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Words came at him, filtered through coughs and garbled interruptions. He picked out a man’s shout: “Cohen and his farshtunkener lackeys have to go nutso first”; Claire’s “It’s all in knowing when to squeeze.” A soft, mid-Atlantic drawl: “We have to give the studios an out to save face with, that’s why knowing when is so important. It has to hit the fan just right.”
Da
He walked around and rang the bell. Claire opened the door and said, “Right on time”; Da
Claire whispered, “Save it for later,” took his arm and led him into the living room, subtle swank offset by framed movie posters: Pinko titles from the grand jury package. Three men were standing around holding drinks: a Semitic-looking guy in tweeds, a small, trim number wearing a te
Claire made the introductions. “Gentlemen, Ted Krugman. Ted, left to right we have Mort Ziffkin, Chaz Minear and Reynolds Loftis.”
Da
Minear smiled; Ziffkin said, “Attaboy”; Loftis said, “You and Claire have a good strategy talk, but get her home early, you hear?”—a Southern accent, but no syrup and another aside: he was sleeping with De Haven tonight.
Da
They walked outside. Da
“I love it, and I know a great spot in Hollywood.”
“I know some places on South Central that really bop. What do you say?”
Claire hesitated, then said, “Sure, sounds like fun.”
East on Wilshire, south on Normandie. Da
The silence played right, two idealists deep in thought. East on Slauson, south on Central, more mirror checks now that they were on HIS stomping ground. Da
The question caught him checking his waistband for the sap he always packed on niggertown assignments; he stopped and grabbed the wheel, Red Ted the persecuted Negro’s buddy. “The Teamsters, I guess. I’m rusty.”
Claire put a hand on his cheek. “You’re tired and lonely and driven. You want to please and do the right thing so badly that it just about breaks my heart.”
Da
The catch stuck; the kiss was still warm. Da
The Zombie interior was just like two weeks before, with an even louder, more dissonant combo wailing on the bandstand. This time the clientele was all Negro: a sea of black faces offset by colored lighting, a flickering canvas where a white/gray face would stand out and scream, “Me!” Da
Claire laced her fingers through Da
But the place felt right, safe and dark. Da
Claire dropped his hand and started clapping; a mulatto lounge lizard sidled by the table, saying, “Hello, sweet. I ain’t seen you in a dog’s age.” Claire averted her eyes; Da
Claire lit a cigarette, her lighter shaking. Da
“Oh, a friend of a friend. I used to have a thing for jazz musicians.”
The mulatto had made his way up to the bandstand; Da