Hush-Hush magazine called me “CONtino.” They said my “destiny was deliriously and dolorously determined by deepseated demons dramatically and detrimentally defined as debilitating FEAR.” They ran a sidebar with Oscar Levant and some dope-clinic quack. The quack said I was badly breast-fed and temperamentally toilet trained. Oscar said I should dump my box and exploit my weak pipes like a dozen famous guinea crooners.
A picture ran next to the sidebar. There’s Oscar and me at the Shrine. We’re flying on some high-end shit that I copped from Bob Mitchum. Oscar’s banging out Prokofiev. I’m winging a ditty that’s half Brahms and half “Lady of Spain.”
I skimmed the rest of the rag. I caught some sin-sational bits that played like prime Oscar.
Johnnie Ray honked a vice cop at the Vine Street Derby. The pull-quote was pure Levant: “He took the law into his own hands.” LEZabeth Scott frequented a sapphic whorehouse. Matchheadhot James Dean was a mumble-mouthed masochist known as the “Human Ashtray.” George Burns liked it dark and dusky. He was spotted at a browntown motel with two large congo cuties.
People told Oscar things. They overestimated his dope habit and dumped their shameful shit wholesale. They underestimated his memory.
Oscar heard all, remembered all, and told all. People looked at Oscar and saw all their sinful stuff personified and multiplied. They overestimated his empathy. They underestimated his guile. They flocked to the nut ward. They sought Oscar out. Oscar fed their secret shit to an L.A. cop named Freddy Otash. Otash paid him off in dope and shot the shit straight to Hush-Hush.
I skimmed the rest of my clips. L. Trent Woodard sunk his hooks under my skin.
The L.A. Herald, 12/19/53:
Woodard calls Chief William H. Parker “the führer of the LAPD.” He calls me a “sacrificial lamb” two columns down.
The L.A. Times, 1/8/54:
Woodard calls the LAPD “an occupation force.” He calls me a “Police-State Victim” three columns down.
The L.A. Mirror, 2/20/54:
Woodard boohoos “the forces that condemned Dick Contino.” He rags the LAPD and the L.A. County Sheriff’s for a botched robbery job.
The city cops and the county cops were working a joint gig. They had the Scrivner’s Drive-In at Ivar and Sunset nailed down tight. They got the drop on four bad Negroes.
A cop popped his piece premature. Six cops and four stick-up men threw fire. Three Negroes and two carhops went down dead.
The LAPD blamed the Sheriff’s. The Sheriff’s blamed the LAPD. Chief Parker blamed Sheriff Biscailuz. Sheriff Biscailuz blamed Chief Parker. A heist guy named Rudy “Playboy” Wells escaped. A city cop named Cal Dinkins caught the blame.
Three pix ran with the piece. Dinkins wore a lot of fat and a tall flattop. Wells wore dark skin and a big boogie conk.
They ran a Fed mug shot of me. I wore tear tracks and a grimace.
I dumped the clips in the front seat. Howard turned around. His hands flew off the wheel. A truck almost blitzed us.
“Dick, Jesus Christ. I had them in chronological order. You can’t just–”
“That Woodard guy is putting me in shit up to my ears. He’s making me look like a fellow traveler.”
We slid into oncoming traffic. Howard grabbed the wheel and slid us out. “We’ll work around it. We’ll get you to snitch off some left-wing types and boost your credentials that way.”
“I don’t know any left-wing types.”
Howard smiled. “We’ll work around it. There’s a guy at Metro I’d love to put the screws to.”
The iron lung was 6′ by 8′ and weighed two tons. The lung girl was pale and skinny.
She was propped up inside the thing lengthwise. Her head poked out the top. She saw me and got choked up. Her tears hit the lung ledge and sizzled. The thing ran twice as hot as a clothes dryer.
A kid brought my loaner.
The keys jammed. The buttons stuck. The bellows creaked bad. The strap gouged a zit on my back.
The kid brought half the Belmont High wind section. A boss blonde blew lead tenor. She buzzed around me. I told Howard to check her ID and note the date she turned legal.