Three deadpans.
Three-way silence–I clocked it at one minute.
Sid coughed. “This is certifiably nuts.”
Chris coughed and lit a cigarette. “I like it. If it works, it works. If it doesn’t, Dick and I go to jail. We’ve both been to jail, so we know we can survive. I say maybe this is the real “Rocket to Stardom,” and if it isn’t, c’est-la-goddamn-guerre. I say better to try it than not to. I say the entertainment business thrives on bullshit, so why not try to shovel some of our own?”
Bud strafed me: wary eyes, working on sad. “It’s dangerous. It’s illegal, probably to the tune of a couple of years in jail. And you’re what the cops would call a ‘known associate’ of me and Sid. I could probably set you up with some guys more removed, so the cops couldn’t link you to them. See, Dick, what I’m thinking is: if you’re _determined_ to do it, then maybe we could make some money by cutting down the chance you’ll get caught. _If you’re determined to do it, hell or high water_.”
Those eyes–why so _sad?_
“I’m determined.”
Bud pushed his drink aside. “Then it has to look real. Let’s go, there’s a place you should see.”
* * *
We convoyed up to Griffith Park and went hiking. There it was: a shack tucked into a box canyon a mile north of the Observatory.
Hard to spot: scrub bushes blocked the canyon entrance off.
Tumbleweeds covered the roof–the shack couldn’t be seen from the air.
The door was open. Stink wafted out: dead animals, dead something. Dig the interior: a mattress on the floor, blood-encrusted pelts stacked on a table.
Chris said, “Scalps,” and covered her nose.
I looked closer–yeah–SCALPS.
Sid crossed himself. Bud said, “I found this place a few years ago. I was on a hiking jaunt with a buddy and stumbled onto it. Those scalps spooked the living bejeezus out of me, and I checked with this cop pal of mine. He said back in ’46 some crazy Indian escaped from Atascadero, killed six people and scalped them. The Indian was never captured, and if you look close, you’ll see six scalps there.”
I looked close. Six scalps, all right–one replete with braids and a plastic barette.
Chris and Sid lit cigarettes–the stink diminuendoed. I said, “Bud, what are you saying?”
“That at least one of your kidnappers should be made up to look like an Indian. That this dump as the kidnapper’s stash place would gain you some points for realism. That a psycho Indian who might be long dead makes a good fall guy.”
Chris said, “If this works and my career takes off, I’ll give you each 10 percent of my gross earnings for the next ten years. If it doesn’t work, I’ll cash in some stocks my dad left me and split the money between you, and I’ll sleep with both of you at least once.”
Sid howled. Chris poked a scalp and said, “Ick. Icky lizard.”
I said, “Count me in, minus the bed stuff. If the gig doesn’t fly or get results, I’ll fork over the pink slip on my 88.”
Four-way handshakes. A bird squawked outside–I flinched wicked bad.
5.
Scalps.
Indian fall guys.
Teamster goons.
Encore: Dick Contino, truculent guinea hood.
Who _didn’t_ tell his wife: I’m knee-deep in a hot kidnap caper.
Monday morning twinkled new-beginning-bright. I walked out for the paper–a fuzz type was lounging on my car. I’d seen him before: hobknobbing with Bud Brown at Yeakel Olds.
I eeeased over guinea hood coool. Fear: my legs evaporated.
He held up a badge. “My name’s DePugh. I’m an investigator for the McClellan Senate Rackets Committee. Bud Brown snitched you for Conspiracy to Kidnap, Conspiracy to Defraud and Conspiracy to Perpetuate a Public Hoax, and believe me, he did you a big favor. Hand me the contents of your outside jacket pockets.”
I complied. Felony bingo: repo run reefers. Bud Brown: lying rat motherfucker.
DePugh said, “Add Possession of Marijuana to those charges, and put that shit back in your pockets before your neighbors see it.”
I complied. DePugh whipped out a sheet of paper. “Dear Dick: I couldn’t let you and Chrissy go through with it. You would have gotten caught in your lies and everybody would have gotten hurt, me and Sid included. I told Mr. DePugh, who is a nice guy, so that he would stop you but not get you in trouble. Mr. DePugh said there is a favor you could do for him, so my advice is to do it. I’m sorry I finked you off, but I did it for your own good. Your pal, Bud Brown.”