“My goodness,” said the operator, “do you mind if I listen in?”
“Get me that number!”
“Right away!”
Presently a voice answered, “Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“Lemme talk to Hoover! Huh? Okay, okay-I’ll talk to you. Listen, this is a snatch case. I’ve got ’em on ice, for the moment, but unless you get one of your boys from your local office here pronto there won’t be any snatch case-not if the city cops get here first. What?” Pete quieted down and explained who he was, where he was, and the more believable aspects of the events that had led up to the present situation. The government man cut in on him as he was urging speed and more speed and assured him that the local office was already being notified.
Pete got back to the wreck just as Lieutenant Dumbrosky climbed out of a squad car. Pete hurried up. “Don’t do it, Dumbrosky,” he yelled.
The big cop hesitated. “Don’t do what?”
“Don’t do anything. The FBI are on their way now-and you’re already implicated. Don’t make it any worse.”
Pete pointed to the two hoodlums; Clarence was sitting on one and resting the spike of the ax against the back of the other. “Those birds have already sung. This town is about to fall apart. If you hurry, you might be able to get a plane for Mexico.”
Dumbrosky looked at him. “Wise guy,” he said doubtfully.
“Ask them. They confessed.”
One of the hoods raised his head. “We was threatened,” he announced. “Take ’em in, lieutenant. They assaulted us.”
“Go ahead,” Pete said cheerfully. “Take us all in-together. Then you won’t be able to lose that pair before the FBI can question them. Maybe you can cop a plea.”
“Now?” asked Clarence.
Dumbrosky swung around. “Put that ax down!”
“Do as he says, Clarence. Get your camera ready to get a picture as the G-men arrive.”
“You didn’t send for no G-men.”
“Look behind you!”
A dark blue sedan slid quietly to a stop and four lean, brisk men got out. The first of them said, “Is there someone here named Peter Perkins?”
“Me,” said Pete. “Do you mind if I kiss you?”
It was after dark but the parking lot was crowded and noisy. A stand for the new Mayor and distinguished visitors had been erected on one side, opposite it was a bandstand; across the front was a large illuminated sign: HOME OF KITTEN-HONORARY CITIZEN OF OUR FAIR CITY.
In the fenced-off circle in the middle Kitten herself bounced and spun and swayed and danced. Pete stood on one side of the circle with Pappy opposite him; at four-foot intervals around it children were posted. “All set?” called out Pete.
“All set,” answered Pappy. Together, Pete, Pappy and the kids started throwing serpentine into the ring. Kitten swooped, gathered the ribbons up and wrapped them around herself.
“Confetti!” yelled Pete. Each of the kids dumped a sackful toward the whirlwind-little of it reached the ground.
“Balloons!” yelled Pete. “Lights!” Each of the children started blowing up toy balloons; each had a dozen different colors. As fast as they were inflated they fed them to Kitten. Floodlights and searchlights came on; Kitten was transformed into a fountain of boiling, bubbling color, several stories high.
“Now?” said Clarence.
“Now!”
“-AND HE BUILT A CROOKED HOUSE-”
Americans are considered crazy anywhere in the world.
They will usually concede a basis for the accusation but point to California as the focus of the infection. Californians stoutly maintain that their bad reputation is derived solely from the acts of the inhabitants of Los Angeles County. Angelenos will, when pressed, admit the charge but explain hastily, “It’s Hollywood. It’s not our fault-we didn’t ask for it; Hollywood just grew.”
The people in Hollywood don’t care; they glory in it. If you are interested, they will drive you up Laurel Canyon “-where we keep the violent cases.” The Canyonites-the brown-legged women, the trunks-clad men constantly busy building and rebuilding their slaphappy unfinished houses-regard with faint contempt the dull creatures who live down in the flats, and treasure in their hearts the secret knowledge that they, and only they, know how to live.
Lookout Mountain Avenue is the name of a side canyon which twists up from Laurel Canyon. The other Canyonites don’t like to have it mentioned; after all, one must draw the line somewhere!