AMERICAN TABLOID by James Ellroy

Rosselli sipped his highball. “So, Pete, what brings you to the Cal-Neva?”

“I’m interviewing Lenny Sands for a job. I thought he might make a good stringer for Hush-Hush.”

Sam G. passed him some play chips. “Here, Frenchman, lose a grand on me. But don’t move Lenny out of Chicago, all right? I like having him around.”

Pete smiled. The “boys” smiled. Get the picture? They’ve tossed you all the crumbs they think you’re worth.

Pete walked. He got caught up in the tail end of a stampede-low rollers heading for the low-rent lounge.

He followed them in. The room was SRO: every table full, latecorners holding up the walls.

Lenny Sands was on stage, backed by a piano and drums.

The keyboard man tickled some blues. Lenny bopped him on the head with his microphone.

“Lew, Lew, Lew. What are we, a bunch of moolies? What are you playing? ‘Pass Me the Watermelon, Mama, ‘Cause My Spareribs are Double-Parked’ ?”

The audience yukked. Lenny said, “Lew, give me some Frankie.”

Lew Piano laid down an intro. Lenny sang, half Sinatra/half fag falsetto:

“I’ve got you under my skin. I’ve got you, keestered deep inside of me. So deep, my hemorrhoids are riding me. I’ve got you–WHOA!—-under my skin.”

The junket chumps howled. Lenny cranked up his lisp:

“I’ve got you, chained to my bed. I’ve got you, and extra K-Y now! So deep, you can’t really say why now! I’ve got you under my skin!”

The geeks yuk-yuk-yukked and tee-hee-heed. Peter Lawford walked in and checked the action–Frank Sinatra’s #1 toady.

The drummer popped a rim shot. Lenny stroked his mike at crotch level.

“You gorgeous he-men from the Chicago Knights of Columbus, I just adore you!”

The audience cheered–

“And I want you to know that all my womanizing and chasing ring-a-ding cooze is just subterfuge to hide my overweening lust for YOU, the men of K of C Chapter 384, you gorgeous hunks of manicotti with your king-sized braciolas that I just can’t wait to sautee and fricassee and take deep into my tantalizing Tetrazzini!”

Lawford looked hot to trot. It was common insider knowledge that he’d kill to suck up to Sinatra.

The junketeers roared. Some clown waved a K of C flag.

“I just love you love you love you! I can’t wait to dress up in drag and invite all of you to sleep over at my Rat Pack slumber party!”

Lawford bolted toward the stage.

Pete tripped him.

Dig the toady’s pratfall–an instant all-time classic.

Frank Sinatra shoved his way into the lounge. The junketeers went stone fucking nuts.

Sam G. intercepted him. Sam G. whispered to him, nice and gentle and FIRM.

Pete caught the gist.

Lenny’s with the Outfit. Lenny’s not a guy you rough up for sport.

Sam was smiling. Sam dug Lenny’s act.

Sinatra about-faced. Ass-kissers surrounded him.

Lenny cranked his lisp waaaaay up. “Frankie, come back! Peter, get up off the floor, you gorgeous nincompoop!”

Lenny Sands was one cute shitbird.

o o o

He slipped the head blackjack dealer a note to forward to Sands. Lenny showed up at the coffee shop, on-the-dot punctual.

Pete said, “Thanks for coming.”

Lenny sat down. “Your note mentioned money. That’s something that always gets my attention.”

A waitress brought them coffee. Jackpot gongs went off–baby slots were bolted to every table.

“Kemper Boyd recommended you. He said you’d be perfect for the job.”

“Are you working for him?”

“No. He’s just an acquaintance.”

Lenny rubbed a scar above his lips. “What is the job exactly?”

“You’d be the stringer for Hush-Hush. You’d be digging up the stories and scandal bits and feeding them to the writers.”

“So I’d be a snitch.”

“Sort of. You keep your nose down in L.A., Chicago and Nevada, and report back.”

“For how much?”

“A grand a month, cash.”

“Movie-star dirt, that’s what you want. You want the skank on entertainment people.”

“Right. And liberal-type politicians.”

Lenny poured cream in his coffee. “I’ve got no beef with that, except for the Kennedys. Bobby I can do without, but Jack I like.”

“You were pretty tough on Sinatra. He’s pals with Jack, isn’t he?”

“He pimps for Jack and brown-noses the whole family. Peter Lawford’s married to one of Jack’s sisters, and he’s Frank’s brown-nose contact. Jack thinks Frank’s good for chuckles and not much else, and you didn’t hear any of this from me.”

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