On March 23, 1954, I killed a rogue cop and a stick-up man and sealed the fate of a great city.

I.

My flight landed ten minutes early. I bribed a stewardess to let me off first.

I wanted to disembark sloooooow. I wanted the newsmen to dig my stripes and campaign ribbons.

The plane taxied up to the gate. The steps locked into the door. I shoved my way to the front of the aisle. A fat nun ate my elbows.

The door slid open.

I stepped into the sun.

I saw my agent, Howard Wormser. I saw two newsmen and counted five picket signs.

d.i.c.k CONTINO, RED p.a.w.n and d.i.c.k CONTINO, AMERICAN. TRAITOR, GO HOME and WE LOVE OUR d.i.c.k. A poster depicting me in the electric chair. I'm perched between the recently smoked Ethel and Julius Rosenberg.

I walked into it.

Howard grabbed me. We skirted some ground-crew guys and found a spot under the right-front propellers. Pa.s.sengers filed off the plane. The nun shot me the bird. Three picket punks shouted, "Draft dodger!"

Howard hugged me. His hands danced down my back to my a.s.s.

I said, "I need some tail. I need it baaaad."

Howard dropped his hands. I smiled. The stewardess I bribed walked by and blew me a kiss.

Howard's a f.a.g. He got drunk once and made a dive for my dong. Tail talk and p.u.s.s.y patter keep him in line. It's our s.e.x semaph.o.r.e.

He slipped me a p.a.w.nshop tag. "I had to hock your accordion. I needed money to get the booze for the loyalty-oath gig. d.i.c.k, d.i.c.k, d.i.c.k, don't look at me that way."

My heartbeat went atomic. My body heaved. A combat ribbon popped off my pecs.

Ransomed: My rhinestone-wrapped/pearl-patterned/candy-cane ax!

The picket factions faced off. "Draft dodger!" and "Go, d.i.c.k!" nullified each other. Howard cupped his hands around my left ear.

"d.i.c.k, you don't serve Ward Bond and Adolphe Menjou anything less than top-shelf liquor. Those guys are prepared to call you ioo percent American, and you can't stiff them with offbrand s.h.i.t."

Howard's tongue shot into my ear. I stepped back and shook it dry.

"They're coming to the gig?"

"That's right. A buddy of mine set it up. We've got the booze and cold cuts from your old man's store, and thirty American Legion guys at five bucks a head."

My blood pressure depressurized. "What do I play with?"

"I got a loaner off a kid at Belmont High. You have to take the bitter with the sweet, d.i.c.k. I promised him three personal lessons."

Two newsmen bucked the picket line and waved to me. I knew them: Morty Bendish and Sid Hughes from the Mirror and the Herald-Express.

I joined them. Howard joined the picket clowns. He pa.s.sed out accordion ashtrays. We bought them bulk at a child sweatshop in Pacoima.

Sid Hughes said, "You're back, d.i.c.k. You did your time and did your duty. What's next?"

I laid out my precanned pitch. "I'm going directly to the Lieutenant Colonel Sam DeRienzo American Legion Post in Glendale. I'm going to voluntarily sign a loyalty oath that declares me as i 10% American. I'm back to let the world know that I can bang that stomach Steinway better than ever."

Sid laughed and hummed the "Tico Tico" finale. Morty said, "Harry Truman pardoned you--and that's good. But you've also gotten support from some pretty unsavory quarters."

I said, "Keep going. That last stuff is all fresh to me."

Morty checked his notepad. "Oscar Levant was on Jukebox Jury. He said, 'd.i.c.k Contino has more to fear than fear itself. He has the accordion."

Oscar, you hump. Oscar, you rubber-room raconteur.

Oscar's wife signed him into the Mount Sinai nut ward. His agent signed him out for local TV gigs. Michael Curtiz signed him out for cultural kicks and took him down to watch wetbacks f.u.c.k in a skid-row hotel.

I said, "If that's 'support,' put me back on that airplane. I'd rather fight the Red Army than go up against Oscar's mouth."

Sid laughed. Morty checked his notebook. "There's a pinko lawyer named L. Trent Woodard. He's said some pretty raw things about the LAPD, and he's gone on to call you a 'gallant young man who had the courage to acknowledge his rational and understandable fear and implicitly address the absurdity of the war in Korea."

My blood pressure went presto-prestissimo. "I'm ioo% American. And Ward Bond and Adolphe Menjou will verify that."

Howard walked up. He grabbed me and lip-locked my ear.

"d.i.c.k, we've got to go. I've got you a quick gig on the way out to Glendale."

"What are you talking about?"

"You're going to serenade a young lady. She's in an iron lung at Queen of Angels."

Howard drove me downtown. I stretched out in the backseat and skimmed my recent clips.

CONTINO BACK IN SOUTHLAND was good. The guy stressed my presidential pardon and soft-pedaled all the fear stuff that deepsixed me. ACCORDION KING RETURNS took a tragic tack. The guy ran down my run on The Horace Heidt Show and said I "hipsterized" the squeeze box. I "beat out vocal groups, a Negro trombone, and a blind vibraphone virtuoso" and "sent applause meters haywire for fifty-two weeks straight." I had "4,000 fan clubs nationwide" and "almost got signed to play Rudolph Valentino" in a "big bio-epic at Fox." The guy implied that I had the world by the a.s.s and that I got more a.s.s than a toilet seat. Too bad I "cravenly exposed a fearful nature," "crybabyingly tried to avoid Korean service," and "cringingly ran from basic training at Ford Ord, California." Too bad I "shakily served six months at the McNeil Island pen" and "shadily segued back to the army as a hardened con."

Hush-Hush magazine called me "CONtino." They said my "destiny was deliriously and dolorously determined by deepseated demons dramatically and detrimentally defined as debilitating FEAR." They ran a sidebar with Oscar Levant and some dope-clinic quack. The quack said I was badly breast-fed and temperamentally toilet trained. Oscar said I should dump my box and exploit my weak pipes like a dozen famous guinea crooners.

A picture ran next to the sidebar. There's Oscar and me at the Shrine. We're flying on some high-end s.h.i.t that I copped from Bob Mitchum. Oscar's banging out Prokofiev. I'm winging a ditty that's half Brahms and half "Lady of Spain."

I skimmed the rest of the rag. I caught some sin-sational bits that played like prime Oscar.

Johnnie Ray honked a vice cop at the Vine Street Derby. The pull-quote was pure Levant: "He took the law into his own hands." LEZabeth Scott frequented a sapphic wh.o.r.ehouse. Matchheadhot James Dean was a mumble-mouthed m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.t known as the "Human Ashtray." George Burns liked it dark and dusky. He was spotted at a browntown motel with two large congo cuties.

People told Oscar things. They overestimated his dope habit and dumped their shameful s.h.i.t wholesale. They underestimated his memory.

Oscar heard all, remembered all, and told all. People looked at Oscar and saw all their sinful stuff personified and multiplied. They overestimated his empathy. They underestimated his guile. They flocked to the nut ward. They sought Oscar out. Oscar fed their secret s.h.i.t to an L.A. cop named Freddy Otash. Otash paid him off in dope and shot the s.h.i.t straight to Hush-Hush.

I skimmed the rest of my clips. L. Trent Woodard sunk his hooks under my skin.

The L.A. Herald, 12/19/53: Woodard calls Chief William H. Parker "the fuhrer of the LAPD." He calls me a "sacrificial lamb" two columns down.

The L.A. Times, 1/8/54: Woodard calls the LAPD "an occupation force." He calls me a "Police-State Victim" three columns down.

The L.A. Mirror, 2/20/54: Woodard boohoos "the forces that condemned d.i.c.k Contino." He rags the LAPD and the L.A. County Sheriff's for a botched robbery job.

The city cops and the county cops were working a joint gig. They had the Scrivner's Drive-In at Ivar and Sunset nailed down tight. They got the drop on four bad Negroes.

A cop popped his piece premature. Six cops and four stick-up men threw fire. Three Negroes and two carhops went down dead.

The LAPD blamed the Sheriff's. The Sheriff's blamed the LAPD. Chief Parker blamed Sheriff Biscailuz. Sheriff Biscailuz blamed Chief Parker. A heist guy named Rudy "Playboy" Wells escaped. A city cop named Cal d.i.n.kins caught the blame.

Three pix ran with the piece. d.i.n.kins wore a lot of fat and a tall flattop. Wells wore dark skin and a big boogie conk.

They ran a Fed mug shot of me. I wore tear tracks and a grimace.

I dumped the clips in the front seat. Howard turned around. His hands flew off the wheel. A truck almost blitzed us.

"d.i.c.k, Jesus Christ. I had them in chronological order. You can't just--"

"That Woodard guy is putting me in s.h.i.t up to my ears. He's making me look like a fellow traveler."

We slid into oncoming traffic. Howard grabbed the wheel and slid us out. "We'll work around it. We'll get you to snitch off some left-wing types and boost your credentials that way."

"I don't know any left-wing types."

Howard smiled. "We'll work around it. There's a guy at Metro I'd love to put the screws to."

The iron lung was 6' by 8' and weighed two tons. The lung girl was pale and skinny.

She was propped up inside the thing lengthwise. Her head poked out the top. She saw me and got choked up. Her tears. .h.i.t the lung ledge and sizzled. The thing ran twice as hot as a clothes dryer.

A kid brought my loaner.

The keys jammed. The b.u.t.tons stuck. The bellows creaked bad. The strap gouged a zit on my back.

The kid brought half the Belmont High wind section. A boss blonde blew lead tenor. She buzzed around me. I told Howard to check her ID and note the date she turned legal.

Howard promised me reporters. He delivered. The kiddie press showed up en ma.s.se. Six high school papers sent scribes. The lung ward ran SRO.

I strapped in and played to the lung girl. I pounded my pelvis and humped my hips and socked my sockets out at right angles. I played "Sabre Dance," "The Beer Barrel Polka," and "Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White."

I strutted. I writhed. I sprayed sweat laced with Old Spice cologne. My Tiger Wax melted. My pompadour dropped into my eyes. I bent back and resurrected it. I pressed my eighty-pound ax out to arm's length and played from a full-arch position. My spine shook, shuddered, and held. Applause eclipsed my crescendo.

I bent back to a normal stance. I bowed to the lung girl. Her tears spattered off the lung ledge.

Howard shot me a look: Quit while they love you/f.u.c.k these kids/No encores and no good-byes.

I dumped the ax and pulled a fast exit. A big ovation blew me out the door. The sax slipped me an envelope. I stepped into the hallway and opened it.

Her note: Dear d.i.c.k, I will reach the age-of-consent at 10:49 P.M. on Thursday, March 29, 1954, which is only 6 days from now. Please call me at 10:50 P.M. (Dunkirk 4-5882) to arrange a rendezvous. I know that we will make beautiful music together.

x.x.xx.x.xx.x.x!!!!!!

Linda Jane Sidwell (Contino?) I felt a little heft in the envelope. I looked in and saw a fat reefer.

We drove out to Glendale. Howard wanted to toke the reefer en route. I said no. Maryjane always flipped his switch. I didn't want him hopped-up and h.o.r.n.y.

I shut my eyes and daydreamed. Linda Jane Sidwell--six days to love.

I'd form a combo and take it to Vegas. Linda would quit school and blow sax for me. We'd work up a patriotic shtick. We'd suck up to professional patriots. We'd play lounges and move to main rooms. Linda's parents would hate me. I'd buy their love with Cadillacs and introductions to Sinatra.

Howard nudged me. "Wake up. We're here."

I opened my eyes. We pulled up in front of the Legion Hall. Howard said, "s.h.i.t."

No banners. No reporters. No Ward Bond, no Adolphe Menjou, no Legionnaires. A table full of cold cuts rotting in the sun.

I jumped out of the car. An old guy walked out of the hall and snagged some cheese puffs.

He saw me. He drooped. He said, "d.i.c.k, I'm sorry."

I kicked the table over. Delicatessen delights. .h.i.t the sidewalk. Two dogs caught the scent and leaped from a moving car.

The Legion guy said, "d.i.c.k, I'm sorry." The dogs snouted up salami and sun-ripe cheese.

I said, "What happened?"

The guy took off his Legion cap and wiped his face with it. "Duke Wayne called the post commander. He said, 'Lou, I hate to ask you for this, but you see how it looks. Contino paid his dues, but that Red c.o.c.ksucker Woodard's s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up his public perception. I hate to exert pressure, but you know I always buy three pages in your book every Christmas."

I shut my eyes. I tried to blot it out. I saw the Duke in my revised Fort Apache. A redskin keestered him and s.n.a.t.c.hed his wig for a scalp.

I opened my eyes. The dogs attacked a three-pound capo-collo. I said, "Where's the liquor? I want to take it back and get a refund."

The guy pointed to the door. "Your buddy took most of it, and he said he'd be back for the rest."

"What buddy?"

"I don't know. He said he was your buddy, and he said you went way back."

Iran inside. I saw the stuff that Wayne and Woodard f.u.c.ked me out of.

The lectern draped in red, white, and blue. The prepaid seats and party hats. A wall-mounted flag and a cue-card gizmo to feed me the words to my oath.

I ran back to the storeroom. I saw a pile of flattened cartons five feet high.

Johnnie Black and Hennessy XO. Bonded bourbon, Ballantine's and Bacardi.

Stacked on a shelf.