Female voice: “Tell me more.”
I heard footsteps. I tossed the tap shit out a back window. The door blew off its hinges and landed on my lap. Two men charged me and beat me blank with big black saps.
I woke up chained to a chair. I saw a dress rack and an arc light. I recognized the dark little room.
Trailer #36 on the Private Hell 36 set.
Fred O and Johnny Stompanato stomped in front of me. They tapped black leather saps on their knees. I heard voices outside.
Jack Webb and Ida Lupino.
My head hurt. I felt woozy. My teeth felt loose. I saw tooth marks on the two saps.
Otash said, “Why’d you ditch out on Viv Woodard?”
Stomp said, “Why did you steal her car?”
Otash said, “Where’s the bug apparatus?”
Stomp said, “What did you and that Commie cooze discuss?”
I played it brave and stupid. I said, “Bah fungoo,” with full Italian inflection.
Stomp sapped me. I spat two teeth on his Sy Devore suit. Fred O flashed a newspaper. I caught a headline: PROMINENT LAWYER A SUICIDE.
Otash dropped the paper. “Our vice guys caught Woodard with his pants down. He bailed out and drank some Drãno. The kid they caught him with gave Hush-Hush a statement. The story’s going on the May cover, unless you convince the widow to sit on everything she might know about a certain police agency.”
I said, “Fuck you, Fritz.”
Otash sapped me. I spat two teeth on his Sy Devore suit. Otash sapped me again.
“Woodard’s dead, Dick. You’re not much use to us anymore, and you just might prove to be a liability. You killed a valuable buddy of ours, and brave and stupid guys like you are always better off dead.”
“Brave” and “stupid” clicked with “dead” and cleared my clogged head. I screamed like a scared little baby.
Otash clamped down on my arms. Johnny Stomp rolled up my shirtsleeves. Harvey Glatman and the nut-ward guy popped in my periphery.
Somebody stuck a spike in my arm. I whooshed into ecstasy and darkness.
Light and dark came and went. Hypodermic needles slipped in and out of my arms.
I went wonderful places. I returned to Private Hell 36. I fucked the mermaid from the Chicken of the Sea tuna can.
Harvey Glatman photographed my arms. Ida Lupino shot me up and shot my needle tracks with 3-D film. My bladder burst. Somebody said, “Oh, shit.”
I flew to Mars. The succubus siphoned my python and gave birth to trident-tailed twins. I apologized to her husband. He condemned my cowardice and deplored the damage I did. Howard dove for my dong. Linda Sidwell jumped on Jack Webb. Joi Lansing saw the Lupino loop and left me for the Schvantz.
I heard voices or ventriloquistic voodoo.
“We’ve got to move the master file tonight. Stash it someplace safe at your studio.”
“Yeah, boss.”
“Dump Contino someplace.”
“Levant scares me.”
“You never know what he knows.”
“He’s a hophead. Those guys crap out all the time, and nobody thinks twice.”
“Torture him and find out what he knows, then kill him.”
I flew to Pluto. I asked Mickey Mouse why they named a planet after his dog.
“You’ve got to move him or move the fucking trailer. He’s starting to smell, and our location permit expired.”
I flew to Neptune. I flew back to Private Hell 36. Joe Friday said, “Hitch the trailer.” A spike went in my arm. I flew to Venus. It looked like Las Vegas. I wondered how that could be so.
White.
White plastic. White Naugahyde. Maybe white leather. Tucked and tufted. Sticky. Stuck against my cheek.
White.
Stiff-starched. Mummifyingly tight.
I blinked. I yawned. I tried to rub my eyes. My hands didn’t move. My arms didn’t move. I had myself in a bear hug.
A big bug bounced my way. He bopped over white tucks and tufts. He got close. I tried to swat him. I couldn’t break the bear hug.
I rolled away. I slid on sticky white webs. I saw white-webbed walls and a white-webbed ceiling.
My head hurt. My body throbbed. My white world wiggled and wobbled.