My bennie jag was wearing down–I stifled a yawn. A carload of pachucos cruised by; one vato eyeballed me mean. I walked back in to give the script a last look.
Sol had a saltine Dagwood going: peanut butter, lox spread, sardines. Jane was sCoping her chipped tooth in a compact. I said, “Get your dad to set you up with a good dentist.”
“No. I’ve decided it will be my trademark. Dick, we were so close when that car hit us. We were so close that you couldn’t have refused me.”
Sol sprayed cracker crumbs. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Noise: front door scrapes, a bottle breaking. Then KAAAWHOOOOOOSH–fire eating sewing machines, garment racks, air.
Rushing at us, oxygen fed–
Sol grabbed his Cheez Whiz and ran. Jane’s knees went; I picked her up and stumbled toward the back exit. Big time heat behind us–I caught an over-the-shoulder glimpse of mannequins sizzling.
Sol hit the exit door–cool air, sunshine. Jane moaned in my arms and actually smiled. I risked a look back–flames torched the Border Patrol cars.
BOOM–an air clap hit me. Jane and I went topsy-turvy airborne.
* * *
A dim voice:
“. . . yeah, and we held it back from the press. Right. . . we had an eyeball witness on the last Whipcord snuffs. No, he only saw the killer’s vehicle. No license numbers, but the guy got away in a ’53 Buick Skylark, light in color. Yeah, needle in a haystack stuff
there’s probably six thousand of the fuckers registered in California. Yeah, right, I’ll call you–”
Bench slats raked my back. Not so dim: a phone slammed receiver to cradle. My eyes fluttered open behind a huge headache– a police squadroom came into focus.
A cop said, “You’re supposed to say, ‘Where am I?”
Lightish ’53 SkylarklWhipcord vehicle/Chrissy.
I said, “Did the eyewitness say the car had a _temporary_ license?”
Quick on the uptake: “No, the witness didn’t specify, and temp licenses only account for eight percent of all registered vehicles, so I’d call it a longshot that’s none of your business. _Now_, you’re supposed to say, ‘How did I get here’ and ‘Where’s the redhead that I was passed out with.”
My head throbbed. My bones ached. My lungs belched up a smoke aftertaste. “Okay, I’ll bite.”
Fat Joe Plainclothes smiled. “You’re at the West Hollywood Sheriff’s Substation. You may not recall it, but you refused medical help at the arson scene and signed autographs for the ambulance attendants. The driver asked you to play ‘Lady of Spain,’ and you passed out again walking to your car to get your accordion. Sol Slotnick is in stable condition at the cardiac ward at Queen of Angels, and the redhead’s father picked her up and drove her home. There’s an APB out for the spics that tossed the Molotov, and Mr. DePugh left you a note.”
I reached out woozy; the cop forked a memo slip over.
“Dick–the bar at the Luau tonight at eight. There’s some boys I want you to meet. P.S.–Slotnick got the script pages out, so we’re still on schedule. P.P.S.–what happened to Janie’s tooth?”
Woozy–weak legs, hand tremors. The cop said, “Your car’s in the back lot with the keys under the mat. Go home.”
I woozy-legged it outside. Clear, smogless, so bright my eyes stung. Soot hung in the eastbound air–R.I.P., Sol Slotnick Productions.
* * *
Leigh was waiting on the Fort Contino porch. Armed: a .45 in her belt, a black & white glossy held up.
Jane DePugh and I–passed out entwined behind Sol Slotnick’s sweat shop.
“Marty Bendish from the _Times_ brought this by. He owes Bob Yeakel a favor, so it won’t be printed. Now, will you explain your behavior for the past week or so?”
I did.
Chrissy, Bud Brown, scalps, redskin fall guys–publicity kidnap extroardinaire. Dave DePugh and horny daughter extrication; the People’s Collective/Sol Slotnick/_Border Patrol!_ The off-chance that the tail car man and Whipcord were one; DePugh as the new kidnap mastermind.
Leigh said, “When you get out of prison I’ll be waiting.”
“That won’t happen.”
“My mother said Italians were all suckers for big gestures, which is why they wrote such great operas.”