Linda Lansing (the former Hilda Claire Wassmansdorff) is the look-alike younger sister of actress Joi Lansing (the former Joyce Wassmansdorff), costar of The French Line and Son of Sinbad. "Baby, It's Cold Inside" was Miss Lansing's debut recording, and it was written for her by acclaimed songsmith Sammy Cahn. Miss Lansing is chiefly known as the model and pitchwoman for Teitelbaum Furs in Beverly Hills, and her "gimmick" is performing advertisement jingles, fur-clad, on Tom Duggan's weekly gabfest on Channel 13. She recently appeared as a singer at the Igloo Club in Long Beach and the Trianon Bowling Alley lounge in South Gate, but both engagements were considered unsuccessful. Flash Flood told the Mirror: "I dug Linda's act at both venues. I dig the way she sells a song, and I dig it that she wears short fur coats and nothing else as her trademark. Frankly, I dig Linda the most, but that doesn't mean I took payola to spin her side."
The Los Angeles District Attorney's Office does think that someone has paid Flood to promote "Baby, It's Cold Inside." Prosecutor J. Miller Leavy told the Mirror, "We think we're dealing with payola, pure and simple, and several police agencies are looking into it for us." Sergeant Robert Duhamel of the Beverly Hills Police Department confirmed Deputy DA Leavy's statement.
"Where there's smoke, there's fire," Duhamel told the Mirror. "And our investigation is turning up some prominent people."
Duhamel refused to comment on which "prominent people." The Mirror went to Danny Getchell, editor in chief and head writer for the notorious scandal magazine Hush-Hush. Getchell claimed that his piece in the December issue, "Payola Pantheon! Sex-Sational Sinatra and Luscious Linda Lansing Linked!" sparked Deputy DA Leavy's probe. Getchell told the Mirror: "I got a tip that Frank Sinatra was paying Flash Flood to promote Linda Lansing's song, and I confirmed that tip to my satisfaction and wrote it up in the December issue. That's all I'll say. I'll never feed your newspaper any hot leads that I could publish in my magazine. You can't blame me for that, can you?"
Deputy DA Leavy and Sergeant Duhamel would not comment on Mr. Getchell's assertions. Frank Sinatra and Linda Lansing could not be reached for comment. Flash Flood told the Mirror: "I don't dig Danny Getchell. He's a parasite passing himself off as a journalist. I dig Sinatra and I dig Linda Lansing. And dig this: I think Skip Towne (a rival disc jockey and the former Sol Irving Moskowitz) tipped off Getchell to louse up my career. Payola, schmayola. What we've got here is freedom of speech run amok. You can dig that, can't you?"
Skip Towne could not be reached for comment. Danny Getchell told the Mirror: "I stand by my piece in Hush-Hush, and I condemn Flash Flood's accusations as libelous and communistic. Freedom of speech should always serve as a search for the truth, and the truth is my moral mandate."
I.
Sin-sational Sinatra:
A macho-maimed mama's boy and pussy-whipped putz. A punk with a pack of pit dogs to rough up recidivistic reporters.
Skip Towne skimmed me the skinny: Frank flipped Flash Flood five grand to flip that song and hitch it up the Hit Parade. Impishly implied: Linda Lansing lanced Frank's libido and pulled him around by the pud. Payola payoffs and poontang--perennia] poop for Hush-Hush.
Sinatra sent me a nice note:
"Danny, how could you? The Pacific Dining Car parking lot, Io:oo A.M. Thursday. You know it will go worse if I have to send the boys out to find you."
The Boys:
Freelance freaks out of Frisco. Greaseballs who grovel and suck up to Sinatra. Discipline dispensers hot to hurl some hurt and rack up ringside seats for Frank's next stand at the Statler.
Frank hates Hush-Hush. Hush-Hush hates him. I published a piece on his private doc and his prick-enlargement procedure. His pit dogs pounced on my Packard and blew it up on publication day.
"10:00 A.M., Thursday."
I deconstructed my dilemma. I contemplated compliance and concocted countermeasures. I strategized. I stripped the strait I was in down to strict essentials. I decided to frame Frank in the name of free speech.
8:30A.M., Thursday, 12/21/55.
I bopped by Ben Hong's herb hut in Chinatown. I bought a bushel of Belladona Bulbs and a mound of man-eating Ma Huang. Hush-Hush pushes panaceas and hopped-up health highballs to hipsters and high-school kids. We pitch potency pills and cancer cures on our back pages and ship the shit out of a shack behind the Shangri-Lodge Motel. It's legal and lethal in the long run. A loyal league of losers laps it up. Belmont High hopheads buy our Bitter Burdock Buds in bulk and bounce off to Cloud 9 in class.
I needed to nail a big bag of boo. Ben Hong heard me out. He said Bob Mitchum was moving Maryjane to move out of debt with the Mob. I buzzed Bob and blitzed him with a bit of blackmail bait: that bleached blonde who blew you in the Hialeah bleachers was really a high-class drag queen. Bob stuttered, sputtered, and spat out, "What do you want?" I said, "Drop some stuff on me."
Bob kowtowed and consented. I popped out to his pad in Pacific Palisades and glommed a glassine-wrapped glob of righteously resinous reefer. I stoked up a stick in my Studebaker and stood on the gas. I mainlined my way downtown.
I flew like a flipped-out flamingo. I flapped my wings and wafted back to earth on West 6th. I popped by the Pacific Dining Car parking lot.
I slipped by in slow motion. I slid my eyes into slits. I reconnoitered--reefer wracked and wrapped in a marijuana mushroom cloud.
I saw sin-sational Sinatra sipping a midmorning martini. He was lounging by a lilac Lincoln. Two lethal-looking lapdogs were perched on a Pontiac Coupe. They laughed and lapped up every line Sinatra launched their way. They were maladroit mastiffs on a mission to maul for their master. Their snouts were snagged and snared cloyingly close to his ass.
The parking lot was packed. The Pontiac was penned between a Buick and a boss Bonneville. I could undulate in and out unseen.
I bipped down the block. I stashed my Studebaker off the street and bebopped back on foot. Sinatra had his goons in stammering stitches. Stale stuff: the story of Come-San-Chin, the Chinese cocksucker.
They didn't see me. I dipped down and duck-walked into the lot. I popped up to the Pontiac and whipped my bag of boo in a wind-wing.
I whizzed out of the lot. I winged down the street and wiggled into a phone booth. I dipped a dime in the slot and slid a call to Sergeant John O'Grady.
O'Grady:
Grandstanding and greedy. A gratuitous need to grab grasshoppers and hurl himself into the headlines. He popped Art Pepper for pot and bagged Bob Mitchum on a boo bounce back in '48. He hauled in Hedda Hopper's hophead son just last week.
He picked up. "Narcotics, O'Grady."
I said, "Getchell, bearing gifts."
"I'm listening. You've got three seconds to catch my attention."
I said, "The Pacific Dining Car parking lot. Frank Sinatra's goons and an ounce of shit on the floorboard of a green Pontiac."
"When?"
"Now."
"Is Sinatra there?"
"You can't miss him. He's the skinny guy with the voice."
I loped back to the lot and breezed up brazen. Sinatra saw me. The lapdogs licked their lips. I saw a big guy in the backseat of the lilac Lincoln.
Sinatra slid on slick black sap gloves. They were wickedly weighted with dollops of double-ought buck. They packed a wellknown wallop.
The lapdogs leered at me. A mean-looking Mexican busboy sidled out a side door. He balanced a monster martini on a monogrammed tray.
The lapdogs laughed at me. The Mex marched up and made mealy-mouthed "Si, Señor" sounds. Sinatra popped his patentleather fingers. The Mex made a suck-ass sound and sunk down submissive. Sinatra snapped his fingers and snared the martini.
He said, "You're prompt." He looked at his lapdogs. He said, "He's prompt, Boys." The lapdogs laughed. The Mex sneered and snickered. I snuck a look at the Lincoln. The big guy in the backseat kept his back to me.
I popped up to the Pontiac coupe. I said, "How's tricks, Frank? Your mother still doing her act with the mule?"
Sinatra sizzled and simmered.
Steam stormed out his ears and stung me. He made mincy fists. His martini glass shot into shrapnel shards.
The lapdogs got lanced. The Mex got minor-league mangled. They shook shards off their shirts and popped puzzled eyes at Il Padrone. The punk patriarch palpitated and pissed in his pants. Dig the dip on those gorgeous gabardines!
I said, "I talked to Ava, Frank. She said you were hung like a cashew. I'm running it on the March cover. 'Sexy Songster Packs Pint-Sized Pecker, Gorgeous Gardner Sez."
Sinatra fumed and fueled himself into a fugue state. He stuttered, stammered, slobbered, slathered, and came off catatonic. His heart hammered. Buttons shot off his shirt and sheared me in the shins.
The lapdogs lurched at me. The Mex made machismo-like motions. An LAPD narc ark arced into the lot.
Everybody froze--frustrated and fright-fraught.
John O'Grady jumped out. His paunchy parmer piled out and paused by the passenger door. The lapdogs listed and almost landed in my lap. Glare glowed and shimmered off their shoulder-holster straps.
Badges--a shiny Sheriff's shield and a BHPD button. O'Grady said, "LAPD. Nobody move. Nobody say a fucking word."
I looked at the lilac Lincoln. I made the big boy in the back.
Sergeant Bob Duhamel--Beverly Hills PD.
A payola prober propped up in a prime suspect's sled.
?????
The paunchy parmer popped over to the Pontiac. He popped the passenger door and picked up the bag of boo. O'Grady said, "W/ho's this belong to?"
Sinatra went knock-kneed and passed another passel of piss.
The Mex moaned mumbo jumbo and muttered, "Mierda, mierda."
The lapdogs whipped their coats wide. Sun shafts shot off their shields.
O'Grady ogled them. His eyes shot shield to shield. He said, "Tell me what we've got here, and make it convincing. And tell me why Frank Sinatra just wet his pants."
The lapdogs lowered their eyes. I felt their brainwaves broiling. They brought their eyes up bright and brutally bristling. They slung them slow at the Mex.
Lapdog #1 said, "We're working an inter-agency gig. Mr. Sinatra's gotten some death threats because of that payola thing, and we're bodyguarding him."
Lapdog #2 said, "Uh. . . yeah, and Pancho there tried to sell Mr. Sinatra some weed, but Mr. Sinatra said no, so Pancho planted the shit in my car, 'cause. . . uh. . . he thought it was Mr. Sinatra's car."
Pancho popped puddles of sweat. It poured off his pompadour. He stood there stunned and stamped himself with the Stations of the Cross. He dribbled and drizzled sweat. He dropped his tray. It popped to the pavement pulse-poundingly LOUD. Instantaneous instinct: four cops reached for their revolvers and ripped off short-range shots.
They pincushioned Pancho and poured through him. They powderburned him and poleaxed him and parted his pompadour down to his palate. Bullets bounced off his bones and belt buckle and shot back at the shooters. Richochets ripped the paunchy partner and notched his nose off his face. I cringed, crawled, crapped my pants, and ran--
2
I stashed my Studebaker at a storage garage. I walked to Wilshire and Western and hot-wired a Hudson Hornet straight off the street. I had to hide out. I watched the cops whack that wetback and wipe out one of their own. I spawned a spectacular fuckup and got a cop killed. I mandated my own murder--and maybe much more.
The fuzz would flick me to cover up their snuff snafu. Sinatra would seek to silence me and humble Hush-Hush. Payola played in and percolated at the periphery.
I humped my Hudson Hornet to Hollywood. I hauled by Hal's Auto Dump and traded plates with a Triumph TR2. I tripped through Trancas Canyon and tricked a path through the trouble I was in.
Skip Towne shot me the shit on Flash Flood. I flaunted it in Hush-Hush. My prize prose prompted the payola probe and pissed off priapic Sinatra.
Sinful Sinatra sought the scent of sex citywide. His loyal lapdogs doubled as blasphemous bloodhounds. They sniffed for snatch and snagged willing wenches out of waitress gigs and whathave-you. They latched onto Linda Lansing at a lezbo cathouse.
Luscious Linda--Joi Lansing's curvy kid sister. Lounge Lizard Linda--a low-rent lollapalooza living off lesbian love. A mercenary mama now in moonlight mode in mink-coat TV ads.
Linda switch-hit and once swung with lip-smacking lez Lizabeth Scott. Late-breaking lowdown: Liz still torched for their torrid love. Linda's pay-for-play delight: delirious and delectable 3-ways. The latest late-breaking lowdown:
Sex-sational Sinatra--the thrill-seeking Three-Way King. He finds Linda Lansing and lures her to his lair. She throws him into the throes of three-way ecstasy. Mama mia--one man and two women waxing way out and wicked! Linda lassos Frank's libido and lays down the law: no more triad tricks until you make me a star! The King cons Sammy Cahn and has him hatch "Baby, It's Cold Inside." The tune tantalizes and titillates and ties in to Teitelbaum Furs. The King corners Flash Flood and flimfiams him and flips him a flotilla of cash. Flash is floored. He flips a tepid tune and leads Linda Lansing into the Payola Pantheon.
Skip Towne skimmed me that scandal skank. It buttressed a boss back story--but left me with big questions:
Bob Duhamel--BHPD. A cop co-opted to the payola probe. His BHPD buddy and some Sheriff's shill. Three cops caught up in shady and shameful shit with shaky Frank Sinatra.
?????
I flew by Flash Flood's flat in Flintridge. Fuck--Flood's Fleetwood sedan and a fleet of cop cars framed out front.
Look--the lapdogs last seen popping shots at Pancho the Piñata. Beside them--Bob Duhamel, BHPD.
Call it a Cop Conspiracy. Cop to the cost of the contretemps you created. Crawl out of the crap crashing down on you and live to launch libel again.
I chanted that malevolent mantra. I charted a course to charm, cheat, chisel, and THRIVE.
Laura's Little Log Cabin:
A Mecca for mannish muff-munchers and fawnlike femmes as fair game. A rustic rendezvous for rapacious diesel dykes.
Loin-lapping Liz Scott's happy hunting grounds.
I walked in wary. She-wolves shot me shitty looks. My rabid rep preceded me and pried a pack of boss babes off of bar stools. I devastated and decimated the room.
I located Liz. She was waxing weepy into a whiskey sour. I nudged into her naugahyde booth and nabbed some cocktail nuts.
Liz said, "Help yourself. They're free."
I lit a Lucky out of Liz's pack. Liz laughed low and languid.
"You're scum, Danny. You're a tidal wave of karmic filth and dissension. I wouldn't fuck you if I was desperate and you were a beautiful woman."
Liz looked luscious on her last cover shot: LEZBOS LOLL AT LOG CABIN, LAPD TELLS HUSH-HUSH.
I popped a pineapple piece out of her drink and poured it down my parched throat. Liz lit a Lucky and laid a lungful of smoke in my face. I coughed up cocktail nuts and pineapple pulp.
"You're a disease that they haven't invented a name for, Danny. You're lower than cancer."
I tingled. Titillation tickled me. I groaned and grew a hard-on.
I said, "I always thought we might have clicked and had a swinging thing, if you had different predilections."
Liz laughed light and lilting. "On the planet Pluto, baby. Sometime around the twelfth of never, but only if you dressed in drag."
Ooooh, Daddy-o! She was turning me on, tumescent!
I sucked my cigarette down to a cinder. Liz laughed licentious. A jukebox jerked on. Linda Lansing lilted out: "Baby, It's Cold Inside."
Liz lowered her head and laid out a lake of tears. I said, "Linda's headed for shitsville, Sweetie. You know the drill on payola. Sinatra's too big to prosecute, and Flash Flood will turn State's. They'll make it look like Linda paid him to play her song, and she'll take the fall."
Lonely Liz looked at me. Bar light lit up her tear tracks and tributaries. I knew she had a handle on some hot stuff to help me--very Hush-Hush.
She winced and wiped her face. She whipped down the rest of her drink and chewed
the cherry. She sucked the stem and stared at me. Her orbs sent me into orgasmic orbit.
She said, "You want information on Linda. You'll pay for it if you have to, and you're going to try to convince me that anything I tell you won't hurt her. You know that I'll give it to you if you're convincing, so be convincing and get out, or I'll send a 300 pound butch with brass knuckles over to kick your ass out of my life."
Astoundingly astute. Breathtaking brevity and bravado.
I said, "I'll plant a piece that you're straight in Hush-Hush. I'll leave you alone forever. I'm in trouble with the payola thing myself, and I won't write a fucking word about Linda."
Liz looked me over looooooooong. She lit another Lucky and licked a loose leaf off her lip.
Oooooh, Daddy-o! Save me from this sapphic siren!
"All right, Danny. One time and one time only. Linda told me she'd put in some innings with Frank, going back to '52. She said she had some dirt on him, and she used it to get him to bribe Flash Flood into playing her song."
The '52 bit bit a big hole in Skip Towne's skinny. He laid Linda and Frank out as a fresh item.
I said, "Where's Linda now?"
Liz said, "I don't know. I saw her a week ago, right after they announced the probe, and she said something about making a run to Tijuana for Al Teitelbaum."
I liberated a Lucky and lit it. Liz lifted a leather key fob and let it list on one long finger.
"2104 Berendo, off of Los Feliz. She was renting the place, and I made duplicates on the sly."
I snared the keys and snapped my fingers. I winked and whistled a whiff of "One for My Baby." Liz laughed loud and let me know I was a loser.