Steve–stern, strong, and strident-voiced now: “I only let you and the others work out of here because you give me information. Don wouldn’t like it if I eighty-sixed you.”
Yolanda, fetchingly firm and faultlessly focused: “I cannot betray Miss Lana, as long as Mr. Johnny does not hurt her or Miss Cheryl.”
Steve, resoundingly resigned and ripped with regret. “Well… shit. . . okay. . . for now, at least. But I just want to protect Lana from herself, and I want you to promise me that you’ll let me know if Johnny ever puts a hand on her or Cheryl. You see, I’ve got a gangster buddy who hates the son of a bitch.”
Yolanda, a mellifluous madonna: “Oh, yes, I will. I care about Miss Lana and Miss Cheryl just as much as joo do.”
Mickey Cohen hated Johnny Stompanato. Mickey was the meshugenah mouseketeer on the L.A. mob scene. Mickey had a minor cut of Don Jordan’s contract and not much else. Mickey was too Minnie Mouse to stand up for Steve and stomp out Stompanato–and I started to smell money in the mix.
I could steal the steamy Lana letters. I could sell them to Steve or some lascivious Lanaphile. I could lube-job Ben Luboff and lay a few lackluster excerpts on him for big bread. I could proudly print the whole tumescent text in Hush-Hush.
The truth is my moral mandate. Dirt digs define my devotion to that difficult discipline. “Disillusionment Is Enlightenment”– some pundit popped that platitude and clipped a clear chord in my soul. I live to edify, entertain, enlighten, and enforce moral standards. It all entails enterprising entrapment. I’m a zealous First Amendment zealot. I contentiously contend that scandal skank scores free free speech to its fullest extension. I set tricky traps to track down the truth. My methedrine-mapped mandate makes it all morally sound.
I got Stompanato’s stats from the West L.A. White Pages. I called his number and nailed a nigger maid. She said, “Mr. Johnny be back soon,” and, “I just be leavin’ myself.” She sounded like some shine in Song of the South.
I bopped up to Benedict Canyon and buried my Buick coupe behind some bushes off Beverly Drive. I beat feet a block to Johnny’s boss bunker: a big all-glass A-frame.
Lavishly landscaped and lit up light at i:oo A.M. Wide windows to wiggle your eyes at and high hedges to hide behind. Peeper Paradise and Voyeur Valhalla.
Motherfuck–
The mail slot slid straight into the front French doors. I couldn’t lift a latch and liberate Lana’s love letters.
I hid behind a hydrangea hedge. I bored my beady browns into a big picture window ten feet away. Johnny Stomp stomped into sight. Don Jordan jiggled up and joined him.
They yelled and yowled at each other. They paced paths around the parlor and poked themselves in the pecs. Popped Ps popped off the plate-glass window–but I couldn’t pick out particular words.
Jordan pulled a passel of pix out of his pockets and fanned them full. I popped up and peered through the plate-glass powerfully hard. I saw darkroom-dipped photos still wet with developing doo. Interior shots: bountiful bedroom suites with balconies and wide walk-in closets.
My brain went bim, bango, bingo:
Don Jordan’s moonlight maids with Minox minicams. Wetback women hooked in as hookers. Luau-lounging B-girls brought to Brentwood and Beverly Hills. Papa pops the girls to the pad while Mama meanders in Miami or mingles at her Monday mah-jongg club. The girls pop perspective pix and juke them back to Jordan. Jordan jukes them to some big bad burglary man. Jordan juked Yolanda into the plan. Johnny yanked Yolanda’s chain, scammed the skinny on Demon Don’s designs and demanded a cut. Yolanda lounged around the Luau in Lana Turner’s low-cut gown. Stilltorching Steve Crane recognized it. He yipped, yelled, and yodeled at Yolanda. He demanded that she double-agent for him. Yolanda agreed to dump domestic dirt on Lana and Johnny.
Stompanato stamped his feet. Jordan jabbed his chest. They stepped back and countermanded the course of a counterproductive contretemps. They smiled. They commandeered a couch. They pored over their pix and penciled a map on a piece of paper.