The judge found me guilty and sentenced me: six months in the Federal pen at McNeil Island, Washington.
I did the time. I put on a sadistic face to deter butt-fuckers. Accordion slinging gave me big muscles–I hulked and popped my biceps. Mickey Cohen, in for income tax evasion, befriended me. My daily routine: yard trusty work, squeeze-box impromptus. Ingratiating showman/psycho con–a schizophrenic performance that got me through my sentence unmolested.
Released–January, ’52. Slinking/creeping/crawling anxiety: _what happens next?_
Winter ’52–one big publicity watch. Big “Contino Out of Jail” coverage–most of it portrayed me as a coward case-hardened by prison.
Residual fear: would I now be drafted?
Winter ’52–no gigs, BIG ROOM or otherwise. My draft notice arrived–this time I played the game.
Basic training, communications school, Korea. Fear back-burner-boogied; I served in a Seoul-based outfit and rose from private to staff sergeant. Acceptance/taunts/shoving matches. Resentment oozing off guys who envied what they thought I’d come home to.
I came home to tapped-out momentum and DRAFT DODGER in red-bait neon. I received an unsolicited presidential pardon– my COWARD taint rendered it toilet paper. I became a vanishing act: BIG ROOM stints replaced by lounge gigs; national TV shots down-graded into local stuff. Fear and I played peek-a-boo–it always seemed to grab my balls and twist just when it felt like something inside me could banish all the bullshit forever.
* * *
I hit Victorville. L.A. radio had faded out–I’d been listening to shitkicker ditties. Apt: I pulled up to the Cooley ranchhouse soundtracked by Spade’s own, “Shame, Shame on You.”
The porch reeked: marijuana and sourmash fumes. TV glow lit up windows bluish-gray.
The door stood ajar. I pressed the buzzer–hillbilly chimes went off. Dark inside–the TV screen made shadows bounce. George Putnam spritzed late local news: “. . . the fiend the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s have dubbed the ‘West Hollywood Whipcord’ claimed his third and fourth victims last night. The bodies of Thomas ‘Spike’ Knode, 47, an out-of-work movie stuntman, and his fiancee Carol Matusow, 19, a stenographer, were discovered locked in the trunk of Knode’s car, parked on Hilldale Drive a scant block north of the Sunset Strip. Both were strangled with a sash cord and bludgeoned post-mortem with a bumperjack found in the back seat. The couple had just come from the Mocombo nightclub, where they had watched entertainer Buddy Greco perform. Authorities report that they have no clues as to the slayer’s identity, and–”
A ratchet noise–metal on metal. That unmistakable drawl: “From the size of your shadow, I’d say it’s Dick Contino.”
“It’s me.”
Ratch/ratch–trigger noise–Spade loved to get zorched and play with guns.
“I should tell Nancy ’bout that ‘Whipcord’ sumbitch. She just might find herself a new pen pal.”
“She already knows about him.”
“Well.. . I’m not surprised. And this old dog, well. . . he knows how to put things together. My Ella Mae got a call from Nancy, and two hours later Mr. Accordion himself shows up. Heard you tanked at the Crescendo, boy. Ain’t that always the way it is when proving yourself runs contrary to your own best interests?”
A lamp snapped on. Dig it: Spade Cooley in a cowboy hat and sequin-studded chaps–packing two holstered six-guns.
I said, “Like you and Ella Mae. You beg her for details on her old shack jobs, then you beat her up when she plays along.”
Fluttering flags replaced George Putnam–KTTV signing off for the night. The National Anthem kicked in–I doused the volume. Spade slumped low in his chair and drew down on me. “You mean I shouldn’t have asked her if those John Ireland and Steve Cochran rumors were true?”
“You’re dying to torture yourself, so tell me.”
Spade twirled his guns, popped the cylinders and spun them. Two revolvers, ten empty slots, one bullet per piece.
“So tell me, Spade.”
“The rumors were true, boy. Would I be sittin’ here in this condition if those dudes were any less than double-digit bulls?”
I laughed.
I roared.
I howled.
Spade put both guns to his head and pulled the triggers.
Two loud clicks–empty chambers.
I stopped laughing.
Spade did it again.
Click/click–empty chambers.
I grabbed for the guns. Spade shot ME twice–empty chambers.