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〃Don Jordan （top welterweight contender） running string of wetback maids as hookers out of the Luau。〃
MOONLIGHTING MEXICAN MAIDS MAKE FOR MISCHIEVOUS
Ben noshed my napkin note and blew me a big bicarbonate kiss。
2
The Luau：
A tiki…torchlit restaurant rendezvous on Rodeo Drive。 A mecca for movie…biz mavens and Beverly Hills business boys。
Big booths and baroque backlighting。 Tricked…up tropical trappings。 Rambunctious rum drinks and rumaki sticks at the bamboo bar。
A polyurethane Polynesian paradisewith peekaboo posts perched behind wall panels by the bar and the ladies' too。
Steve Crane owned the Luau。 Steve loved to lurk and look。 He voyeur…vamped the joint every night。
Steve owed me。 I bought him out of a blow…job beef back in '54。 Ben Luboff tried to trap him with a 16…year…old San Quentin quail。 Steve let me lurk in peeper perpetuity。
I was lurked out behind the ladies' lay。 My peephole post provided a prime view。 I saw Helen Hayes hitch up her hose。 I saw the Misty June Christy crimp a crisp twenty and crib coke up her nose。 I ducked down a dark panel passage and peeped out a peephole right behind the bar。
Dreamy drunks adrift in demerara rum。 Don Jordan fretting a frosted fruit frappe。 Demonic Don from the Dominican Republica maladroit mulatto now in moonlight mode with a melange of Mexican maids。
Donkey Don： rumored to reach twelve inches。 Devil Don： rumored to run a right…wing death squad back in the D。R。 A ripe recent rumor： Mickey Cohen owned a prime piece of Don's prizefighting percentage。
I bored my eyes in on the bar。 Don downed his daiquiri and doodled up his napkin。 Three wetback wenches wiggled up to him。
Luscious Latinas pulling out va…va…va…voom volts。 A stellar stable too starkly dark to strike up biz in Steve Crane's lily…white Luau。
Steve stuck to a strict B…girl Bill of Race Rights。 Negro： Nyet； nein； no； not at my place。 White： Wele； what will you have？ Latin： Light…skinned Lupes and Lucitas only。
Something was twisted two twirls off。
It hit me：
Two twists in twin frocks fresh out of Frederick's of Hollywood。 Pulchritudinousbut not pulsingly so。 The supreme se？orita： languidly lissome in Lana Turner's light blue gown from last month's Oscar show。
Lana Turner：
Steve Crane's ex。 Movie…star mama to Steve's starstruck daughter； Cheryl。 Steve was still starved for Lana's lewd love。 Steve couldn't stomach thoughts of Johnny Stompanato sticking it to her。
I panted and peeped out my peephole。 A methamphetamine breath mist glazed up the glass。 I wiped it off and watched a waiter walk up to the mass magnifica mama。
He passed her a piece of paper。 Don Jordan passed his other prosties Mickey Mousesize Minox minicameras。
What the fuck
The main mamacita mainlined her way out of the bar。 I peephole…patched a path through the main passageway and kept her within peeping range。 She walked out to the back parking lot and stepped over to Steve Crane。 Steve was poised by a powder blue Packard Caribbean。
I pushed out a passageway panel and pulled myself into a storeroom。 I pushed aside some rum crates and pried open a window。 Whisper…close： Steve and the stark dark stunner。
I loitered。 I lurked。 I lolled my head below the window ledge and listened。
Steve said； 〃e on； you know the deal。 Don can run you and the other girls out of here； but only〃
The girl said； 〃Pleeeese； Mr。 Crane。 I don't know what joo want me to say。〃
Steve said； 〃Don't play coy； Yolanda。 We've been through this before。〃
Yolanda said； 〃Well； all right； but joo should say exactly what joo〃
〃Does Johnny ever hit Lana or Cheryl？〃
〃No； he just yells at them。 It eeesn't very nice； but〃
〃Are you still mailing the letters that Lana writes him？〃
〃Well； yes 。 。 。〃
〃Love letters； right？〃
〃Well 。 。 。 I don't 。 。 。〃
〃Yolanda； you told me that she dips the letters in perfume； and you saw her drop in curly little hairs when she sealed the envelopes。〃
Man…o…Manischewitz！ What a pussy…whipped provocateur and masochism…mangled motherfucker！
Yolanda said； 〃Please； Mr。 Crane。 I don't like to〃
〃Yolanda； I want you to give me the next letter that Lana gives you。〃
〃No。 No； no； no； no no。 I cannot do that to Miss Lana。〃
Stevestern； strong； and strident…voiced now： 〃I only let you and the others work out of here because you give me information。 Don wouldn't like it if I eighty…sixed you。〃
Yolanda； fetchingly firm and faultlessly focused： 〃I cannot betray Miss Lana； as long as Mr。 Johnny does not hurt her or Miss Cheryl。〃
Steve； resoundingly resigned and ripped with regret。 〃Well。。。 shit。 。 。 okay。 。 。 for now； at least。 But I just want to protect Lana from herself； and I want you to promise me that you'll let me know if Johnny ever puts a hand on her or Cheryl。 You see； I've got a gangster buddy who hates the son of a bitch。〃
Yolanda； a mellifluous madonna： 〃Oh； yes； I will。 I care about Miss Lana and Miss Cheryl just as much as joo do。〃
Mickey Cohen hated Johnny Stompanato。 Mickey was the meshugenah mouseketeer on the L。A。 mob scene。 Mickey had a minor cut of Don Jordan's contract and not much else。 Mickey was too Minnie Mouse to stand up for Steve and stomp out Stompanatoand I started to smell money in the mix。
I could steal the steamy Lana letters。 I could sell them to Steve or some lascivious Lanaphile。 I could lube…job Ben Luboff and lay a few lackluster excerpts on him for big bread。 I could proudly print the whole tumescent text in 〃Hush…Hush〃。
The truth is my moral mandate。 Dirt digs define my devotion to that difficult discipline。 〃Disillusionment Is Enlightenment〃 some pundit popped that platitude and clipped a clear chord in my soul。 I live to edify； entertain； enlighten； and enforce moral standards。 It all entails enterprising entrapment。 I'm a zealous First Amendment zealot。 I contentiously contend that scandal skank scores free free speech to its fullest extension。 I set tricky traps to track down the truth。 My methedrine…mapped mandate makes it all morally sound。
I got Stompanato's stats from the West L。A。 White Pages。 I called his number and nailed a nigger maid。 She said； 〃Mr。 Johnny be back soon；〃 and； 〃I just be leavin' myself。〃 She sounded like some shine in 〃Song of the South〃。
I bopped up to Benedict Canyon and buried my Buick coupe behind some bushes off Beverly Drive。 I beat feet a block to Johnny's boss bunker： a big all…glass A…frame。
Lavishly landscaped and lit up light at i：oo A。M。 Wide windows to wiggle your eyes at and high hedges to hide behind。 Peeper Paradise and Voyeur Valhalla。
Motherfuck
The mail slot slid straight into the front French doors。 I couldn't lift a latch and liberate Lana's love letters。
I hid behind a hydrangea hedge。 I bored my beady browns into a big picture window ten feet away。 Johnny Stomp stomped into sight。 Don Jordan jiggled up and joined him。
They yelled and yowled at each other。 They paced paths around the parlor and poked themselves in the pecs。 Popped Ps popped off the plate…glass windowbut I couldn't pick out particular words。
Jordan pulled a passel of pix out of his pockets