The vehicle: parked by a shoeshine stand at 103 and Avalon. Customized: candy-apple red paint, mink interior, rhinestonestudded mud flaps. Bud said, “Let’s strip the upholstery and make our wives fur stoles”–Sid and I were thinking the same thing.
The team deployed.
I unpacked my accordion and slammed “Lady of Spain” right there. Sid and Bud walked point on Big Dog Lipscomb: across the street, brownbeating whores. Someone yelled, “Hey, that’s Dick Contino”–Watts riff-raff engulfed me.
I was pushed off the sidewalk–straight into Big Dog’s coon coach. An aerial snapped; my back hit the hood; I played prostrate and didn’t miss a note.
Look, Mom: no fear.
Foot scrapes, yells–dim intrusions on my reefer reverie. Hands yanked me off the hood–I went eyeball to eyeball with Big Dog Lipscomb.
He swung on me–I blocked the shot with my accordion. Contact: his fist, my keyboard. Sickening cracks: his bones, my breadand-butter baby.
Big Dog yelped and clutched his hand; some punk kicked him in the balls and picked his pocket. His car keys hit the gutter–with Bud Brown right there.
I was flipped and tossed in the car–Sid Elwell with some mean Judo moves. The sled zoomed–Sid with white knuckles on a mink steering wheel.
Look, Mom: no fear.
We rendezvoused at Teamster Local 1819–Bud brought the back-up sled. My accordion needed a face-lift–I was too weedwafted to sweat it.
Sid borrowed tools and stripped the mink upholstery; I signed autographs for goldbricking Teamsters. That lightbulb POP! flickered anew: “Draft dodger thing. . . gives you something to overcome.” That car chase crowded my brain: temp license 1116, Dot Rothstein after Chrissy or something else?
Bud shmoozed up the Local prez–more information pump than friendly talk. A Teamster begged me to play “Bumble Boogie”–I told him my accordion died. I posed for pix instead–the prez slipped me a Local “Friendship Card.”
“You never can tell, Dick. You might need a real job someday.”
Too true–a wet towel on my hot fearless day.
Noon–I took Sid and Bud to the Pacific Dining Car. We settled in behind T-bones and hash browns–small talk came easy for a while.
Sid put the skids to it. “Dick. . . ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“You know. . . your Army rap?”
“What about it?”
“You know … you don’t impress me as a frightened type of guy.”
Bud piped in: “As Big Dog Lipscomb will attest to. It’s just that
you know”
I said, “Say it. It feels like I’m close to something.”
Sid said it. “You know . . . it’s like this. Someone says ‘Dick Contino’, and the first thing you think of is ‘Coward’ or maybe ‘Draft Dodger’. It’s like a reflex, when you should be thinking ‘Accordion player’ or ‘Singer’ or ‘Good repo back-up.”
I said, “Finish the thought.”
Bud: “What Sid’s saying is how do you get around that? Bob Yeakel says it’s a life sentence, but isn’t there something you can do?”
Closer now–lightbulb hot–so HOT I pushed it away. “I don’t know.”
Sid said, “You can always do something, if you’ve got nothing to lose.”
I changed the subject. “A car was tailing me last night. I think it might be this lezbo cop who’s hipped on Chrissy.”
Bud whooped. “Put her on “Rocket to Stardom.” Let her sing ‘Once I Had a Secret Love.”
“I’m not a 100 percent sure it’s her, but I got the last four digits of the license plate. The whole thing spooks me.”
“So it was just a temporary sticker? Permanent plates only have three letters and three digits.”
“Right, 1116. I thought Bob could call the DMV and get a make for me.”
Bud checked his watch, antsy. “Not without all nine digits. But ask Bob anyway, _after_ the show tomorrow It’s a Pizza De-Luxe gig, and he always bangs his favorite ‘contestant’ after the show. Mention it to him then, and maybe he’ll call some clerk he knows and tell him to look up all the 1116’s.”
A waitress crowded up menu first. “Are you Dick Contino? My daddy doesn’t like you ’cause he’s a veteran, but my mom thinks you’re real cute. Could I have your autograph?”
* * *
“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Dick Contino welcoming you to ‘Rocket to Stardom’–where tomorrow’s stellar performers reach for the moon and haul down a few stars! Where all of you in our television audience and here at Yeakel Oldsmobile can seal your fate in a Rocket 88!”