Viv said, “Dick, what is it? You look abstracted all of a sudden.”
I moved in on her. I mixed a martini and guzzled it for guts. Viv ran a sloooow hand down my cheek.
“I’m tired of talking about my husband, and I’m tired of talking in general. Let me duck into the loo for a moment.”
I kissed her hand. I made her as musk as Matchabelli’s Midnight Madness. She smiled and popped into a powder room by the door.
I popped to the front window. I pulled the drapes. I doused a light behind me and looked out. A breeze blew in. I peeped and perked my ears.
Two cars at the curb. A curbside confab. The nut-ward guy and the goon. Danny Getchell and the kid who cozied up to Woodard at the gala.
Standing and smoking and staring into a book.
The goon said, “What’s that?” The kid said, “It’s a flicking thesaurus.” Danny said, “Limp-wristed lawyer lollygags at lavender lovefest! Pinko plutocrat paralyzed as cops cop preadult playmate!” The kid said, “Cute, but remember–a C-note down and no ass action.”
“Come here, Dick.”
I pulled the drapes. I turned around slooooow.
Vivid Viv in a sheer peach peignoir. Embroidered: crossed cocks and pointy pudenda and fierce fertility gods.
“Come here, Dick.”
She wanted to siphon my seed. SHE was the succubus!!!
I panicked. I tore through my pockets for garlic cloves or wolfsbane. Viv jumped on me.
She tore at my jacket. She tore at my shirt. She tore at the power pack packed on my pectoral muscles.
She stopped. My microphone flopped free and dropped down to my cummerbund. She saw the wires and the tangled-up tape.
The succubus shrieked. She clawed my chest and kicked me in the balls.
The succubus went for my eyes.
I blocked her hands. I judo-chopped her. I caught her on the neck and dumped her flat. I ran–
I got out the door. The nut-ward guy and the goon counterattacked. They jumped in their car and blocked off the driveway.
I went for my car keys. They were gone. I lost them when I grabbed for garlic cloves or wolfsbane.
Somebody whispered, “Get back in there and fuck her!” Danny Getchell whispered, “Don’t run!” Somebody whispered, “Quiet– or she’ll hear us!”
I ran to the Packard Caribbean. I found the keys in the dash. I hit the gas and rammed my dad’s car.
It spun into the big backyard. It spun off wet grass and spun into a swimming pool. It sunk down to its tailpipes.
I hit my headlights. I saw a trellised fence and a dark golf course. I punched the gas and plowed through the fence and spun fishtails and wild figure 8’s.
II
5
I made it up to the Strip. I leveled nine golf holes and left three miles of grassy tire tracks behind me.
The Packard was mud mottled and stained grass green. I ditched it with the valet outside Ciro’s. I walked in and caught three bars of “You Belong to Me.”
It tremolo’d and trickled through the foyer. I stepped into the main room and caught it full on. Joi Lansing held the room hostage. Blonde hair and spray-painted spangles in a hot spotlight.
I stood at the back and scoped the room long-distance. Harvey Glatman stood behind some drapes draping off a side exit. He stared at la Lansing. He had his hands full.
He held out a little camera. The drapes popped and puckered off his pelvis. Harvey was pounding his pud.
I looked left. I looked right. The room rocked to a torch-song tempo. Jack Webb sat ringside. He wept into a Rob Roy and tossed red roses onstage. Joi ignored him. Two toady types consoled him.
They screamed “LAPD.” The scene outside the Woodard house screamed “BACKUP SHAKEDOWN.” I was set to crucify a Commie. Hush-Hush was set to humble him as a homo. The package screamed “LAPD.”
Joi whispered. Joi warbled. Joi torched Jack Webb’s heart and tossed it away.
I couldn’t brace her yet. I got the Packard and laid tracks for the San Gabriel Valley.
I found the location. I watched Private Hell 36 wrap. The shoot had to shoot into my whole web of intrigue.