Over to Variety International Pictures-Karen bad-mouthing Joanie non-stop. Jack parked by the «Badge of Honor» set; hillbilly music drifted out. Karen sighed. 'My parents will get used to the idea.'
Jack turned on the dash light. The girl had dark brown hair done in waves, freckles, a touch of an overbite. 'What idea?'
'Well… the idea of us seeing each other.'
'Which is going pretty slow.'
'That's partly my fault. One minute you're telling me these wonderful stories and the next minute you just stop. I keep wondering what you're thinking about and thinking that there's so many things you can't tell me. It makes me think you think I'm too young, so I pull away.'
Jack opened the door. 'Keep getting my number and you won't be too young. And tell me some of your stories, because sometimes I get tired of mine.'
'Deal? My stories after the party?'
'Deal. And by the way, what do you think of your sister and Ellis Loew?'
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.'
Karen looked straight at him. 'It's your milieu, and you love it. And you care about those people.'
'I like them-and Miller's a good friend.'
'Jack, you can't fool me.'
'Karen, this is Hollywood. And ninety percent of Hollywood is moonshine.'
'Spoilsport. I'm gearing myself up to be reckless, so don't put a damper on it.'
Daring him.
Jack tumbled; Karen leaned into the kiss. They probed, tasted, pulled back the same instant-Jack broke off the clinch dizzy.
Karen let her hands linger. 'The neighbors are still on vacation. We could go feed the cats.'
'Yeah… sure.'
'Will you get me a brandy before we go?'
Jack walked to the food table. Deuce Perkins said, 'Nice stuff, Vincennes. You got the same taste as me.'
A skinny cracker in a black cowboy shirt with pink piping. Boots put him close to six-six; his hands were enormous. 'Perkins, your stuff sniffs fire hydrants.'
'Spade might not like you talkin' to me that way. Not with that envelope you got in your pocket.'
Lee Vachss, Abe Teitlebaum watching them. 'Not another word, Perkins.'
Deuce chewed a toothpick. 'Your quiff know you get your jollies shakin' down niggers?'
Jack pointed to the wall. 'Roll up your sleeves, spread your legs.'
Perkins spat out his toothpick. 'You ain't that crazy.'
Johnny Stomp, Vachss, Teitlebaum-all in earshot. Jack said, 'Kiss the wall, shitbird.'
Perkins leaned over the table, palms on the wall. Jack pulled up his sleeves-fresh tracks-emptied his pockets. Paydirt-a hypo syringe. A crowd forming up-Jack played to it. 'Needle marks and that outfit are good for three years State. Hand up the guy who sold you the hypo and you skate.'
Deuce oozed sweat. Jack said, 'Squeal in front of your friends and you stroll.'
Perkins licked his lips. 'Barney Stinson. Orderly at Queen of Angels.'
Jack kicked his legs out from under him.
Perkins landed face first in the cold cuts; the table crashed to the floor.
The room let out one big breath.
Jack walked outside, groups breaking up to let him through. Karen by the car, shivering. 'Did you have to do that?'
He'd sweated his shirt clean through. 'Yeah, I did.'
'I wish I hadn't seen it.'
'So do I.'
'I guess reading about things like that are one thing and seeing them is another. Would you try to-'
Jack put his arms around her. 'I'll keep that stuff separate from you.'
'But you'll still tell me your stories?'
'No… yeah, sure.'
'I wish we could turn back the clock on tonight.'
'So do I. Look, do you want some dinner?'
'No. Do you still want to go see the cats?'
There were three cats-friendly guys who tried to take over the bed while they made love. Karen called the gray one Pavement, the tabby Tiger, the skinny one Ellis Loew. Jack resigned himself to the entourage-they made Karen giggle, he figured every laugh put Deuce Perkins further behind them. They made love, talked, played with the cats; Karen tried a cigarette-and coughed her lungs out. She begged for stories; Jack borrowed from the exploits of Officer Wendell White and spun gentler versions of his own cases: minimum strongarm, lots of sugar daddy-the bighearted Big V, protecting kids from the scourge of dope. At first the lies were hard-but Karen's warmth made them easier and easier. Near dawn, the girl dozed off; he stayed wide awake, the cats driving him crazy. He kept wishing she'd wake up so he could tell her more stories; he got little jolts of worry: that he'd never remember all the phony parts, she'd catch him in whoppers, it would blow their deal sky high. Karen's body grew warmer as she slept; Jack pressed closer to her. He fell asleep getting his stories straight.
