Hollywood Nocturnes Read Free Page A

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 195 8'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-goddamnvis 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?"
      The whole booth howled. Kay squealed with her mouth full-- some club soda spritzed out and hit Leigh. A flashbulb popped--I spotted Danny Getchell and a _Hush-Hush_ camera jockey.
      Getchell spritzed headlines: "Accordion Ace Activates Lethal Left Hook at Crescendo Fistfest.' 'Draft Dodger Taunt Torches Torrid Temper Tantrum.' 'QUQ Vadis, Dick Contino?--Comeback Crumbles in Niteclub Crack-Up."
      Nancy walked back to the pay phones. I said, "Danny, this is publicity I don't need."
      "Dick, I disagree. Look at what that marijuana contretemps did for Bob Mitchum. I think this portrays you as a good-looking, hotheaded gavonne who's probably--excuse me, ladies--got a schvanze that's a yard long."
      I laughed. Danny said, "If I'm lyin', I'm flyin'. Seriously, Dick, and again, excuse me, ladies, but this makes you look like you've got a yard of hard pipe and you're not afraid to show it."
      I laughed. Leigh sent up a silent prayer: save my husband from this scandal rag provocateur.
      Nancy shot me a whisper. "I just talked to Ella Mae Cooley. Spade's been beating her up again. . . and. . . Dick. . . you're the only one who can calm him down."

      *   *   *

              I drove out to Spade Cooley's ranch. Rain slashed my windshield; I tuned in Hunter Hancock's All-Request Show The gang at Googie's got a call through: Dick Contino's "Yours" hit the airwaves.
      The rain got worse; the chrome accordion on my hood cut down visibility. I accelerated and synced bio-thoughts to music.
      Late '47, Fresno: I glommed a spot on Horace Heidt's radio program. Amateur night stuff--studio audience/applause meter-- I figured I'd play "Lady of Spain," lose to some local babe Heidt was banging and go on to college.
      I won.
      Bobby-soxers swarmed me backstage.
      I turned eighteen