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The lapdogs got lanced。 The Mex got minor…league mangled。 They shook shards off their shirts and popped puzzled eyes at Il Padrone。 The punk patriarch palpitated and pissed in his pants。 Dig the dip on those gorgeous gabardines！
I said； 〃I talked to Ava； Frank。 She said you were hung like a cashew。 I'm running it on the March cover。 'Sexy Songster Packs Pint…Sized Pecker； Gorgeous Gardner Sez。〃
Sinatra fumed and fueled himself into a fugue state。 He stuttered； stammered； slobbered； slathered； and came off catatonic。 His heart hammered。 Buttons shot off his shirt and sheared me in the shins。
The lapdogs lurched at me。 The Mex made machismo…like motions。 An LAPD narc ark arced into the lot。
Everybody frozefrustrated and fright…fraught。
John O'Grady jumped out。 His paunchy parmer piled out and paused by the passenger door。 The lapdogs listed and almost landed in my lap。 Glare glowed and shimmered off their shoulder…holster straps。
Badgesa shiny Sheriff's shield and a BHPD button。 O'Grady said； 〃LAPD。 Nobody move。 Nobody say a fucking word。〃
I looked at the lilac Lincoln。 I made the big boy in the back。
Sergeant Bob DuhamelBeverly Hills PD。
A payola prober propped up in a prime suspect's sled。
？？？？？
The paunchy parmer popped over to the Pontiac。 He popped the passenger door and picked up the bag of boo。 O'Grady said； 〃W/ho's this belong to？〃
Sinatra went knock…kneed and passed another passel of piss。
The Mex moaned mumbo jumbo and muttered； 〃〃Mierda； mierda〃。〃
The lapdogs whipped their coats wide。 Sun shafts shot off their shields。
O'Grady ogled them。 His eyes shot shield to shield。 He said； 〃Tell me what we've got here； and make it convincing。 And tell me why Frank Sinatra just wet his pants。〃
The lapdogs lowered their eyes。 I felt their brainwaves broiling。 They brought their eyes up bright and brutally bristling。 They slung them slow at the Mex。
Lapdog #1 said； 〃We're working an inter…agency gig。 Mr。 Sinatra's gotten some death threats because of that payola thing； and we're bodyguarding him。〃
Lapdog #2 said； 〃Uh。 。 。 yeah； and Pancho there tried to sell Mr。 Sinatra some weed； but Mr。 Sinatra said no； so Pancho planted the shit in my car； 'cause。 。 。 uh。 。 。 he thought it was Mr。 Sinatra's car。〃
Pancho popped puddles of sweat。 It poured off his pompadour。 He stood there stunned and stamped himself with the Stations of the Cross。 He dribbled and drizzled sweat。 He dropped his tray。 It popped to the pavement pulse…poundingly LOUD。 Instantaneous instinct： four cops reached for their revolvers and ripped off short…range shots。
They pincushioned Pancho and poured through him。 They powderburned him and poleaxed him and parted his pompadour down to his palate。 Bullets bounced off his bones and belt buckle and shot back at the shooters。 Richochets ripped the paunchy partner and notched his nose off his face。 I cringed； crawled； crapped my pants； and ran
2
I stashed my Studebaker at a storage garage。 I walked to Wilshire and Western and hot…wired a Hudson Hornet straight off the street。 I had to hide out。 I watched the cops whack that wetback and wipe out one of their own。 I spawned a spectacular fuckup and got a cop killed。 I mandated my own murderand maybe much more。
The fuzz would flick me to cover up their snuff snafu。 Sinatra would seek to silence me and humble 〃Hush…Hush〃。 Payola played in and percolated at the periphery。
I humped my Hudson Hornet to Hollywood。 I hauled by Hal's Auto Dump and traded plates with a Triumph TR2。 I tripped through Trancas Canyon and tricked a path through the trouble I was in。
Skip Towne shot me the shit on Flash Flood。 I flaunted it in 〃Hush…Hush〃。 My prize prose prompted the payola probe and pissed off priapic Sinatra。
Sinful Sinatra sought the scent of sex citywide。 His loyal lapdogs doubled as blasphemous bloodhounds。 They sniffed for snatch and snagged willing wenches out of waitress gigs and whathave…you。 They latched onto Linda Lansing at a lezbo cathouse。
Luscious LindaJoi Lansing's curvy kid sister。 Lounge Lizard Lindaa low…rent lollapalooza living off lesbian love。 A mercenary mama now in moonlight mode in mink…coat TV ads。
Linda switch…hit and once swung with lip…smacking lez Lizabeth Scott。 Late…breaking lowdown： Liz still torched for their torrid love。 Linda's pay…for…play delight： delirious and delectable 3…ways。 The 〃latest〃 late…breaking lowdown：
Sex…sational Sinatrathe thrill…seeking Three…Way King。 He finds Linda Lansing and lures her to his lair。 She throws him into the throes of three…way ecstasy。 Mama miaone man and two women waxing way out and wicked！ Linda lassos Frank's libido and lays down the law： no more triad tricks until you make me a star！ The King cons Sammy Cahn and has him hatch 〃Baby； It's Cold Inside。〃 The tune tantalizes and titillates and ties in to Teitelbaum Furs。 The King corners Flash Flood and flimfiams him and flips him a flotilla of cash。 Flash is floored。 He flips a tepid tune and leads Linda Lansing into the Payola Pantheon。
Skip Towne skimmed me that scandal skank。 It buttressed a boss back storybut left me with big questions：
Bob DuhamelBHPD。 A cop co…opted to the payola probe。 His BHPD buddy and some Sheriff's shill。 Three cops caught up in shady and shameful shit with shaky Frank Sinatra。
？？？？？
I flew by Flash Flood's flat in Flintridge。 FuckFlood's Fleetwood sedan and a fleet of cop cars framed out front。
Lookthe lapdogs last seen popping shots at Pancho the Pi？ata。 Beside themBob Duhamel； BHPD。
Call it a Cop Conspiracy。 Cop to the cost of the contretemps you created。 Crawl out of the crap crashing down on you and live to launch libel again。
I chanted that malevolent mantra。 I charted a course to charm； cheat； chisel； and THRIVE。
Laura's Little Log Cabin：
A Mecca for mannish muff…munchers and fawnlike femmes as fair game。 A rustic rendezvous for rapacious diesel dykes。
Loin…lapping Liz Scott's happy hunting grounds。
I walked in wary。 She…wolves shot me shitty looks。 My rabid rep preceded me and pried a pack of boss babes off of bar stools。 I devastated and decimated the room。
I located Liz。 She was waxing weepy into a whiskey sour。 I nudged into her naugahyde booth and nabbed some cocktail nuts。
Liz said； 〃Help yourself。 They're free。〃
I lit a Lucky out of Liz's pack。 Liz laughed low and languid。
〃You're scum； Danny。 You're a tidal wave of karmic filth and dissension。 I wouldn't fuck you if I was desperate and you were a beautiful woman。〃
Liz looked luscious on her last cover shot： LEZBOS LOLL AT LOG CABIN； LAPD TELLS 〃HUSH…HUSH〃。
I popped a pineapple piece out of her drink and poured it down my parched throat。 Liz lit a Lucky and laid a lungful of smoke in my face。 I coughed up cocktail nuts and pineapple pulp。
〃You're a disease that they haven't invented a name for； Danny。 You're lower than cancer。〃
I tingled。 Titillation tickled me。 I groaned and grew a hard…on。
I said； 〃I always thought we might have clicked and had a swinging thing； if you had different predilections。〃
Liz laughed light and lilting。 〃On the planet Pluto； baby。 Somet