The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [98]
Peavy smirked. “Want to audition? Kept man or geisha boy, you call it.”
Pete said, “Not tonight.”
Peavy laughed. “Hey, he speaks.”
The desk phone rang. Peavy ignored it. He wiggled his feet. He toe-crawled. He nuzzled Pete’s thighs.
Pete lit a cigarette. “ ‘The film racket is implemented by Tijuana policemen, who employ and frequently coerce underaged girls.’ ”
Peavy wiggled his toes. “Shit, you had my hopes up. You know that song? ‘Someday he’ll come along, the man I love.’ ”
Pete turned out his pockets. Pete pulled out two hundred G’s—new K-notes all.
He dropped said money. He grabbed Peavy’s feet. He dropped them desk-adjacent.
“We need your Gaming and Liquor Board votes, and you get to keep a 5% interest.”
Peavy pulled a comb. Peavy puffed his spitcurl.
“I know shakedowns and legal forceouts intimately, so go to the next step and say you’ll blow up my cabs.”
Pete shook his head. “If I go to the next step, you lose the 5%.”
Peavy flipped Pete off. Pete yukked. Pete showed him three pix.
Rose Paolucci: in church. Rose Paolucci: blowing a bull mastiff. Rose Paolucci with her uncle—John Rosselli.
Peavy smirked—tee-hee-hee—Peavy focused in.
He went pale. He popped sweat. He tossed his dinner. He doused the switchboard. He soaked the phone. He grabbed the money wet.
Pete snagged the Rolodex. Pete grabbed Milt Chargin’s card.
They met at Sills’ Tip-Top. They talked shit. They noshed pancakes.
Milt was hip. I’m a comic. I gig local. Call me Mort Sahl unchained.
Milt knew Fred Otash. Milt knew Pete’s rep. Milt dug the scandal-rag days. Milt knew Moe D. Milt knew Freddy Turentine. Freddy bugged fag pads for Whisper.
Pete leveled. Pete said I bought Monarch. Pete said I need your help now.
Milt was glad. Monarch was a fruit bowl. Monarch was a fruit cocktail. You need some fruits. The fruit biz rocks. You don’t need a froufrou aesthetic.
Pete quizzed Milt. Milt leveled.
He eschewed the fruit scene. He eschewed the smut scene. He eschewed the froufrou aesthetic. He said he’d stay on. He made some suggestions.
Peavy owns the Cavern. That homo hut hops. Let’s junket the fruits to and fro. Let’s be careful. Let’s be cool. Let’s live with some froufrou aesthetics.
They talked shit. They discussed Peavy’s gigs. Some to eschew/some to enhance/some to revise.
Pete quizzed Milt. Pete said strut your stuff—play Mr. Vegas insider.
“I’m on the Strip, and I want to get laid for a hundred. Where do I go?”
“Try Louis at the Flamingo. He runs a fuck pad on the premises. You get an around-the-world for a C-note.”
“Suppose I want dark stuff?”
“You call Al at the chambermaids’ union. It’s good trim, if you don’t mind shtupping in a mop closet.”
“Who do I avoid?”
“Larry, at the Castaways. He runs drag queens in the guise of real women. The rule of thumb is, ‘Don’t trust what won’t disrobe.’ ”
“Suppose I want a three-way with two lezzies?”
“Go to the Rugburn Room. It’s a dyke den by day. Talk to Greta, the barkeep. She’ll set you up with two femmes for fifty. She’ll take pictures and give you the prints and negatives for an extra twenty. You know, souvenirs.”
“Sonny Tufts. What’s the story on him?”
“He bites showgirls on the thighs. The girls get rabies shots when they hear he’s in town.”
“John Ireland?”
“Whip-out man with an eighteen-inch schlong. He goes to nudist retreats and plies his trade. He creates lots of excitement.”
“Lenny Bruce?”
“Junkie and snitch for the L.A. County Sheriff’s.”
“Sammy Davis Jr.?”
“Switch-hitter. He digs tall blonds of both persuasions.”
“Natalie Wood?”
“Lez. Currently shacked with a WAC major named Biff.”
“Dick Contino?”
“Muff-diver and gamble-o-holic. In hock to the Chicago Cartel.”
“The best lounge show in Vegas?”
“Barb & the Bail Bondsmen. You think I don’t know which side I butter my bread on?”
“Name me one Mormon fat cat. You know, the ‘Mr. Big’ type.”
“How about Wayne Tedrow Senior? He’s a dreck merchant with oodles of gelt. His kid killed three shvoogs and walked on the beef.”
“Sonny Liston?”
“Drunk, hophead,