“Yeah?”
“Don’t act disingenuous and don’t look so handsome, or I’ll try to talk you out of it. And don’t let that chipped-toothed vixen french kiss you during your love scenes, or I will fucking _kill_ you both.”
Anchovy pizza on Leigh’s breath–I kissed her long and hard anyway.
9.
“This is my daughter’s movie debut, so I want a good deal of publicity surrounding it. You need men with no police records to play the kidnappers, in case any eyewitnesses get called in to look at mugshots, but they’ve got to be real hard boys who can act the parts convincingly. Now, check these guys out. Are they not the stuff criminal nightmares are made of?”
Introducing:
Fritz Shoftel–blond, crew-cut, fireplug-thick Teamster thug. Wire-rimmed glasses, acne scars, six extra knuckles minimum per hand. Pop/pop/pop–he stretched a few digits to show me they worked. Loud–a man in the adjoining booth winced.
Pat Marichal–dark-skinned Paraguayan beanpole with a stark resemblance to the morgue pic of Chief Joe Running Car. A smiler–tiki table torch light made his too-bright dentures gleam.
I said, “I’m impressed. But Slotnick’s Border Patrol cars got fried, so I’m not entirely sure there’s going to _be_ a movie.”
DePugh sipped his Mai-Tai. “I have faith in Sol. Any man that can eat cheese dip in the middle of a heart attack is resourceful.”
Shoftel stretched his fingers. “I studied acting under Stella Adler. My kidnapper’s motivation is that he’s a rape-o. I’ll maul the Staples babe a little bit for verisimilitude’s sake, you know, give her a few hickeys.”
Marichal chewed the fruit out of his Zombie. Those teeth– fucking incandescent. “I was a contract Indian at Universal until I got my Teamster card. My motivation’s a hatred of the white man. I drop a load of redskin grievance shit on you and Chris while I get ready to scalp you. You grab my tomahawk and slice me, then make your getaway. When you bring the cops back to the shack, they’ll see those scalps from those unsolved snuffs back in ’46. See, Fritzie’s the guy with the ransom-sex perv motives, and I’m the out-of-control guy that fucks this genius plan up.”
I said, “Who do you hit up for the ransom?”
DePugh: “Sol, and Charlie Morrison, the owner of the Mocambo. You see, Dick, I’m a cop, and I know what all cops know: that kidnappers are brainless scum who don’t know shit from Shinola. You and Chris are not exactly big name kidnap bait, and Morrison and Sol wouldn’t lift a finger to save you. This crime has to reek of vicious incompetence, and Fritz and Pat are two guys who know how to play the part.”
Shoftel said, “My parents abused me when I was a kid, so that’s why I’m a rapist.”
Marichal said, “The white eyes stole my people’s land and got me hooked on fire water. I need scalps to sate my blood lust and the ransom money to set up an Indian curio shop outside Bisbee, Arizona.”
DePugh tiki-torched a cigar. “We do the snatch in broad daylight outside your house. Pat and Fritz will haul you and Chris out to a mud-smeared Chevy, then transfer you to another car and drive you to Griffith Park. Fritz will call Sol with the first ransom demand, and Sol will haul ass to the Hollywood Police Station. You said that Getchell guy gets first crack at the story, and you said he hangs out at the Hollywood Station chasing tips. Okay, he’ll be there and overhear Sol tell the cops about the ransom demand. These are solid embellishments, and we’ve got time to set things up right, because we can’t move until Sol gets financing for the movie and it’s ready to shoot.”
Fiends by torchlight: rape-o/scalper/stage-door dad/rogue accordionist. We shook hands all around–Shoftel’s knuckles popped castanet-loud.
* * *
I went by Queen of Angels to see Sol.
A clerk told me he’d checked out against doctor’s advice. His forwarding address: Pink’s Hot Dogs, Melrose and La Brea.
I doubled back west. Pink’s was SRO–feed lines counter to curb. Sol hogged a pay phone and table at the rear–spritzing with one eye on a row of half-gnawed wienies.