Chrissy’s new instinct: Dot wasn’t the tail fiend. “I don’t know, Dick. I think maybe Dot’s too fat to pull shit that sinister.”
“. . . it is thus not untoward to state that police violence is violence aimed at subjugating the lower stratas of society.”
I flicked a cat turd off my chair. Jane crossed her legs my way– ooooooh, daddy!
A man walked in and sat down. Thirty-fiveish, hipster garb: sandals, Beethoven sweatshirt. _I_ made _him_: an FBI face in the crowd at my desertion trial.
_He_ made _me_: a 1/2 second quizzical look.
He didn’t make _me_ make _him_–I glued on a deadpan quicksville.
Fed sharks circling–Janie, watch your mouth.
The Head Red called for questions. Jane said, “My dad’s an investigator with the McClellan Committee. They’re investigating corrupt labor unions, so I hope you’re not going to tell us that all unions are squeaky clean.”
Sol Slotnick raised a hand. “I ditto that sentiment. I made a picture once called _Picket Line!_ I had some connections in the garment rack–I mean trade, and I had a kickback–I mean a reciprocal agreement going with the owner of a sweat sh–I mean factory, who let me film his peons–I mean workers, at work. Uh . . . uh. . . uh, I saw good on both sides of the picket line, which . . . uh. . . is why _Picket Line!_ was the title of the movie.”
Sol looked at Jane. Jane looked at me. The Fed inched his chair away from a cat box.
The beatniks walked out oozing boredom. The Commie Commissar harumphed.
Sol, eyes on Jane: “I’m, uh, thinking of making a picture about that killer that’s strangling those kids up on the Strip, you know, the West Hollywood Whipcord. I want to show him as a. . . uh… out-of-work union guy who got fucked–I mean loused up by corrupt management practices. And. . . uh . . . when the cops shoot him, he’s gonna decry the corruption of the system while he spits blood and repents. It’s gonna be like _Picket Line!_ I’m gonna show good and bad on both sides of the fence. I might even go the whole hog and have a Negro cop! See, this schvartze gas station attendant I know has taken some acting classes. I think I could do good business with this picture and do some social good to boot. I think I’ll call it _Sunset Strip Strangler!_”
Sol looked at Jane.
Jane looked at me.
The Fed looked at Sol.
The Boss Pinko said, “Mr. Contino, you’re acquainted with the dark side of the police experience. Would you care to offer comments?”
“Yeah. I agree with everything Jane said.”
Jane threw me a swoon. Sol muttered, “Goyische prick”–I barely caught it. Mr. Commissar sighed. “Sometimes I think I’m running a lonely hearts club. And on that note, let’s call it a night. We’ll have coffee at the usual place, and I’ll do my best to upgrade the conversation.”
* * *
We hit Truman’s Drive-In and commandeered a booth. Sol slid in next to Jane; I sandwiched her from the flip side.
The Fed and the Red sat buddy-buddy close. Jane pressed into me–her nylons went scree-scree.
I signalled a waitress–coffee all-around.
The Fed said, “My name’s Mitch Rachlis.”
Introductons flew quick–the Commie tagged himself Mort Jastrow. I ditzed Rachlis: “You look familiar, Mitch.”
Smart fucker: “My wife’s a fan of yours. We caught you at the El Rancho Vegas way back when, and a couple of times at the Flamingo lounge. We always sit up close, so maybe that’s why I look familiar.”
Smart fucker/good improvisor.
Sol moved on Jane. “Have you ever considered a career in motion pictures?”
Jane scrunched my way. “I’m keeping that option open. In fact, right now I’ve narrowed my career choices down to doctor, lawyer or movie star.”
“I could help you. If _Sunset Strip Strangler!_ floats, you could play one of the victims. Can you sing?”
“I certainly can. In fact, that’s my fourth career option: recording star.”
“Sweetie, that’s wonderful. See, I could cast you as a nightclub songstress that attracts men like flies on sh–I mean like moths to the flame. The West Hollywood Whipcord gets a big boner–I mean a big thing going for you, and you get to perform a few numbers to showcase your singing skills.”