Crime Wave

Gail Russell and Barbara Payton were playing dominoes. Barbara ran her right foot up Gail’s leg sapphically slooooow. Gail swatted it away.

Oscar said, “They’re both dipsos. The boss at Paramount told them to dry out or else. Babs always goes lez in stir. Gail’s pining for Rock Hudson. Rock’s playing skin-flute on a bartender at Don the Beachcomber’s. The bartender snorts Big ‘H’ and moonlights at an all-male cathouse.”

A geek was twisting his hair in knots and doodling on a scratch pad. A dozen nuts stood around and watched him draw.

Oscar said, “He’s an animator for The Webster Webfoot Show. He makes animated smut flicks on the side and sells them down in Tj. He thinks he’s Webster Webfoot. His wife shows up once a week and throws popcorn at him.”

I laughed. The orderly noticed me and sized me up. Oscar lit a cigarette and blew smoke in my face.

I said, “You want something. You’re playing some kind of angle here.”

Oscar blew concentric smoke rings. “I want to contemporize you. I want to revitalize your career and end your days as a schmuck, a schmendrick, a schlemiel, and a schiemazel.”

“What’s in it for you?”

“You check me out on a pass, right this goddamn instant. You take me down to Darktown and get me what I need to survive.”

He was headed for Shake City. He sucked that cigarette down to a stub in sixteen seconds.

He started twitching. He started shaking. His eyes started begging me.

I said, “Let’s go.”

We drove south and smoked Linda’s reefer. Life lapsed into slow motion. We were bebop bwanas on the Dark Continent. My dad’s ’50 Ford was a barge on the River Styx.

Dig the jazz clubs! Dig that drive-in mosque! Dig the unkinkyour-hair parlors and the chopped-and-channeled chariots in cool coon maroon!

We cruised Central Avenue. A voodoo moon beamed down and lit the way. Oscar found Rachmaninoff on the radio. We rolled our windows down and shared him with our wild-ass world.

The weed unkinked Oscar. He stopped twitching and abusing me. I steered the barge with one finger. Water lapped under my feet.

Oscar said, “The Pharaoh Club. They’ve got a steam room, and all the hip junkies sweat themselves out there before their Nalline tests. Freddy 0 jacks them up and steals their stuff.”

My life lapsed out of slow motion. Oscar wrecked my reverie. He sounded like a 45 single spun at 78.

I spoke slooow and easy. “Freddy O is a cop. He can flash his badge and pull that kind of thing off.”

Oscar lit a cigarette and sucked it down to a cinder in one drag. He flicked the butt out the window and flashed two little gold stars.

Toy badges.

“Junior Deputy” at the bottom. “SheriffJohn’s Lunch Brigade” at the top.

I blinked. The Belgian Congo disappeared and cohered as Darktown L.A. A bazaboo bipped in front of the car. I missed him by a snatch-hair margin.

Oscar said, “You can’t pass this up. It’s too sweet. You’ll do anything to prove you’re not a crap-your-pants crybaby.”

I gulped. I popped a sweat. I saw the Pharaoh Club three doors down and pulled to the curb.

I wore a babaloo bongo shirt and peg pants. Oscar wore a nutward robe and pj’s. Hepcats, hipsters, and hopheads knew our faces.

Oscar said, “Fearful faigeleh fiddle-faddles while–”

I jumped out of the car. Oscar jumped out. We squared off on the sidewalk. Oscar passed me my badge. I concocted an intro line and pushed the door open.

We entered Pharaoh’s Tomb. A big schvartze in Egyptian threads materialized. I caught the layout behind him.

Black crepe walls. Tables shaped like scarabs going sixty-nine. A bandstand inlaid with a gold-embossed Ramses II holding crossed scepters. A jazz combo decked out in fezzes–blasting to an allsepia crowd.

Steam seeped through some ceiling cracks. The spa was upstairs.

The schvartze eyeballed Oscar’s pajamas. “You lookin’ for a bed, or you come for some milk and cookies?”

Oscar flashed his badge and said, “Fuck you, King Tut.”

The schvartze laughed.

I reached for my intro line. I lost it in the flight path of Marijuana Airways. I said the first thing that hit my head:

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