Hollywood Nocturnes Read Free

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