“The waiter at the restaurant recognized you and called me!”
My sight came back blurry–I charged and sideswiped a tree.
“Dick, I’ve got pix of you and the redhead holding hands!”
A flashbulb popped–I picked myself up seeing stars.
“I’ve got a shot of you and the twist walking by the Hi-Hat Motel!”
I charged the voice–“Dick, you can buy out with money or trade out with a story! Don’t you know some queers you can rat?”
I tripped on a hubcap and went sprawling. Jane yelled, “My dad’s a policeman _and_ a lawyer, you extortionist cocksucker!”
Flashbulb pop-pop-pop–my whole world went bright white.
“Dick, your zipper’s down!”
I flailed on my knees and glimpsed trouser legs. Those legs went spastic–I caught a blurred shot of Jane shoving Getchell.
Gray flannel up close–I grabbed and yanked. Getchell hit the pavement; Jane smashed his camera on the curb.
“I dropped the film off, you dumb guinea shitbird!”
My hands/his neck–made for each other. _My_ voice, surreal to my own ears: “If you tell Leigh, I’ll kill you. I’ve got no money, and the only story I’ve got is too good for you.”
Choking out raspy: “You bluff. I call.”
I tightened my grip. Choking out bone dry: “You bluff. I call.”
Door slams, background voices. Jane said, “Dick, there’s witnesses. My dad says eyewitnesses get killers the death penalty.”
Getchell, bedrock bone dry: “You bluff. I call.”
I let go. Getchell hunkered up and ass-scooted away. I pulled him back by the hair and whispered, “I’m working out a fake kidnap thing with some pros. I won’t give you the exclusive, but I’ll give you first crack at my own account.”
Getchell choked out, “Deal.”
Jane helped me up. Miss Teen Temptress was snaggle-toothed now
8.
Fort Contino, cabin-fevered up.
Leigh and Chris practiced knife throws; the “I want to fuck you to death” note corkboard-mounted served as a target. Nancy Ankrum kept her snout stuck in the _Herald_: the West Hollywood Whipcord hit again. Kay Van Obst on maintenance duty: oiling pistols and shotguns.
The girls had spent the night–“Barracks Contino.” Bob Yeakel sent a food supply over: a half-dozen Pizza De-Luxe pizzas. A note accompanied them: “Chrissy Dear, be of strong heart. My pal at the DMV goes back to work in a week, and I’ll have him start checking temporary licenses then. Dinner soon? Romanoff’s or Perino’s?”
Leigh kept me under fisheye surveillance: I came home last night with ripped pants and a mangled car. My excuse: some punks tried to hijack my accordion. Leigh was skeptical. I kept smelling Jane’s shampoo–maybe Alberto VOS, maybe Breck.
I got Kay alone. “Can you call Pete and deliver sort of a cryptic message? I’ll explain later.”
“Well . . . sure.”
“Tell him to talk to the agent assigned to the Westwood People’s Study Collective. Tell him to tell the agent that I know for a fact that Sol Slotnick is not going to shoot the movie Wetback! Tell Pete that Slotnick is _not a Red_, he’s just a movie clown trying to make money and get laid.”
Kay got it straight and grabbed the hall phone; I covered her so Leigh wouldn’t hear. Whispers, whispers–a nudge in my back.
“Pete said he’ll pass it along, and he said that you’ve got a certain credibility. He said that if the agent isn’t at the meeting tonight, you’ll know he bought your story.”
Good–some intrigue resolving my way. The doorbell rang– Nancy checked the peephole and opened up smiling.
Pizza De-Luxe with three piping hot pies. Sizzling cheese and anchovies–unmistakable. Ramon of “Ramon and Johnny” trilled, “Buon Appetite!”
* * *
I got lost: lunch by myself, a cruise to the beach, dinner solo. I stewed, I fretted–shakedown Danny Getchell, my ratched-up car. Dave DePugh and Janie, Sol Slotnick, the kidnap–some four-orfive-or-six-horse parlay buzz-bombed my brain. Wires crossed, sputtered and finally made contact–I drove straight to the Westwood Collective and parked with an eye on the door.
7:58–Sol Slotnick walked in.
8:01 to 8:06–assorted beatniks walked in.
8:09–Jane DePugh walked in.
8:09 to 9:02–no Fed man in sight–Pete Van Obst probably put the fix in.
9:04–I stationed myself by that door.
Jane and Sol walked out first; I gathered them up in one big embrace. “Not _Wetback!_, _Border Patrol!_ You’ve got the cars, and you can hire some non-illegals to play illegals! The movie stars Janie and me, and we can start working on the script tonight! Sol, I pulled the Feds off your ass, so now we can work this deal free and clear!”