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Rosselli laughed. “Your boy Le
Giancana took a bead on the lowlife and pulled a make-believe trigger. “Somebody’s go
Rosselli sipped his highball. “So, Pete, what brings you to the Cal-Neva?”
“I’m interviewing Le
Sam G. passed him some play chips. “Here, Frenchman, lose a grand on me. But don’t move Le
Pete smiled. The “boys” smiled. Get the picture? They’ve tossed you all the crumbs they think you’re worth.
Pete walked. He got caught up in the tail end of a stampede-low rollers heading for the low-rent lounge.
He followed them in. The room was SRO: every table full, latecorners holding up the walls.
Le
The keyboard man tickled some blues. Le
“Lew, Lew, Lew. What are we, a bunch of moolies? What are you playing? ‘Pass Me the Watermelon, Mama, ‘Cause My Spareribs are Double-Parked’?”
The audience yukked. Le
Lew Piano laid down an intro. Le
“I’ve got you under my skin. I’ve got you, keestered deep inside of me. So deep, my hemorrhoids are riding me. I’ve got you-WHOA!--under my skin.”
The junket chumps howled. Le
“I’ve got you, chained to my bed. I’ve got you, and extra K-Y now! So deep, you can’t really say why now! I’ve got you under my skin!”
The geeks yuk-yuk-yukked and tee-hee-heed. Peter Lawford walked in and checked the action-Frank Sinatra’s #1 toady.
The drummer popped a rim shot. Le
“You gorgeous he-men from the Chicago Knights of Columbus, I just adore you!”
The audience cheered-
“And I want you to know that all my womanizing and chasing ring-a-ding cooze is just subterfuge to hide my overweening lust for YOU, the men of K of C Chapter 384, you gorgeous hunks of manicotti with your king-sized braciolas that I just can’t wait to sautee and fricassee and take deep into my tantalizing Tetrazzini!”
Lawford looked hot to trot. It was common insider knowledge that he’d kill to suck up to Sinatra.
The junketeers roared. Some clown waved a K of C flag.
“I just love you love you love you! I can’t wait to dress up in drag and invite all of you to sleep over at my Rat Pack slumber party!”
Lawford bolted toward the stage.
Pete tripped him.
Dig the toady’s pratfall-an instant all-time classic.
Frank Sinatra shoved his way into the lounge. The junketeers went stone fucking nuts.
Sam G. intercepted him. Sam G. whispered to him, nice and gentle and FIRM.
Pete caught the gist.
Le
Sam was smiling. Sam dug Le
Sinatra about-faced. Ass-kissers surrounded him.
Le
Le
o o o
He slipped the head blackjack dealer a note to forward to Sands. Le
Pete said, “Thanks for coming.”
Le
A waitress brought them coffee. Jackpot gongs went off-baby slots were bolted to every table.
“Kemper Boyd recommended you. He said you’d be perfect for the job.”
“Are you working for him?”
“No. He’s just an acquaintance.”
Le
“You’d be the stringer for Hush-Hush. You’d be digging up the stories and scandal bits and feeding them to the writers.”
“So I’d be a snitch.”
“Sort of. You keep your nose down in L.A., Chicago and Nevada, and report back.”
“For how much?”
“A grand a month, cash.”
“Movie-star dirt, that’s what you want. You want the skank on entertainment people.”
“Right. And liberal-type politicians.”
Le
“You were pretty tough on Sinatra. He’s pals with Jack, isn’t he?”
“He pimps for Jack and brown-noses the whole family. Peter Lawford’s married to one of Jack’s sisters, and he’s Frank’s brown-nose contact. Jack thinks Frank’s good for chuckles and not much else, and you didn’t hear any of this from me.”
Pete sipped coffee. “Tell me more.”
“No, you ask.”
“Okay. I’m on the Sunset Strip and I want to get laid for a C-note. What do I do?”
“You see Mel, the parking-lot man at Dino’s Lodge. For a dime, he’ll send you to a pad on Havenhurst and Fountain.”
“Suppose I want nigger stuff?”
“Go to the drive-in at Washington and La Brea and talk to the colored carhops.”
“Suppose I dig boys?”
Le
“Shit, I don’t… wait… the doorman at the Largo runs a string of male prosties.”
“Good. Now, what’s the story on Mickey Cohen’s sex life?”
Le
“Who clipped Tony Trombino and Tony Brancato?”
“Either Jimmy Frattiano or a cop named Dave Klein.”
“Who’s got the biggest dick in Hollywood?”
“Steve Cochran or John Ireland.”
“What’s Spade Cooley do for kicks?”
“Pop be
“Who’d Ava Gardner cheat on Sinatra with?”
“Everybody.”
“Who do you see for a quick abortion?”
“I’d go see Freddy Otash.”
“Jayne Mansfield?”
“Nympho.”
“Dick Contino?”
“Muff diver supreme.”
“Gail Russell?”
“Drinking herself to death at a cheap pad in West L.A.”
“Lex Barker?”
“Pussy hound with jailbait tendencies.”
“Joh
“Homo.”
“Art Pepper?”
“Junkie.”
“Lizabeth Scott?”
“Dyke.”
“Billy Eckstine?”
“Cunt man.”
“Tom Neal?”
“On the skids in Palm Springs.”
“Anita O’Day?”
“Hophead.”
“Cary Grant?”
“Homo.”
“Randolph Scott?”
“Homo.”
“Senator William F. Knowland?”
“Drunk.”
“Chief Parker?”
“Drunk.”
“Bing Crosby?”
“Drunk wife-beater.”
“Sergeant John O’Grady?”
“LAPD guy known for planting dope on jazz musicians.”
“Desi Arnaz?”
“Whore chaser.”
“Scott Brady?”
“Grasshopper.”
“Grace Kelly?”
“Frigid. I popped her once myself, and I almost froze my shvantze off.”
Pete laughed. “Me?”
Le
Pete said, “You’ve got the job.”
They shook hands.
Mad Sal D. walked in the door, waving two cups spilling nickels.