I miss Howard and Mickey, and writing this story about them has only made it worse. It’s tough being a dangerous old man by yourself–you’ve got nothing but memories and no one with the balls to understand them.
GRAVY TRAIN
Out of the Honor Farm and into the work force: managing the maintenance crew at a Toyota dealership in Koreatown. Jap run, a gook clientele, boogies for the shitwork and me, Stan “The Man” Klein, to crack the whip and keep on-duty loafing at a minimum. My probation officer got me the gig: Liz Trent, skinny and stacked, four useless Masters degrees, a bum marriage to a guy on methadone maintenance and the hots for yours truly. She knew I got off easy: three convictions resulting from the scams I worked with Phil Turkel–a phone sales racket that involved the deployment of hard core ioops synced to rock songs and naugahyde bibles embossed with glow-in-the-dark pictures of the Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr.–a hot item with the shvartzes. We ran a drug recovery crashpad as a front, subhorned teenyboppers into prostitution, coerced male patients into phone sales duty and kept them motivated with Benzedrine-laced espresso–all of which peaked at twenty-four grand jury bills busted down to three indictments apiece. Phil had no prior record, was strung out on cocaine and got diverted to a drug rehab; I had two G.T.A. convictions and no chemical rationalizations–bingo on a year County time, Wayside Honor Rancho, where my reputation as a lackluster heavyweight contender got me a dorm boss job. My attorney, Miller Waxman, assured me a sentence reduction was in the works; he was wrong–counting “good time” and “work time” I did the whole nine and a half months. My consolation prize: Lizzie Trent, Waxman’s ex-wife, for my P.0.–guaranteed to cut me a long leash, get me soft legitimate work and give me head before my probationary term was a month old. I took two out of three: Lizzie had sharp teeth and an overbite, so I didn’t trust her on the trifecta. I was at my desk, watching my slaves wash cars, when the phone rang.
I picked up. “Yellow Empire Imports, Klein speaking.”
“Miller Waxman here.”
“Wax, how’s it hangin’?”
“A hard yard–and you still owe me money on my fee. Seriously, I need it. I lent Liz some heavy coin to get her teeth capped.”
The trifecta loomed, “Are you dunning me?”
“No, I’m a Greek bearing gifts at 10% interest.”
“Such as?”
“Such as this: a grand a week cash and three hots and a cot at a Beverly Hills mansion, all legit. I take a tensky off the top to cover your bill. The clock’s ticking, so yes or no?”
I said, “Legit?”
“If I’m lyin’, I’m flyin’. My office in an hour?”
“I’ll be there.”
* * *
Wax worked out of a storefront on Beverly and Alvarado–close to his clientele–dope dealers and wetbacks hot to bring the family up from Calexico. I doubleparked, put a “Clergyman on Call” sign on my windshield and walked in.
Miller was in his office, slipping envelopes to a couple of Immigration Service goons–big guys with that hinky look indigenous to bagmen worldwide. They walked out thumbing Cnotes; Wax said, “Do you like dogs?”
I took a chair uninvited. “Well enough. Why?”
“Why? Because Phil feels bad about lounging around up at the Betty Ford Clinic while you went inside. He wants to play catch up, and he asked me if I had ideas. A plum fell into my lap and I thought of you.”
Weird Phil: facial scars and a line of shit that could make the Pope go Protestant. “How’s Phil doing these days?”
“Not bad. Do you like dogs?”
“Like I said before, well enough. Why?”
Wax pointed to his clients’ wall of fame–scads of framed mugshots. Included: Leroy Washington, the “Crack King” of Watts; Chester Hardell, a TV preacher indicted for unnatural acts against cats; the murderous Sanchez family–scores of inbred cousins foisted on L.A. as the result of Waxie’s green card machinations. In a prominent spot: Richie “The Sicko” Sicora and Chick Ottens, the 7–11 Slayers, still at large. Picaresque: Sicora and Ottens heisted a convenience store in Pacoima and hid the salesgirl behind an upended Slurpee machine to facilitate their escape. The machine disgorged its contents: ice, sugar and carcinogenic food coloring; the girl, a diabetic, passed out, sucked in the goo, went into sugar shock and kicked. Sicora and Ottens jumped bail for parts unknown–and Wax got a commendation letter from the ACLU, citing his tenacity in defending the L.A. underclass.