I pumped him for dope on Fred O. He said Freddy ran a string of snitches for Hush-Hush. He kept the secret dirt stash that was too hot for Hush-Hush to handle and had every fag bathhouse in the swish alps wired for sound.
Freddy beat up Japs at Manzanar. Freddy killed Japs on Saipan. Freddy broke the strike at the Ford plant in Pico Rivera. Freddy popped a Mickey Cohen punk named Hooky Rothman. Jack Dragna paid him ten grand. Freddy popped a Dragna punk. Mickey paid him ten grand.
I dropped the address-book names. Oscar didn’t know Johnny Stomp or Harvey the Creep. He said Steve Cochran packed the biggest schvantz in Tinseltown. He said Ida Lupino dried out at Mount Sinai last year. Freddy O snuck her Turpenhydrate. Ida loved Freddy. Ida feared Freddy. She fed him bits for Hush-Hush. Ida and the Schvantz were making a picture right now–some lox called Private Hell 36.
I hung up and called a guy at Variety. He said Private Hell 36 was shooting nights out in Duarte. Howard Duff costarred with Ida and the Schvantz.
I drove downtown and skulked around the main library. I pulled old clips and new clips and rolled microfilm. I came up with insinuating shit.
The drive-in heist was hot. Cal Dinkins took heat for Playboy. He bopped away from his stakeout post. Playboy plowed a barricade and skedaddled.
I saw a shot of Dinkins and Jack Webb. The Times called them “tight-knit.” Dinkins taught Webb how to play his part on Dragnet.
The Times ran heist copy. The Herald ran context.
The stakeout was covertly co-op: the LAPD and L.A. Sheriff’s. The stakeout was steeped in interagency grief. It went way back.
The Sheriff’s sanctioned Mickey Cohen’s Sunset Strip incursion. The LAPD hated Mickey. Mickey was bushwhacked on Sheriff’s turf in July ’49. He took two .12-gauge pellets and walked. His pal Neddie Herbert took a spread in the face. The case was unsolved. The LAPD was suspected. The key suspect was Officer Fred Otash.
Chief Parker hated Sheriff Biscailuz. Biscailuz hated Parker. The LAPD and Sheriff’s were knocking noggins now. The state legislature had their budgets up for review. Both agencies wanted more money. Both agencies wanted a cut of the other guys’ coin. The LAPD got more money now. Biscailuz wanted that money and more.
I skimmed a piece on Johnny Stompanato.
Johnny made bail on an extortion bounce. The Herald hinted at horny housewives and naughty snapshots. The D.A. declined to file charges.
The Herald ran a picture. Johnny looked like me. He was one handsome guinea side of beef.
I found a piece on Viv and Trent Woodard. Viv wrote poetry. Viv took colored kids to the Civic Light Opera. Trent lived off a trust fund. He filed suits for drunks and derelicts pistol-whipped and pounded by the LAPD.
I saw a shot of Viv. She’s doing a curtsy at some debutante ball. It’s ’47. She’s dark haired, rangy, and busty. She’s coming up on 45 fast.
The picture goosed my gonads. I wanted to rip it off the microfilm roll and tape it to my bomb-shelter ceiling.
I found a piece on Private Hell 36. It said the Schvantz disrupted the shoot with two dates in court. It implied Mickey Mouse misdemeanors.
I walked to a pay phone and called Oscar. I ran it by him. He said the Schvantz beat up a hooker and got caught with a fat bag of boo. Ida Lupino told him. She said the judge shot the Schvantz a suspended sentence in exchange for a part in his next picture.
My head buzzed like a bumblebee on Benzedrine. My names bopped in a tight spread.
I pressed Oscar. I wanted more dirt. Oscar said he couldn’t think. The doctors deregulated his daily dope drip.
He wanted Demerol. They gave him Dilantin. He wanted to duck down to Darktown and dig up some Dilaudid.
I pressed harder. Oscar said he talked to Barbara Payton. Babs said she had a thing with the Schvantz. She said the Schvantz measured in at 12.4 inches.
Harvey Glatman shaved my chest and taped on a microphone. I looked around his back room.