Karen didn’t blink. “She’ll marry him. My parents will overlook the fact that he’s Jewish because he’s ambitious and a Republican. He’ll tolerate Joanie’s scenes in public and hit her in private. Their kids will be a mess.”
Jack laughed. “Let’s dance. And don’t get star-struck, people will think you’re a hick.”
They entered arm in arm. Karen went in starry-eyed; Jack scoped his biggest wrap bash yet.
Spade Cooley and his boys on a bandstand, Spade at the mike with Burt Arthur “Deuce” Perkins, his bass player, called “Deuce” for his two-spot on a chain gang: unnatural acts against dogs. Spade smoked opium; Deuce popped “H”–a _Hush-Hush_ roust just looking to happen. Max Pelts glad-handing the camera crew; Brett Chase beside him, talking to Billy Dieterling, the head cameraman. Billy’s eyes on his twist, Timmy Valburn, Moochie Mouse on the _Dream-a-Dream Hour_. Tables up against the back wall–covered with liquor bottles, cold cuts. Kikey Teitlebaum there with the food–Pelts probably had his deli cater the party. Johnny Stompanato with Kikey, ex–Mickey Cohen boys huddling. Every _Badge of Honor_ actor, crew member and general hanger-on eating, drinking, dancing.
Jack swept Karen onto the floor: swirls through a fast-tune medley, grinds when Spade switched to ballads. Karen kept her eyes closed; Jack kept his open–the better to dig the shmaltz. He felt a tap on the shoulder.
Miller Stanton cutting in. Karen opened her eyes and gasped: a TV star wanted to dance with her. Jack bowed. “Karen Morrow, Miller Stanton.”
Karen yelled over the music. “Hi! I saw all those old Raymond Dieterling movies you made. You were great!”
Stanton hoisted her hands square-dance style. “I was a brat! Jack, go see Max–he wants to talk to you.”
Jack walked to the rear of the set–quiet, the music lulled. Max Pelts handed him two envelopes. “Your season bonus and a boost for Mr. Loew. It’s from Spade Cooley.”
Loew’s bag was fat. “What’s Cooley want?”
“I’d say insurance you won’t mess with his habit.”
Jack lit a cigarette. “Spade doesn’t interest me.”
“Not a big enough name?”
“Be nice, Max.”
Peltz leaned in close. “Jack, _you_ try to be nicer, ’cause you’re getting a bad rep in the Industry. People say you’re a hard-on, you don’t play the game. You shook down Brett for Mr. Loew, fine, he’s a goddamn faigeleh, he’s got it coming. But you can’t bite the hand that feeds you, not when half the people in the Industry blow tea from time to time. Stick with the shvartzes– those jazz guys make good copy.”
Jack eyeballed the set. Brett Chase in a hobnob: Billy Dieterling, Timmy Valburn–a regular fruit convention. Kikey T. and Johnny Stomp shmoozing–Deuce Perkins, Lee Vachss joining in. Pelts said, “Seriously, Jack. Play the game.”
Jack pointed to the hard boys. “Max, the game is my life. You see those guys over there?”
“Sure. What’s that–”
“Max, that’s what the Department calls a known criminal assembly. Perkins is an ex-con wheelman who fucks dogs, and Abe Teitlebaum’s on parole. The tall guy with the mustache is Lee Vachss, and he’s made for at least a dozen snuffs for Mickey C. The good-looking wop is Johnny Stompanato. I doubt if he’s thirty years old, and he’s got a racket sheet as long as your arm. I am empowered by the Los Angeles Police Department to roust those cocksuckers on general suspicion, and I’m derelict in my duty for not doing it. Because I’m _playing the game_.”
Pelts waved a cigar. “So keep playing it–but pianissimo on the tough-guy stuff. And look, Miller’s bird-dogging your quail. Jesus, you like them young.”
Rumors: Max and high school trim. “Not as young as you.”
“Ha! Go, you fucking gonif. Your girl’s looking for you.”
Karen by a wall poster: Brett Chase as Lieutenant Vance Vincent. Jack walked over; Karen’s eyes lit up. “God, this is so wonderful! Tell me who everyone is!”
Full-blast music–Cooley yodeling, Deuce Perkins banging his bass. Jack danced Karen across the floor–over to a corner crammed with arclights. A perfect spot–quiet, a scope on the whole gang.
Jack pointed out the players. “Brett Chase you already know about. He’s not dancing because he’s queer. The old guy with the cigar is Max Pelts. He’s the producer, and he directs most of the episodes. You danced with Miller, so you know him. The two guys in skivvies are Augie Luger and Hank Kraft–they’re grips. The girl with the clipboard is Penny Fulweider, she couldn’t quit working even if she wanted to–she’s the script supervisor. You know how the sets on the show are so modernistic? Well, the blond guy across from the bandstand is David Mertens, the set designer. Sometimes you’d think he was drunk, but he’s not– he’s got some rare kind of epilepsy, and he takes medicine for it. I heard he was in an accident and hit his head, that that started it. He’s got these scars on his neck, so maybe that’s it. Next to him there’s Phil Shenkel, the assistant director, and the guy next to him is Jerry Marsalas, the male nurse who looks after Mertens. Terry Riegert, the actor who plays Captain Jeffries, is dancing with that tall redhead. The guys by the water cooler are Billy Dieterling, Chuck Maxwell and Dick Harwell, the camera crew, and the rest of the people are dates.”