Crime Wave

Frank tippled tequila and licked lime and blue-eye blitzed me. It rankled and roughed up my ego. I bored back with my beady browns. Our brainwaves bristled and telescoped telepathically.

Frank hopped in my head. He crept around my cranial crevices and crisscrossed my crazily wired wig. He verbally vandalized me. He thumped me with a thick thesaurus and alliterated with alacrity. Literal lightning flares flew between our foreheads and threw out huge thuds of thunder. Synaptic syncopation singed the seats we sat on. We communicated in capsulized containment. Samboized Sammy sat there and didn’t see or hear shit.

Frank Freud-frappéed me and undid my unconscious. I shared my chickenshit childhood in Chillicothe, Ohio. We commiserated. He communicated his kid conundrums contrapuntally. I sunk down syncophantic. We negotiated a nonaggression pact. I said I’d never hurl him hurt in Hush-Hush. Frank Freud-frappéed and freed himself. He conflagratingly confessed his love for nonbarbaric Barbara Graham.

He was addlepatedly and adoringly in love with awful Ava Gardner. Ava liked to lez once in a soft sapphic moon. Hubert Humphrey hipped them to thrilling three-way thrush Barb. The triad trick went down Ofl 3/9/53. The soft siren syphoned his soul off Ava as they all linked limbs on luscious lilac sheets.

He capitulated. He commandeered himself into captivity. La Graham graced him with three grateful months. He left avid Ava in the lilac lurch. The scandal rags read it wrong and said she spun out for Splitsville. The cops mistakenly made Boss Barb for the Mabel Monahan murder. Sinatra stormed out to straighten her strait. Boss Barb interceded and interdicted him. She said his alibi would annihilate him and annex him from the world he wowed and rang ring-a-ding. Her death would not diminish them. She possessed preternatural powers. She could dip into them dispensationally and deify him beyond his catastrophically cool charisma.

Dig:

She died and did it.

Doubt ditzed me. Scandal-scribe skepticism scrawled itself out in telltale telepathy. Frank scrolled a resounding response: “Don’t you dig me, Dad?” I screwed up and scrawled back: “Jesus, I’m not sure.”

Frank snapped his fingers. The trunk door trembled and leaped off the lilac Lincoln. My tote bag tipped out and popped to the pavement. Two mangy muchachos materialized and moseyed up to it.

Frank said, “It’s my world. Even God knows that.”

L.A. paled pallid next to torrid Tj. I loped by Linda Lansing’s lair and let myself in with Liz Scott’s key.

No blood. No maggot mounds. No cool corpus delicti. No living room ratched and wrecked past recognition.

Dot Rothstein wrapped in a man-sized muumuu. The NEW Joi Lansing lez-locked on her lap.

A headline hopping off a heap of Heralds chucked by their chair:

SINGER LANSING FOUND IN HOLLYWOOD HILLS. CORONER CITES DECOMPOSITION AND RULES CAUSE OF DEATH UNKNOWN.

The girls giggled. They looked me over looooooong. The live Lansing licked crumbs off her lips.

I said, “I don’t have the fifty Gs. Things went bad down in Mexico.”

Dot dipped into an ice-cream dish and chomped some chocolate chips.

“Frank squared it for you. He called Miller Leavy and told him you were kosher. Miller called off the BHPD and told them to hang the fur job on Al Teitelbaum. And as far as they’re concerned, those heist guys you killed didn’t exist.”

The REAL Linda Lansing toyed with a toll-house cookie. She’d popped on some porky pounds to portray her pudgy sister. The coffee table was covered with candy cartons and cruller crusts and doughnut debris.

I said, “You killed Joi. You were in way too deep with way too many people, and you needed a way out. You rented this place to set up your murder scene. You trashed it to make it look like the killers were looking for something. Then I came along and saw the body, so you decided to dump it in the hills to queer the cause of death.”

Dot dive-bombed a devil’s-food doughnut. “Mention money, Danny. We’ve been expecting you, and we know you didn’t come up here to moralize.”

I said, “Money.”

Dot drowned her doughnut in Drambuie-drenched coffee. “He said ‘money.”

Lansing lanced a ladyfinger and sunk it into Sambuca. “He certainly did.”

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