He said yes, and asked what the books would be about. I said, “Fear, courage and heavily compromised redemptions.”
He said, “Good, I think I’ve been there.”
The night was cold; Las Vegas neon eclipsed every star overhead. The sky seemed to expand as I wondered what this time and place meant.
DICK CONTINO’S BLUES
I’m enjoying a half-assed Renaissance these days.
Some dago festa gigs, some lounge work. A gooood spot on an AIDS Telethon–my “Lady of Spain” reprise goosed ten grand in contributions and got me a surreptitious blow job from a college girl working the phone lines. _Daddy-O_ was released on video, and film critics hooked on ’50s kitsch have been bugging me for interviews.
Their questions have my memory turning cartwheels. It’s ’58 again–I’m an accordionist/singer top-lining a “B” flick for chump change. Did you write “Rock Candy Baby” and “Angel Act” yourself? Did you pour the pork to your co-star, that blonde from the Mark C. Bloome tire ads? Who did your wardrobe, who did your stunts–how’d you get that ‘Si Ford airborne, the fuzz in hot pursuit–the footage looked real, but hastily spliced in.
I always try to answer truthfully.
I always write off the leaping car as movie magic.
In all candor, I made that supercharged/dual-quad/cheaterslicked motherfucker FLY. There’s a story behind it–my loving farewell to L.A. back then.
1.
I was bombing.
Atom bombing: sweaty hands, shakes pending. My back-up combo sounded off-sync–I knew it was me, jumping ahead of the beat. BIG ROOM FEAR grabbed my nuts; headlines screamed:
“Contino Tanks Lackluster Crowd at Crescendo!”
“Contino Lays Pre-Easter Egg at Sunset Strip Opening!”
“Bumble Boogie” to “Ciribiribin”–a straight-for-the-jugular accordion segue. I put my whole body into a bellows shake; my brain misfired a message to my fingers. My fingers obeyed–I slammed out the “Tico-Tico” finale. Contagious misfires: my combo came in with a bridge theme from “Rhapsody in Blue.”
I just stood there.
House lights snapped on. I saw Leigh and Chrissy Staples, Nancy Ankrum, Kay Van Obst. My wife, my friends–plus a shitload of first nighters oozing shock.
“Rhapsody in Blue” fizzled out behind me. BIG ROOM FEAR clutched my balls and SQUEEZED.
I tried patter. “Ladies and gentlemen, that was ‘Dissonance Jump,’ a new experimental twelve-tone piece.”
My friends yukked. A geek in a Legionnaire cunt cap yelled, “Draft Dodger!”
Instant silence–big room loud. I froze on Joe Patriot: boozeflushed, Legion cap, Legion armband. My justification riff stood ready: I went to Korea, got honorably discharged, got pardoned by Harry S Truman.
No, try this: “Fuck you. Fuck your mother. Fuck your dog.”
The Legionnaire froze. I froze. Leigh froze behind a smile that kissed off two grand a week, two weeks minimum.
The whole room froze.
Cocktail debris pelted me: olives, ice, whisky sour fruit. My accordion dripped maraschino cherries–I slid it off and set it down behind some footlights.
My brain misfired a message to my fists: kick Joe Patriot’s ass.
I vaulted the stage and charged him. He tossed his drink in my face; pure grain spirits stung my eyes and blinded me. I blinked, sputtered, and swung haymakers. Three missed; one connected– the impact made me wah-wah quiver. My vision cleared–I thought I’d see Mr. America dripping teeth.
I was wrong.
Joe Legion–gone. In his place, cut cheekbone-deep by my rock-encrusted guinea wedding ring: Cisco Andrade, the world’s #1 lightweight contender.
Sheriff’s bulls swarmed in and fanned out. Backstopping them: Deputy Dot Rothstein, 200 + pounds of bull dyke with the hots for my friend Chris Staples.
Andrade said, “You dumb son-of-a-bitch.”
I just stood there.
My eyes dripped gin; my left hand throbbed. The Crescendo main room went phantasmagoric:
There’s Leigh: juking the cops with “Dick Contino, Red Scare Victim” rebop. There’s the Legionnaire, glomming my sax man’s autograph. Dot Rothstein’s sniffing the air–my drummer just ducked backstage with a reefer. Chrissy’s giving Big Dot a wide berth–they worked a lezbo entrapment gig once–Dot’s had a torch sizzling ever since.
Shouts. Fingers pointed my way. Mickey Cohen with his bulldog Mickey Cohen, Jr.–snout deep in a bowl of cocktail nuts. Mickey, Sr., nightclub Jesus–slipping the boss deputy a cash wad.
Andrade squeezed my ratched-up hand–I popped tears. “You play your accordion at my little boy’s birthday party. He likes clowns, so you dress up like Chucko the Clown. You do that and we’re even.”