Hollywood Nocturnes

1. I was bombing. Atom bombing: sweaty hands, shakes pending. My back-up combo sounded off-sync--I knew it was me, jumping ahead of the beat. BIG ROOM FEAR grabbed my nuts; headlines screamed: "Contino Tanks Lackluster Crowd at Crescendo!" "Contino Lays Pre-Easter Egg at Sunset Strip Opening!" "Bumble Boogie" to "Ciribiribin"--a straight-for-the-jugular accordion segue. I put my whole body into a bellows shake; my brain misfired a message to my fingers. My fingers obeyed--I slammed out the "Tico-Tico" finale. Contagious misfires: my combo came in with a bridge theme from "Rhapsody in Blue." I just stood there. House lights snapped on. I saw Leigh and Chrissy Staples, Nancy Ankrum, Kay Van Obst. My wife, my friends--plus a shitload of first nighters oozing shock. "Rhapsody in Blue" fizzled out behind me. BIG ROOM FEAR clutched my balls and SQUEEZED. I tried patter. "Ladies and gentlemen, that was 'Dissonance Jump,' a new experimental twelve-tone piece." My friends yukked. A geek in a Legionnaire cunt cap yelled, "Draft Dodger!" Instant silence--big room loud. I froze on Joe Patriot: boozeflushed, Legion cap, Legion armband. My justification riff stood ready: I went to Korea, got honorably discharged, got pardoned by Harry S Truman. No, try this: "Fuck you. Fuck your mother. Fuck your dog." The Legionnaire froze. I froze. Leigh froze behind a smile that kissed off two grand a week, two weeks minimum. The whole room froze. Cocktail debris pelted me: olives, ice, whisky sour fruit. My accordion dripped maraschino cherries--I slid it off and set it down behind some footlights. My brain misfired a message to my fists: kick Joe Patriot's ass. I vaulted the stage and charged him. He tossed his drink in my face; pure grain spirits stung my eyes and blinded me. I blinked, sputtered, and swung haymakers. Three missed; one connected-- the impact made me wah-wah quiver. My vision cleared--I thought I'd see Mr. America dripping teeth. I was wrong. Joe Legion--gone. In his place, cut cheekbone-deep by my rock-encrusted guinea wedding ring: Cisco Andrade, the world's #1 lightweight contender. Sheriff's bulls swarmed in and fanned out. Backstopping them: Deputy Dot Rothstein, 200+ pounds of bull dyke with the hots for my friend Chris Staples. Andrade said, "You dumb son-of-a-bitch." I just stood there. My eyes dripped gin; my left hand throbbed. The Crescendo main room went phantasmagoric: There's Leigh: juking the cops with "Dick Contino, Red Scare Victim" rebop. There's the Legionnaire, glomming my sax man's autograph. Dot Rothstein's sniffing the air--my drummer just ducked backstage with a reefer. Chrissy's giving Big Dot a wide berth--they worked a lezbo entrapment gig once--Dot's had a torch sizzling ever since. Shouts. Fingers pointed my way. Mickey Cohen with his bulldog Mickey Cohen, Jr--snout deep in a bowl of cocktail nuts. Mickey, Sr., nightclub Jesus--slipping the boss deputy a cash wad. Andrade squeezed my ratched-up hand--I popped tears. "You play your accordion at my little boy's birthday party. He likes clowns, so you dress up like Chucko the Clown. You do that and we're even." I nodded. Andrade let my hand go and dabbed at his cut. Mickey Cohen cruised by and spieled payback. "My niece is having a birthday party. You think you could play it? You think you could dress up like Davy Crockett with one of those coonskin caps?" I nodded. The fuzz filed out--a deputy flipped me the bird and muttered, "Draft Dodger." Mickey Cohen, Jr., sniffed my crotch. I tried to pet him--the cocksucker snapped at me. Leigh and Chris met me at Googie's. Nancy Ankrum and Kay Van Obst joined us--we packed a big booth full. Leigh pulled out her scratch pad. "Steve Katz was furious. He made thEllroy, James is the author of 'Hollywood Nocturnes ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780307278791 and ISBN 0307278794.