The ashram was a dope den and a lavender lovenest. My rambunctious roommates:
Aldous Huxley–addled on absinthe, pickled on peyote, and looped on a loony Lysol called lysergic acid diethylamide.
Bogie Bogart–battling the Big C with voodoo vows and peach-pit potions.
Oscar Levant–levitatingly lost in laudanum and Lowenbrau lager.
Sammy Davis Jr.–jigaboo-juked for pouring the pork to a white wench who went out with Walter Winchell. Winsomely COONfidential: Winchell sent some wops out to whack Sammy.
Last–but not loin-longingly least:
Three masochism-mauled marines marked for molestation. Deserters seeking shelter from the Shore Patrol. Prime prey for Creepy Chris.
I moved in and made time to map out my mink misadventure. I lounged around in limbo.
I lapped up laud anum with Levant and got high on hashish with Huxley. Chris crystallized Ben Hong’s herbs and cooked up anticancer cocktails for Bogie. I watched nightly newscasts and notched nerve-wracking news.
Skip Towne and Flash Flood–flattened by a fly-by-night who flipped a two-ton truck. Flash Flood’s Fleetwood: torched to toast in Topanga Canyon. Rival DJs riding together? Make that murder in my magazine.
No news on lush Linda Lansing and the Moorish Mosque Massacre. No poop on the payola probe and priapic Sinatra. Call that collective collusion.
I called my cop contacts. I picked up poop on Pedro Pimentel.
One baaaad beaner. The taco-phile Tojo of Tj.
He controlled the corrupt cop corps. His cops copped coin off incarcerated inmates run in on random charges. Pedro pried their property loose. He violated their virgin daughters and made them vice vixens at the Va-Va-Voom Club. He kicked their less comely kids into cardboard casas and coerced them to work in his sweatshops. They moonlighted as wistful waifs and charmed chump change out of cheerful gringos.
Pedro Pimentel owned a clap clinic and the Club Diablo–an adoringly adorned adobe hut that housed hermaphrodites and the best burro act in Baja. Pedro Pimentel smuggled smut. Pedro Pimentel pummeled pinkos and castrated Castroites out of Cuba. Pedro Pimental made nice to Nazis named at Nuremburg and assured them asylum.
Pedro Pimentel fenced furs.
My cop contacts dispensed more dish.
Juan Pimentel was Pedro’s pedophile brother. Juan bopped out of Baja behind some child-snuff snafu. Pedro put him in touch with Bad Bob Duhamel–BHPD. Bad Bob made Wicked Juan his sneaky snitch. Wicked Juan worked at the Pacific Dining Car–a front to frame his sniveling snitchwork. Bad Bob went way back with delightful dyke Dot Rothstein. They engaged in an entrapment scheme to screw Barbara Graham–wigged out in the women’s jail.
Barbarous Barb was gorgeous gash and one good actress. She maintained that she didn’t murder Mabel Monahan. Demon DA Miller Leavy found her fetching. He feared that she’d move the men on the jury to mush. Leavy dished up a plan to discredit her and divvied it out to Dot and Bad Bob.
They went underground. They unearthed some underworld untermenschen and unleashed them on Barbarous Barb. They handed her handy alibis for 3/9/53. She bit and said she’d buy them if they bought her out of the shit. The untermenschen shot her the shaft and strode straight to Miller Leavy. Leavy levied the alibi bit against Barb. It chewed her up and helped him chalk up a convincing conviction.
My cop contacts contradicted Diabolical Dot. She’d dissembled and said she didn’t know Duhamel. The Barbarous Barb bit bit my brain and ditzed me to distraction. Did it play in to payola and sin-tillating Sinatra?
The riddle wracked my dope-diddled head. It lanced me as I laid iow and lived it up in limbo.
I ran reefer-ripped ripostes with Sammy Davis. Sammy was one sick Sambo. Maryjane made him mean-minded. He ran race riffs like a mau-mau motherfucker. He teed off on ofay oppression and segued to sepia self-hate and slick slavemaster Sinatra.
Annihilating anecdotes:
Frank frags Sammy at a Mob meet in Miami. Sammy sings for made Mafia men. They make him step like Stepin Fetchit and feed him fettuccine with the Cuban kitchen crew. Frank frees Sammy and eggs him into an encore: “No-Count Nigger Me.”
Sammy slips the schnitzel to Miss Schlitz Beer at a backstage bash for Sinatra. Sissified Sinatra sincerely thinks that he had first dibs. His chauffeur shanghais Sammy. He shunts him to Sheboygan, Wisconsin, and snouts him into a snowstorm in his snapbrim hat and skintight skivvies.