cigarette and held the pack out. Joi shook her head.
“He’s on parole, and he’s a grasshopper. You could call Narco.”
I shook my head. “Give me his address. I’ll think of something.”
“He’ll be here at 9:30. He’s been living at the Y since I kicked him out, and the fry cook takes his phone calls. He’s a non-union grip. I stiffed him a fake message after I met you. You’re a producer at Fox with a job for him. You’re meeting him in the parking lot.”
I laffed. “You just assumed that I’d do it?”
Joi laffed. “Come on, Freddy. That stunt you pulled downtown and ‘Mr. Nine Inches’? What won’t you do for money or gash?”
A Mex busboy sidled by. I grabbed a belt loop and stopped him. He saw my roscoe and got the wigged-out wetback shakes.
I stuffed a twenty in his shirt pocket. “Go to the kitchen and get me a bag of weed. You’ll be on the night train to Culiacán if you don’t deliver.”
Pancho genuflected and took off. Joi laffed and bummed a cigarette. I blew a high smoke ring. She blew a higher one. It hit the ceiling and mushroomed.
The Mex came back with the goods. I told him to scram. The hen party squawked a new nugget: Ava Gardner dumped Sinatra for a heavy-hung shine.
I said, “What’s your real name?”
Joi said, “Joyce Wassmansdorff.”
“Give me the fill-in.”
“I’m from Salt Lake City. I’m 24. I went to the MGM school and went nowhere.”
“But now you’re up and coming?”
Joi stubbed out her cigarette. “I’m uncredited in six pictures and credited in four. I’ve got Racket Squad, Gangbusters, and a comedy with Jane Russell in the can.”
“Give me some dirt on Russell.”
“What’s to give? She’s a goody two-shoes married to that quarterback for the Rams.”
My stomach growled. I noshed a breadstick and eyeballed the room. Easy make: the two crew cuts by the takeout stand were Parker boys. Harry Fremont pointed them out to me last month. They were purse-lipped Puritans out to bag bent cops.
Joi said, “You’ll need money to enjoy my company.”
I smiled and re-eyeballed the room. A punk I popped for flim-flam made me and beat feet. Joi said, “It’s 9:30. Look for a little guy with a big pompadour.”
I walked back to the parking lot. Pompadour lounged on a ’51 Merc. I got close to him. He orbed my shoulder rig and went Oh, shit. He wore light-colored slacks. Piss coursed and covered his cuffs. I deferred to diplomacy.
“Don’t contest the divorce. I’ll negotiate your alimony payments. Send the check directly to me. I’ll take my cut and deliver the rest to Miss Lansing.”
Pompadour held up his hands — Don’t hit me, hoss. I pulled out the bag of weed and caught his left mitt in one motion. I pressed hard to ensure a full fingerprint spread.
It started drizzling. I gestured toward the street. Joi Lansing’s second ex-hubby took off running.
“Hollywood could use a guy like you.”
I turned around. “You mean I could use Hollywood.”
Joi gave me a big kiss.
It all started just like that.
4
I heisted a bookie room a week later.
A Hitler mask concealed my identity. I entered with an empty grocery sack and exited with four grand. I spent half the swag on Joi and bankrolled my biz with the remainder. A Beverly Hills pharmacist fronted me a pill pusher’s Parthenon. Harry Fremont sold me eight ice-cold roscoes. Joi hipped me to a discreet scrape doctor. I gave him a signing bonus and told him I’d be out seeking nice-girls-in-a-jam. Guns, dope, and a felonious physician. My girlfriend as conduit to a corrupt culture.
Joi hit Hollywood in ’42. She was 14. She matriculated at MGM and met everybody. She was both low-rent and confoundingly connected. She knew everything. She was a one-babe Baedeker. She knew bartenders, bellhops, busboys, call girls, casting directors, and cads. She knew pornographers, pushers, and pimps. She knew troves of tramps in trouble. She knew that this soiled city lacked a single fix-it man. That was my role.