Shakedown Read Online Free PDF Page B

refreshments off local merchants. Lou’s Liquor Locker supplied champagne. Hank’s Hofbrau coughed up cold cuts. Fast delivery was assured.
    I swooped by my pad and traded my cop suit for a Cary Grant ensemble. Oh, yeah—it’s your ardent arriviste poised to pounce!
    The bungalow was big and boss, flouncy and flamboyant. The bellman sneered at the baloney and cheese backlit by spotlights. He rolled his eyes and split. I paced and smoked myself hoarse. The bell rang at 8 o’clock on the dot.
    There she is—Elizabeth Taylor at twenty.
    She stood in the doorway. I fumbled for an opener. She wore a tight white dress that caressed her curves and clamored up her cleavage. She said, “If I move too fast, I’ll split a seam. Help me over to that couch.”
    I grabbed an elbow and steered her. She felt my hand tremble and smiled. I sat her down and poured two glasses of ’53 domestic. We perched on the couch and offered up a toast.
    Liz raised her arm. A dress seam split down to her hemline. She said, “Shit. I didn’t have to wear this. You’re just the bird dog for my divorce.”
    I yukked. Liz said, “Don’t marry me, okay? I can’t keep doing this for the rest of my life.”
    “Have I got a chance?”
    “More than you think. Hotel heirs and queer actors haven’t worked out, so who’s to say a cop wouldn’t?”
    I smiled and sipped champagne. Liz reached around, snagged a slice of baloney, and snarfed it. The dress was still constricting her. She looked plainly plaintive.
    I unzipped the back and gave her some breath room. She sighed— Aaaaah, that’s good.
    The shoulder straps went slack and fell down her arms. She deadpanned it. Our knees brushed on the couch. Liz retained the contact.
    “How do I cut loose of Michael? I can’t cite mental cruelty, because he’s a sweetheart, and I don’t want to hurt him. I know you have to show just cause in order to sue.”
    I refilled her glass. “I’ll bug your house. You get Wilding looped and get him to admit he digs boys. I levy the threat in a civilized manner, and he consents to an uncontested divorce.”
    Liz beamed. “It’s that easy ?”
    “We’re all civilized white folks. You probably earn more money than him, but he’s older and has substantial holdings. You broker the property split and the alimony along those lines.”
    “And how are you compensated?”
    “I get 10 percent of your alimony payments, in perpetuity. You keep me in mind and refer me to people who might require my services.”
    Liz laid an arm across the couch cushions. Her dress collapsed past her brassiere. Our eyes found a fit. The rest of the room vaporized.
    “And how will I keep you in mind? There’s lots of people vying for my attention.”
    “I’ll do my best to make this a memorable evening.”
    *  *  *
    It was, for me.
    Liz passed away a few years ago.
    If I get to heaven, I’ll grill her per that first time.
    It started out clumsy and sweet. My punch line cued the first kiss. Liz was already victimized by too-tight attire. She shrugged her dress off down to her waist. Our kisses multiplied.
    I carried her into the bedroom. She popped off three buttons on my shirt. They zinged across the room. We laffed. I heard the radio a bungalow over. Rosemary Clooney sang, “Hey, there—you with the stars in your eyes.”
    We got naked. State it stark: we were built boss, stratosphere stacked and hung homewrecker heavy. We were the boffo best of L.A., circa ’53.
    We made love all night. We drank champagne with Drambuie chasers. We smoked two packs of cigarettes and spritzed gossip. We put on robes and climbed to the roof of the bungalow at dawn.
    An A-bomb test was scheduled in Nevada. The newspapers predicted some dazzling fireworks. Other bungalow dwellers were up on their roofs. There’s Bob Mitchum and a young quail smoking a reefer, there’s Marilyn Monroe and Lee Strasberg, there’s Ingrid Bergman and Roberto Rossellini. Everybody looks fuck-struck and happy.