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those heist guys you killed didn't exist。〃
The REAL Linda Lansing toyed with a toll…house cookie。 She'd popped on some porky pounds to portray her pudgy sister。 The coffee table was covered with candy cartons and cruller crusts and doughnut debris。
I said； 〃You killed Joi。 You were in way too deep with way too many people； and you needed a way out。 You rented this place to set up your murder scene。 You trashed it to make it look like the killers were looking for something。 Then I came along and saw the body； so you decided to dump it in the hills to queer the cause of death。〃
Dot dive…bombed a devil's…food doughnut。 〃Mention money； Danny。 We've been expecting you； and we know you didn't e up here to moralize。〃
I said； 〃Money。〃
Dot drowned her doughnut in Drambuie…drenched coffee。 〃He said 'money。〃
Lansing lanced a ladyfinger and sunk it into Sambuca。 〃He certainly did。〃
I said； 〃Cut the edy； cuties。〃 I framed the line a la Frigidaire Frank at his frostbitten best。
Dot pulled a packet of pix from her purse and popped them my way。 I snared the snapshots out of the air and snagged myself in a snafu。
Danny Getchellfilm…fucked forever。
I'm humping the 〃Hush…Hush〃hated Helen Gahagan Douglas the Lewd Lady of the L。A。 Left。 I'm jabbing some jailbait in the gym at Hollywood High。 I'm ecstatically entwined with Ethel Rosenbergsomewhere in Sedition City。 I'm holed up with Hattie McDaniel at the height of my fatty phase。 I'm liquored up and looking longingly at Lassie and her luscious littermate。 I'm skunk drunk in a skid…row dive。 I'm passed out on a putrid pallet。 A filthy filly is fellating me。 FUCKit's a dreg…like drag queen draped dramatically！
Dot dunked her doughnut and doused me with John Donne：
〃Send not to know for whom the bell tolls。 It tolls for thee。〃
I hit my knees hard。 I concentrated on a karmic counterattack。 I couldn't cough one up。
I whimpered。 I wailed。 I keened and keeled over。 I cried and cringed； and crawled into an abyss of abasement。
White light wafted in。 I shot to my feet on a shimmering shaft。 His voice vibrated off an old Victrola vaulted in my head。 It yipped through me victoriously。
I vowed to roll with the punch and reign on ring…a…ding。
February； March 1999
PART THREE
CONTINO
OUT OF THE PAST
Half…buried memories speak to me。 Their origin remains fixed： L。A。； my hometown； in the 'sos。 Most are just brief synaptic blips； soon mentally discarded。 A few transmogrify into fiction： I sense their dramatic potential and exploit it in my novels； memory to moonshine in a hot second。
Memory： a symbiotic melding of 〃then〃 and 〃now〃。 For me； the spark…point of harrowing curiosities。
A man gyrating with an accordionpumping his 〃stomach Steinway〃 for all it's worth。
My father pointing to the TV。 〃That guy's no good。 He's a draft dodger。〃
The accordion man in a grade…Z movie； clinching with the blonde from the Mark C。 Bloome tire ads。
The accordion man is named Dick Contino。
〃Draft dodger〃 is a bum raphe served honorably during the Korean War。
The grade…Z flick is 〃Daddy…O〃a music/hot…rod/romance stinkeroo。
Memory： the juxtaposition of large events and snappy minutiae。
In June 1958； my mother was murdered； the killing went unsolved。 I saw Dick Contino belt 〃Bumble Boogie〃 on TV noted my father's opinion of him； and caught 〃Daddy…O〃 at the Admiral Theater a year or so later。 Synapses snapped： A memory was formed and placed in context。 Its historical perspective loomed dark： Women were strangled and spent eternity unavenged。
I was 10 and 11 years old then； literary instincts simmered inchoately in me。 My curiosities centered on crime： I wanted to know the WHY？ behind hellish events。 As time passed； contemporaneous malfeasance left me boredthe sanguinary '6os and '70s passed in a blur of hectic self…destruction。
I drank； used drugs； and did a slew of ten…； twenty…； and thirtyday county…jail stints for preposterous and pathetic misdemeanors。 I shoplifted； broke into houses； and sniffed women's undergarments。 I jimmied hinges off Laundromat washers and stole the coins inside。 I holed up in cheap pads and read hundreds of crime novels。 My life was chaos； but my intellectual focus never wavered： L。A。 in the '50s/corruption/crime。 A '50s sound track acpanied my musings： golden oldies； Dick Contino on the accordion。
In 1977； I got sober and segued into hyper…focus： writing crime novels。 Dick Contino back…burner brain boogied as I attempted to replicate Los Angeles in the 1950s。
In 1980； I wrote 〃Clandestine〃a thinly disguised； chronologically altered account of my mother's murder。 The novel is set in 1951； the hero is a draft dodger whose life is derailed by the Red Scare。
In 1987； I wrote 〃The Big Nowhere〃。 Set in 1950； the book details an antimunist pogrom leveled at the entertainment biz。
In 1990； I wrote 〃White Jazz〃。 A major subplot features a grade…Z movie being filmed in the same Griffith Park locales as 〃Daddy…O〃。
Jung wrote： 〃What is not brought to consciousness es to us as fate。〃
I should have seen Dick Contino ing a long time ago。
I didn't。 Fate intervened； via photograph and black…and…white videocassette。
A friend sent me the photo。 Dig： It's me； age 10； on June 22； 1958。 An L。A。 〃Times〃 photographer snapped the pic five minutes after a police detective told me my mother had been murdered。 I'm in minor…league shock： My eyes are wide； but my gaze is blank。 My fly is at half…mast； my hands look shaky。 The day was hot： The melting Brylcreem in my hair picks up flashbulb light。
The photo held me transfixed； its force transcended my many attempts to exploit my past for book sales。 An underlying truth zapped me： My bereavement； even in that moment； was ambiguous。 I'm already calculating potential advantages； regrouping as the officious men surrounding me defer to the perceived grief of a little boy。
I had the photograph framed and spent a good deal of time staring at it。 Spark…point： late…'50s memories reignited。 I saw 〃Daddy…O〃 listed in a video catalogue and ordered it。 It arrived a week later； I popped it in the VCR。
Fuel…injected 〃zooom〃。 。 。
The story revolves around truckdriver/drag racer/singer Phil 〃Daddy…O〃 Sandifer's attempts to solve the murder of his best friend while laboring under the weight of a suspended driver's license。 Phil's pals Peg and Duke want to help； but they're ineffectualaddled by too many late nights at the Rainbow Gardens； a post…teenage doo…wop spot where Phil croons gratis on request。 No matter： Daddy…O meets slinky Jana Ryan； a rich girl with a valid driver's license and a '57 T…Bird ragtop。 Mutual resentment segues into a sex vibe； Phil and Jana team up and infiltrate a nightclub owned by sinister fat man Sidney Chillas。 Singer Daddy…O； cigarette girl Jana； a ely and unstoppable duo。 They quickly surmise that Chillas is pushing Big H； entrap him； and nail the endomorph for the murder of Phil's best friend。 A hot…rod finale； a burning question left unanswered： Will Daddy…O's derring…do get him back his driver's license？
Who knows？
Who cares？
It took me three viewin