They gurgled. They spat blood. They moaned. I saw a hunk of hose on the seat beside them. I got a flick-their-ID-up idea.

I popped the gas cap and stuck the hose in the tank. I siphoned six inches of ethyl and spat it in their two gasping gullets. They choked. They gasped. They opened up wiiiide.

I pulled the gun off d.i.n.kins's hip. I popped the clip. I dropped four slugs in his mouth and fed three to Playboy. I chased them with two matches.

The bullets blew up. I heard dental work destroyed and saw detective work deconstructed. They shot mouth flames. They scorched the upholstery. The Olds went up like Cinder City.

Oscar shook and twitched. He lit a cigarette off the car flames and killed it in a third of a drag.

I picked him up. I threw him over my shoulder and ran.

3.

I opened my eyes. I saw the mash notes and the girls taped to my ceiling.

It all came back. I almost p.i.s.sed in my pajamas.

I got Oscar back to Mount Sinai. We tossed Playboy's billfold en route. I kept Cal d.i.n.kins's address book. I wanted to know who he knew. Maybe I could frame some freak for my murders.

I was hung over from Maryjane and mayhem. I made up for the men I didn't kill in Korea. They sheltered me in Seoul. They didn't know that candid cowards could kill with correct provocation.

I was scared.

I showed my face at 83rd and Central. Oscar showed his face and shot off his dope-deprived mouth. People knew us. We were penny-ante public personas. Oscar played piano and portrayed p.i.s.sants in a dozen flicks in constant rerun. A Pharaoh Club patron might see Humoresque and buzz the fuzz. My career might soar and plant my puss in a million memory banks. I might fall from cloud nine to the gas chamber.

I stared at my ceiling. I strafed words and pix. I lingered on "I want you" and a blonde with a heat rash.

Yesterday and today. The tightrope and the abyss.

I rolled off my cot. I cooked up some coffee and skimmed the radio dial. I caught the morning news on six stations. n.o.body mentioned the Pharaoh Club inferno.

I went through the address book. I saw a bunch of no-names listed in alphabetical order and some names and numbers listed at the back.

Two name-names/one familiar name/one no-name.

The no-name: Harvey Glatman (Harvey's TV Repair, HO-492 36). $2,000.

The familiar name: Johnny Stompanato, CR-2 8609. $4,000.

Johnny Stomp: ex-Mickey Cohen goon.

I knew Mickey at McNeil Island. He said Johnny poured the pork to Donna Reed and Rita Hayworth. Orson Welles filmed the trysts through a 2-way mirror and screened them at a stag night at the Cannes filmfest.

The name-names: Ida Lupino/CR-622 1 1/$6,000. Steve CochranlOL-65189/ $6,000.

Ida Lupino: Mrs. Howard Duff. Film star and director. Steve Cochran: B-movie stud.

I kicked the names around. I retrieved two things that Wells and d.i.n.kins said: "You were supposed to recruit colored tail for the movie gig." / "I didn't like the way that Harvey creep was lookin' at my b.i.t.c.h."

d.i.n.kins: rogue cop. Wells: heist man. They colluded on the drive-in job. The "movie gig" had to be something else.

I ran out to my parents' porch and picked up the Herald. On page two: NIGHTCLUB NIGHTMARE.

They tagged the victims John Doe #1 and #2. The schvartze described his a.s.sailants: "Big guys--they'd have to be to mess with me." Two sketches ran on page three. The sketch artist did not draw Oscar and me. He drew two bullet-headed pachucos.

I laughed. I roared. I did an impromptu shimmy. We took two Gs off the stiffs. My half would spring my ax and rent me a slick little love shack.

A big man stepped out of a shadow. He held out a badge and blocked out my brand-new sunshine. He said, "You silly c.o.c.ksucker."

The badge was real. The man was all muscle. He pulled out a claim tag and flicked it on my nose. He said, "You silly f.u.c.k."

He wore a gold watch and a gold-plated .45. He wore a gold ID link. The "EO." ID'd him.

Fred Otash--the big-time Big O.

I twitched. I shook. I popped a Popsicle sweat. A van pulled into the driveway. Dig the side panels: HARvEY'S TV REPAIR.

A creep stared out the windshield. He picked his nose. Otash flicked the claim tag on my nose.

"You dropped it by the car you torched, and that orderly saw you check Oscar out of Mount Sinai. He called Danny Getch.e.l.l. Danny tailed you down to n.i.g.g.e.rtown and lost you. He figured you went down there for some smoky meat, and he thought he might nail you coming out of some c.o.o.n wh.o.r.ehouse."

I shook. I shivered. I shrugged like I didn't give a s.h.i.t. A gyroscope popped out of the van and spun on the roof. The next-doorneighbor lady walked out on her porch and picked up her morning paper. The creep ogled her.

I looked at Otash. Otash looked at me. It hit me hard: A fix was in. The cops John Doe'd Wells and d.i.n.kins deliberately. Otash did not know that I knew that. Otash did not know that I knew my victims' names. I did not tell Oscar their names. I had to hold it all back from Oscar and Otash.

Otash yawned. "Let's wrap this up before your folks get back. First, quit shaking and lay out last night for me."

I laid out a condensed version. "Oscar Levant and I got in some trouble at the Pharaoh Club. We tried to cop some dope, and a white guy and a colored guy attacked us. I killed them in selfdefense."

Otash smiled. The creep smiled back. Otash nodded. The creep hit a switch on his dashboard. My voice boomed off the gyroscope and covered the whole block: "Oscar Levant and I got in some trouble at the Pharaoh Club. We tried to cop some dope, and--"

Otash nodded. The creep hit a switch. My voice died out.

I shook. I weaved. My legs went. I fell back and hit a porch post. Otash pulled his gun and pinned me toit.

"Did you take anything off the bodies?"

I lied big. "We took the money out of their wallets and tossed the wallets down a sewer grate."

"Did you find an address book on the white guy?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Sure I'm sure. Do you think I'd--"

Otash slapped me. A big gold ring raked my nose.

"Here's thequestion, paisan. Do you want to burn for this? Do you want me to sweat Oscar cold turkey until he gives you up to corroborate your confession, or do you want to get some middleaged p.u.s.s.y and make friends in the LAPD?"

My head spun six ways. My tongue tripped over six ways to express acquiescence. I stammered. I stuttered. Otash slapped me. Blood burst out of my nose.

"I'll take that response as a yes and lay it out for you. One, the Feds intercepted some letters that a certain pink lady wrote to you and shared them with us. Two, the pink lady's husband has said some entirely unacceptable things about the LAPD and has to be punished. Your job is to meet the pink lady at a bash at the Wilshire-Ebell tonight, f.u.c.k her silly, and get her to admit that her pinko husband is a member of the various Commie-front organizations that we suspect he is. Do you understand your job, paisan?"

I said, "Yes." My voice sounded too deep and overamplifled. It wah-wahhed off the van.

Otash glared at the creep. The creep hit a switch. My voice wah-wahhed and died.

Otash tapped his gun on my chest. "That's Harvey Glatman. He's a genius, but he likes to play with his toys too much. You meet him at his shop at 5:3 0. He'll wire you up for the job."

The neighbor woman walked out again. Glatman ogled her. He panted and fogged up his windshield.

Otash slapped me. I tasted his ring.

"Stay scared, d.i.c.k."

I had to act like I still had a future. I had to tap the shallow showmust-go-on part of my soul and dig up some desperate ego to pa.s.s off for courage. I had to sort out the s.h.i.t I stepped into and get up the guts to shaft L. Trent Woodard for the s.h.i.t he slung my way.

I repo'd my accordion. I called Linda and outlined her birthcontrol options.

I called Howard. He said I was poison. No booking agent or casting boss would touch me. I was poison. I was contagious. I was the syph and the clap. L. Trent Woodard lavishly lauded me in the morning Mirror. He smeared me and slathered me pink.

I called Oscar at Mount Sinai. He sounded bombed. He didn't remember the Pharaoh Club and our double homicide. He thought we drove to Tj. We caught the mule act and played Gershwin for the mule and a queer matador. We drove back to L.A. at dawn.

I pumped him for dope on Fred O. He said Freddy ran a string of snitches for Hush-Hush. He kept the secret dirt stash that was too hot for Hush-Hush to handle and had every f.a.g bathhouse in the swish alps wired for sound.

Freddy beat up j.a.ps at Manzanar. Freddy killed j.a.ps on Saipan. Freddy broke the strike at the Ford plant in Pico Rivera. Freddy popped a Mickey Cohen punk named Hooky Rothman. Jack Dragna paid him ten grand. Freddy popped a Dragna punk. Mickey paid him ten grand.

I dropped the address-book names. Oscar didn't know Johnny Stomp or Harvey the Creep. He said Steve Cochran packed the biggest schvantz in Tinseltown. He said Ida Lupino dried out at Mount Sinai last year. Freddy O snuck her Turpenhydrate. Ida loved Freddy. Ida feared Freddy. She fed him bits for Hush-Hush. Ida and the Schvantz were making a picture right now--some lox called Private h.e.l.l 36.

I hung up and called a guy at Variety. He said Private h.e.l.l 36 was shooting nights out in Duarte. Howard Duff costarred with Ida and the Schvantz.

I drove downtown and skulked around the main library. I pulled old clips and new clips and rolled microfilm. I came up with insinuating s.h.i.t.

The drive-in heist was hot. Cal d.i.n.kins took heat for Playboy. He bopped away from his stakeout post. Playboy plowed a barricade and skedaddled.

I saw a shot of d.i.n.kins and Jack Webb. The Times called them "tight-knit." d.i.n.kins taught Webb how to play his part on Dragnet.

The Times ran heist copy. The Herald ran context.

The stakeout was covertly co-op: the LAPD and L.A. Sheriff's. The stakeout was steeped in interagency grief. It went way back.

The Sheriff's sanctioned Mickey Cohen's Sunset Strip incursion. The LAPD hated Mickey. Mickey was bushwhacked on Sheriff's turf in July '49. He took two .12-gauge pellets and walked. His pal Neddie Herbert took a spread in the face. The case was unsolved. The LAPD was suspected. The key suspect was Officer Fred Otash.

Chief Parker hated Sheriff Biscailuz. Biscailuz hated Parker. The LAPD and Sheriff's were knocking noggins now. The state legislature had their budgets up for review. Both agencies wanted more money. Both agencies wanted a cut of the other guys' coin. The LAPD got more money now. Biscailuz wanted that money and more.

I skimmed a piece on Johnny Stompanato.

Johnny made bail on an extortion bounce. The Herald hinted at h.o.r.n.y housewives and naughty snapshots. The D.A. declined to file charges.

The Herald ran a picture. Johnny looked like me. He was one handsome guinea side of beef.

I found a piece on Viv and Trent Woodard. Viv wrote poetry. Viv took colored kids to the Civic Light Opera. Trent lived off a trust fund. He filed suits for drunks and derelicts pistol-whipped and pounded by the LAPD.

I saw a shot of Viv. She's doing a curtsy at some debutante ball. It's '47. She's dark haired, rangy, and busty. She's coming up on 45 fast.

The picture goosed my gonads. I wanted to rip it off the microfilm roll and tape it to my bomb-shelter ceiling.

I found a piece on Private h.e.l.l 36. It said the Schvantz disrupted the shoot with two dates in court. It implied Mickey Mouse misdemeanors.

I walked to a pay phone and called Oscar. I ran it by him. He said the Schvantz beat up a hooker and got caught with a fat bag of boo. Ida Lupino told him. She said the judge shot the Schvantz a suspended sentence in exchange for a part in his next picture.

My head buzzed like a b.u.mblebee on Benzedrine. My names bopped in a tight spread.

I pressed Oscar. I wanted more dirt. Oscar said he couldn't think. The doctors deregulated his daily dope drip.

He wanted Demerol. They gave him Dilantin. He wanted to duck down to Darktown and dig up some Dilaudid.

I pressed harder. Oscar said he talked to Barbara Payton. Babs said she had a thing with the Schvantz. She said the Schvantz measured in at 12.4 inches.

Harvey Glatman shaved my chest and taped on a microphone. I looked around his back room.

TV tubes dumped on chairs and a dusty old couch. A six-slat shelf packed with diodes and diagnostic devices. Four walls of perverted pinup pulchritude.

Women trussed with rope. Women spread-eagled. Women gagged with black rubber b.a.l.l.s. Chaste shots of Joi Lansing on the Dragnet set.

I lingered on Joi. Harvey caught it.

"She just broke up with Jack Webb. Jack's torching. Joi's working the line at Ciro's, and Jack sits ringside every night."

Cal d.i.n.kins knew Jack Webb. Webb was LAPD Shill #1.

"Did you take those pictures of her?"

Harvey twisted three wires and taped them above my right nipple. "I used to be Jack's unit photographer."

I took a big whiff of Harvey. I took in his peeper pix and his panty-sniffer paraphernalia. I smelled ex-con. I smelled snitch. I smelled rabid Rottweiler.

"Let me guess. Jack heard you served time. He cut you loose, and Freddy 0 picked up your option."

Harvey deadpanned me. "You should stand away from electrical appliances. They screw up the sound quality."

I said, "Jack's tight with Chief Parker. I heard the LAPD runs R & I checks on the Dragnet crew, and I'll bet they turned up a rap sheet on you."

Harvey pulled a wild hair off my chest. I yelped. Harvey dabbed a styptic pencil on the raw spot.

"I'm a certified genius. I can broadcast TV pictures from any installation to any individual TV set, which means I don't have to sit still for your insinuations."