yuk.
“A kid’s putting the boots to you, right? Pay up or he’ll rat you to the Legion of Decency. All those dago mob guys that book your act in Vegas will hightail it. Your TV show will be canceled if word gets out you go Greek.”
Liberace sighed. “Inimitably candid, and so, so true. He’s a dishwasher at Perino’s. What was I thinking?”
I sipped my pink drink. “Pictures?”
“Of course, dear heart. He lured me to a motel with a wall peek.”
A hi-fi speaker by the pool kicked on. Judy Garland belted, “Someday he’ll come along, the man I love.” The leopard woke up and licked his balls. Liberace goo-goo-talked him.
“Five thou, sir. You get the pictures and negatives, along with my assurance that it won’t happen again.”
Liberace pouted. His chest heaved. Sequins popped off his toga, caught the light, and shined. The leopard ambled to the pool and hung his ass over the edge. A giant shit ensued.
The factotum ran up with a scoop device. Liberace reached under his chair and pulled out a scrapbook.
“Ex-convicts are a weakness of mine, I’m chagrined to say. I’ve got mug shots of him and quite a few other rough-trade conquests. It’s my new hobby. I paste pictures when I’m not wowing my fans or practicing Chopin.”
I grabbed the book and leafed through it. It was the fucking lavender lodestone. I counted 26 KY cowboys wearing neck boards. Names, dates, penal-code numbers. A smutty smorgasbord of malignant maleness. Parole holds and prosty beefs galore.
Liberace jabbed a pic of one Manolo Sanchez. The guy was a Filipino flathead.
“He broke my heart while his evil lezzie sister took snapshots. Feel free to get tough.”
I nodded and flipped ahead. Three glum glamour boys beamed baleful off the page. Ward Wardell, Race Rockwell, Donkey Don Eversall. All booked for possession of pornography.
I pointed to the pics. “Blue movie actors, right? They peddle it on the side. You see the movies, you get a yen, you make a phone call.”
“That’s correct. I went to a screening at Michael Wilding and Liz Taylor’s house. Michael screened Locker Room Lust and Jailhouse Heat and supplied the referral.”
“Referral” buzz-bombed me. “Could these guys get it up for women?”
Liberace whooped. “Could, can, and do, sweetheart. And Donkey Don is the eighth wonder of the world, if you follow my drift.”
I tingled. I thought parlay. I saw dollar signs and movie-star movement on my Landing Strip.
“So, Michael Wilding’s a gay caballero?”
“In spades, love. His house is known as the ‘Fruit Stand,’ which perturbs lovely Liz no end.”
I yukked. “And Liz wants a divorce so she can move on to her next husband and break the all-time world record?”
Liberace slapped his knees. “Yes, and she’s pulling ahead of your girlfriend in that department.”
I cracked my knuckles. Liberace swooned. The fey fucker almost creamed in his jeans.
“Tell Liz to meet me at the Beverly Hills Hotel tomorrow night. Fill her in on my résumé.”
Liberace re-swooned. The leopard snarled and shooed a toucan up a tree.
* * *
Perino’s was high swank and old money. It catered to sterile stiffs and dotty dowagers who lived with 45 cats. I drove over at close-up time and parked by the back kitchen door. It was propped open. Manolo Sanchez and a fat beaner were scrubbing pots.
I got out of the car and hunkered low. I noted a row of lockers by a walk-in freezer. Fats opened his locker, grabbed a coat, and hit the road. I had the filthy Filipino alone.
He minced to his locker and primped. A mirror covered the inside door and threw his image back at me. I cop-read him: vicious little prick.
I squinted. Aaaaaaaah, the top locker shelf. A stack of photo sheaths.
He picked his teeth, he squeezed blackheads, he de-waxed his ears. I walked in. I crept up behind him. I pulled my beavertail sap. I saw his neck hairs bristle. He wheeled and pulled a shiv.
Flick —the blade sliced my Sy Devore
“A kid’s putting the boots to you, right? Pay up or he’ll rat you to the Legion of Decency. All those dago mob guys that book your act in Vegas will hightail it. Your TV show will be canceled if word gets out you go Greek.”
Liberace sighed. “Inimitably candid, and so, so true. He’s a dishwasher at Perino’s. What was I thinking?”
I sipped my pink drink. “Pictures?”
“Of course, dear heart. He lured me to a motel with a wall peek.”
A hi-fi speaker by the pool kicked on. Judy Garland belted, “Someday he’ll come along, the man I love.” The leopard woke up and licked his balls. Liberace goo-goo-talked him.
“Five thou, sir. You get the pictures and negatives, along with my assurance that it won’t happen again.”
Liberace pouted. His chest heaved. Sequins popped off his toga, caught the light, and shined. The leopard ambled to the pool and hung his ass over the edge. A giant shit ensued.
The factotum ran up with a scoop device. Liberace reached under his chair and pulled out a scrapbook.
“Ex-convicts are a weakness of mine, I’m chagrined to say. I’ve got mug shots of him and quite a few other rough-trade conquests. It’s my new hobby. I paste pictures when I’m not wowing my fans or practicing Chopin.”
I grabbed the book and leafed through it. It was the fucking lavender lodestone. I counted 26 KY cowboys wearing neck boards. Names, dates, penal-code numbers. A smutty smorgasbord of malignant maleness. Parole holds and prosty beefs galore.
Liberace jabbed a pic of one Manolo Sanchez. The guy was a Filipino flathead.
“He broke my heart while his evil lezzie sister took snapshots. Feel free to get tough.”
I nodded and flipped ahead. Three glum glamour boys beamed baleful off the page. Ward Wardell, Race Rockwell, Donkey Don Eversall. All booked for possession of pornography.
I pointed to the pics. “Blue movie actors, right? They peddle it on the side. You see the movies, you get a yen, you make a phone call.”
“That’s correct. I went to a screening at Michael Wilding and Liz Taylor’s house. Michael screened Locker Room Lust and Jailhouse Heat and supplied the referral.”
“Referral” buzz-bombed me. “Could these guys get it up for women?”
Liberace whooped. “Could, can, and do, sweetheart. And Donkey Don is the eighth wonder of the world, if you follow my drift.”
I tingled. I thought parlay. I saw dollar signs and movie-star movement on my Landing Strip.
“So, Michael Wilding’s a gay caballero?”
“In spades, love. His house is known as the ‘Fruit Stand,’ which perturbs lovely Liz no end.”
I yukked. “And Liz wants a divorce so she can move on to her next husband and break the all-time world record?”
Liberace slapped his knees. “Yes, and she’s pulling ahead of your girlfriend in that department.”
I cracked my knuckles. Liberace swooned. The fey fucker almost creamed in his jeans.
“Tell Liz to meet me at the Beverly Hills Hotel tomorrow night. Fill her in on my résumé.”
Liberace re-swooned. The leopard snarled and shooed a toucan up a tree.
* * *
Perino’s was high swank and old money. It catered to sterile stiffs and dotty dowagers who lived with 45 cats. I drove over at close-up time and parked by the back kitchen door. It was propped open. Manolo Sanchez and a fat beaner were scrubbing pots.
I got out of the car and hunkered low. I noted a row of lockers by a walk-in freezer. Fats opened his locker, grabbed a coat, and hit the road. I had the filthy Filipino alone.
He minced to his locker and primped. A mirror covered the inside door and threw his image back at me. I cop-read him: vicious little prick.
I squinted. Aaaaaaaah, the top locker shelf. A stack of photo sheaths.
He picked his teeth, he squeezed blackheads, he de-waxed his ears. I walked in. I crept up behind him. I pulled my beavertail sap. I saw his neck hairs bristle. He wheeled and pulled a shiv.
Flick —the blade sliced my Sy Devore
Similar Books
Lizzie Borden
Elizabeth Engstrom
Death of an Artist
Kate Wilhelm
Call of Kythshire (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 1)
Missy Sheldrake
Against the Odds
Brenda Kennedy
Amanda McCabe
The Rules of Love
A Closed Eye
Anita Brookner
THE LYIN’ KING
Vertell Reno'Diva Simato
BindMeTight
Unknown, Nell Henderson
The Gilder
Kathryn Kay
