wound up with the DTs at Queen of Angels.”
“Otto Preminger?”
“Mud shark. Currently enthralled with a sepia seductress named Dorothy Dandridge.”
“Lawrence Tierney?”
“Brawling, psychopathic brother of noted grasshopper Scott Brady. Digs the boys at the Cockpit Lounge and the occasional girl who looks like a boy.”
“John Wayne?”
“Quasi drag queen. Fucks women and looks stunning in a size 52-long muumuu.”
“Johnny Weissmuller?”
“King Schlong. Well known to have fathered nine kids out of wedlock with nine different women. Current holder of the White Man’s World Record.”
“Duke Ellington?”
“Current holder of the Jigaboo World Record.”
“Van Johnson?”
“The Semen Demon. Sucks dick at the glory hole at the Wilshire May Company men’s room.”
“Burt Lancaster?”
“Sadist. Has a well-appointed torture den at his pad in Beverly Hills. Pays call girls top dollar to inflict pain on them.”
“Fritz Lang?”
“Known to film Burt’s torture sessions and screen them for a select clientele.”
“The Misty June Christy?”
“Nympho size-queen. My shakedown bait Donkey Don Eversall gives her the big one on a regular basis. Donkey Don’s got a wall peek at his crib. My pal Jimmy Dean made an avant-gardefilm of their last assignation. It’s called The Stacked and the Hung. The premiere is Friday night, in my living room. You’re cordially invited.”
“Alfred Hitchcock?”
“Peeper.”
“Natalie Wood?”
“Child actress in transition. Rumored to be ensconced at a dyke slave den near Hollywood High.”
“Alan Ladd?”
“Dramatically underhung cunt hound. A man on the horns of an existential dilemma worthy of those Communistic philosopher chumps.”
He’s ga-ga, goo-goo, pulled into putty. He’s martini-mangled and mine.
“Mr. Otash, the job is yours.”
“Fifty grand a year and expenses. My operating costs will go at least double that.”
Now he’s green at the gills. Now he knows there’s No Exit. It’s a felicitous fait accompli.
“Yes, Mr. Otash. We have a deal.”
We shook hands.
Bondage Bob said, “Jean-Paul Sartre’s a pal of mine. He’ll love The Stacked and the Hung.”
That talking bug rocked across the rug and waved at me. I swear this is true.
8
Jimmy timed the fuck: 1:46. The fuckers: future prez and mick martyr JFK, Swedish sweetie Ingrid Bergman.
Pillow patter tapped the tape. Jack coughed and said, “Aaaaah, that was good.” Ingrid yawned and said, “Vell, for vun of us, perhaps.”
I roared. Jimmy howled. The market was 3 a.m. quiet. We passed the Old Crow back and forth.
Jimmy said, “We wrapped GE Theater. I invited Ronnie Reagan to the premiere.”
I said, “He hates the Reds. I’ll hit him up for some snitch-outs.”
The tape groaned and ground to squelch. Jimmy turned it off. I looked out the mirror. The kid with the red wagon was unloading Confidential. The wagon was white-print-emblazoned. I couldn’t quite read the words.
Jimmy said, “The kid gets to you.”
“He shouldn’t be out this late.”
“You’ve got the same employer now.”
“I know.”
“When I’m famous, keep me out of the magazine.”
“When you’re in it, you know you’ve arrived.”
* * *
The first check arrived. I retained Bernie “the Bug King” Spindel. He was an Orthodox Jew with eight kids and six schvartze girlfriends. We discussed the mud-shark metaphysic. Bernie said, “Once you’ve had black, you can’t go back.”
We spent a week whipping wires to wainscoting and laying mike mounts into mattresses. I bribed hotel honchos up the yammering ying-yang. We drilled, bored, spackled, threaded, planted, and wired all the high-end hotels. Regular retainers would result in records of sicko celebs sacking up in those rooms. Bondage Bob had bountiful bucks. We wire-whipped full-time listening posts at the Beverly Hills Hotel, the Bel-Air Hotel, the Beverly Wilshire, the Miramar, the Biltmore, the downtown Statler.
“Otto Preminger?”
“Mud shark. Currently enthralled with a sepia seductress named Dorothy Dandridge.”
“Lawrence Tierney?”
“Brawling, psychopathic brother of noted grasshopper Scott Brady. Digs the boys at the Cockpit Lounge and the occasional girl who looks like a boy.”
“John Wayne?”
“Quasi drag queen. Fucks women and looks stunning in a size 52-long muumuu.”
“Johnny Weissmuller?”
“King Schlong. Well known to have fathered nine kids out of wedlock with nine different women. Current holder of the White Man’s World Record.”
“Duke Ellington?”
“Current holder of the Jigaboo World Record.”
“Van Johnson?”
“The Semen Demon. Sucks dick at the glory hole at the Wilshire May Company men’s room.”
“Burt Lancaster?”
“Sadist. Has a well-appointed torture den at his pad in Beverly Hills. Pays call girls top dollar to inflict pain on them.”
“Fritz Lang?”
“Known to film Burt’s torture sessions and screen them for a select clientele.”
“The Misty June Christy?”
“Nympho size-queen. My shakedown bait Donkey Don Eversall gives her the big one on a regular basis. Donkey Don’s got a wall peek at his crib. My pal Jimmy Dean made an avant-gardefilm of their last assignation. It’s called The Stacked and the Hung. The premiere is Friday night, in my living room. You’re cordially invited.”
“Alfred Hitchcock?”
“Peeper.”
“Natalie Wood?”
“Child actress in transition. Rumored to be ensconced at a dyke slave den near Hollywood High.”
“Alan Ladd?”
“Dramatically underhung cunt hound. A man on the horns of an existential dilemma worthy of those Communistic philosopher chumps.”
He’s ga-ga, goo-goo, pulled into putty. He’s martini-mangled and mine.
“Mr. Otash, the job is yours.”
“Fifty grand a year and expenses. My operating costs will go at least double that.”
Now he’s green at the gills. Now he knows there’s No Exit. It’s a felicitous fait accompli.
“Yes, Mr. Otash. We have a deal.”
We shook hands.
Bondage Bob said, “Jean-Paul Sartre’s a pal of mine. He’ll love The Stacked and the Hung.”
That talking bug rocked across the rug and waved at me. I swear this is true.
8
Jimmy timed the fuck: 1:46. The fuckers: future prez and mick martyr JFK, Swedish sweetie Ingrid Bergman.
Pillow patter tapped the tape. Jack coughed and said, “Aaaaah, that was good.” Ingrid yawned and said, “Vell, for vun of us, perhaps.”
I roared. Jimmy howled. The market was 3 a.m. quiet. We passed the Old Crow back and forth.
Jimmy said, “We wrapped GE Theater. I invited Ronnie Reagan to the premiere.”
I said, “He hates the Reds. I’ll hit him up for some snitch-outs.”
The tape groaned and ground to squelch. Jimmy turned it off. I looked out the mirror. The kid with the red wagon was unloading Confidential. The wagon was white-print-emblazoned. I couldn’t quite read the words.
Jimmy said, “The kid gets to you.”
“He shouldn’t be out this late.”
“You’ve got the same employer now.”
“I know.”
“When I’m famous, keep me out of the magazine.”
“When you’re in it, you know you’ve arrived.”
* * *
The first check arrived. I retained Bernie “the Bug King” Spindel. He was an Orthodox Jew with eight kids and six schvartze girlfriends. We discussed the mud-shark metaphysic. Bernie said, “Once you’ve had black, you can’t go back.”
We spent a week whipping wires to wainscoting and laying mike mounts into mattresses. I bribed hotel honchos up the yammering ying-yang. We drilled, bored, spackled, threaded, planted, and wired all the high-end hotels. Regular retainers would result in records of sicko celebs sacking up in those rooms. Bondage Bob had bountiful bucks. We wire-whipped full-time listening posts at the Beverly Hills Hotel, the Bel-Air Hotel, the Beverly Wilshire, the Miramar, the Biltmore, the downtown Statler.
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