We went to a restaurant and shot the shit. Our conversation was full of jump cuts–Las Vegas to the Mob to serving jail time to L.A. in the ’50S, fear and what you do when the audience dwindles.
I told him that the best novels are often not the best-selling novels; that complex styles and ambiguous stories perplex many readers. I said that while my own books sell quite well, they are considered too dark, too densely plotted, and too relentlessly violent to be chart-toppers.
Dick asked me if I would change the type of book I write to achieve greater sales–I said no. He asked me if I’d change the type of book I write if I knew that I’d taken a given style or theme as far as it could go–I said yes. He asked me if the real-life characters in my books ever surprise me–I said, “No, because my relationship to them is exploitative.”
I asked him if he consciously changed musical directions after his career got diverted, post-Korea. He said yes and no–he’d kept trying to cash in on trends until he’d realized that, at best, he’d be performing music he didn’t love and at worst he’d be playing to an audience he didn’t respect.
I said, “The work is the thing.” He said, yes, but you can’t cop an attitude behind some self-limiting vision of your own integrity. You can’t cut the audience out of its essential enjoyment–you have to give them some schmaltz to hold on to.
I asked Dick how he arrived at that. He said his old fears taught him to like people more. He said fear thrives on isolation, and when you cut down the wall between you and the audience, your whole vision goes wide.
I checked in at my hotel and shadowboxed with the day’s revelations. It felt like my world had tilted toward a new understanding of my past. I kept picturing myself in front of an expanding audience, armed with new literary ammunition: the knowledge that Dick Contino would be the hero of the sequel to the book I’m writing now.
Dick and I met for dinner the next night. It was my forty-fifth birthday; I felt like I was standing at the bedrock center of my life.
Dick played me a bebop “Happy Birthday” on his accordion. The old chops were still there–he zipped on and off the main theme rápidamente.
We split for the restaurant. I asked Dick if he would consent to appear as the hero of my next novel.
He said yes and asked what the book would be about. I said, “Fear, courage, and heavily compromised redemptions.”
He said, “Good, I think I’ve been there.”
We hit the Tillerman’s–a surf-and-turf palace outside Vegas. The food was good, but my brain was schizophrenic while I ate. I listened to Dick talk; I plotted my Contino novella full-speed. By the time the pecan pie arrived, I had Dick Contino’s Blues–a picaresque tale of ’58 L.A.–fully mapped out.
Dick said, “Penny for your thoughts?”
I said, “You’re my ticket back and my ticket out, but I’m not sure where to.”
November 1993
HOLLYWOOD SHAKEDOWN
Every time and place hides secrets that only one person can spill. History is recorded by hacks who don’t know the real secret shit.
L.A. History is subterfuge and lies. Outrageousness is passed off as full disclosure. Nobody has connected all the celebrated players and defined the moment that L.A. was won and lost.
On March 23, 1954, I killed a rogue cop and a stick-up man and sealed the fate of a great city.
I
My flight landed ten minutes early. I bribed a stewardess to let me off first.
I wanted to disembark sloooooow. I wanted the newsmen to dig my stripes and campaign ribbons.
The plane taxied up to the gate. The steps locked into the door. I shoved my way to the front of the aisle. A fat nun ate my elbows.
The door slid open.
I stepped into the sun.
I saw my agent, Howard Wormser. I saw two newsmen and counted five picket signs.
DICK CONTINO, RED PAWN and DICK CONTINO, AMERICAN. TRAITOR, GO HOME and WE LOVE OUR DICK. A poster depicting me in the electric chair. I’m perched between the recently smoked Ethel and Julius Rosenberg.