“This happens sometimes. When it does, Bob calls Pizza DeLuxe.”
“What–”
“Ask Bob.”
I walked into Yeakel’s office. Bob was eyeballing his wall plaque: Miss Nugget, June ’54.
“What’s Pizza De-Luxe?”
“Are your auditions going _that_ bad?”
“I’m thinking of calling those roller skating dogs back. Bob, what’s–”
“Pizza De-Luxe is a prostitution racket. An ex-Jack Dragna goon who owns a greasy spoon called the Pizza Pad runs it. He delivers pizza 24 hours a day legit, and if you want a girl or a dicey boy on the side, a male or female prostitute will make the delivery. All of the hookers are singers or dancers or Hollywood riff-raff like that, you know, selling some skin to make ends meet until they get their so-called ‘big break.’ So . . . if I get strapped for decent contestants, I call Pizza De-Luxe. I get some good pizza, some good ‘amateur’ talent, and my top-selling salesman of the month gets laid.”
I checked the window A transvestite dance team practiced steps by the grease rack–Bud Brown and a cop type shooed them off. I said, “Bob, call Pizza De-Luxe.”
Yeakel blew his wall plaque kisses. “I think Chrissy should win this next show”
“Chrissy’s a professional. She’s singing back-up for Buddy GreCo at the Mocambo right now”
“I know that, but I want to do her a solid. And I’ll let you in on a secret: my applause meter’s rigged.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s a car battery hooked up to an oscilloscope screen. I’ve got a foot pedal I tap to goose the needle. I’m sure Chris would like to win–it’s a C-note and a free down payment on a snappy new Oldsmobile.”
I laughed. “With debilitating _monthly_ payments?”
“Normally, yes. But with Chrissy I’m sure we could work something else out.”
“I’ll tell her. I’m sure she’ll play along, at least as far as the ‘free’ down payment.”
Bob’s phone rang–he picked up, listened, hung up. I scoped the window–Bud Brown and the fuzz type saw me and turned away, nervous.
Bob said, “I might have a way for you to buy out of your second “Rocket to Stardom” commitment.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’ve got to think it over first. Dick, I’m going to call Pizza DeLuxe right now. Will you. . .”
“Talk to Chrissy and tell her she just won an amateur talent contest rigged by this car kingpin who wants to stroke her ‘Tail Fins’?”
“Right. And ask for what she wants on her pizza.”
* * *
Chris was outside the sales shack, smoking.
I spilled quick. “Bob’s bringing in some quasi-pro talent for Sunday’s show He wants you to sing a couple of songs. You’re guaranteed to win, and he’s got mild expectations.”
“If he keeps them mild, he won’t be disappointed.”
Smoke rings drifted up–a sure sign that Chrissy was distracted.
“Something on your mind?”
“No, just my standard boogie man.”
“I know what you mean, but if you tell me you’ll probably feel better.”
Chris flicked her cigarette at a Cutlass demo. “I’m 32, and I’ll always earn a living as an entertainer, but I’ll never have a hit record. I like men too much to settle down and have a family, and I like myself too much to sell my tush to clowns like Bob Yeakel.”
“And?”
“And nothing. Except that a car followed me after my Mocambo gig last night. It was scary–like the driver was checking me out for some reason. I think it might be Dot Rothstein. I think she got re-hipped on me after she saw me at your show at the Crescendo.”
“Was she at the Mocambo last night?”
“Yes. And it’s in L.A. _County_ jurisdiction, and she’s an L.A. County Deputy Sheriff, which means. . . shit, I don’t know. Dick, will you and Leigh come to Buddy’s show tonight? Dot knows you’re friends with Mickey Cohen, and it might discourage her from making any moves.”
“We’ll be there.”
Chris hugged me. “You know what I envy about your career?”
“What?”
“That at least you’re _notorious_. At least that draft dodger thing gives you something to. . . I don’t know, at least _overcome_.”
A lightbulb went POP!–but I didn’t know what it meant.