much like everybody else. At least Alison does.”
“You mean Dr. Edmond DeMille wasn’t right? They don’t have a secret handshake?”
“Who’s Dr. Edmond DeMille?”
“I am. That’s one of my pen names. I wrote a book called When Your Daughter Is a Lesbo. DeMille is even more full of shit than I am.”
That was Kenny’s greatest virtue. The self-deprecation. He didn’t harangue you the way some of his compatriots did. I’d never even heard him describe anybody as “square.” That was why I liked his books, too. I
appreciated the errant erections they sometimes inspired but even more I appreciated the humor he was able to sneak in.
“My mom tells me you did an article on Muldaur.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Hey, wasn’t that wild?
Him dying and all.”
“The Judge wants me to find out what happened before Richard Nixon gets here.”
He whipped his shades off. “Richard
Nixon is coming here?”
“That’s right. In six days. Having dinner with her at her club.”
“That Nazi.”
“I agree, Kenny. But right now I need to know about Muldaur. You find out anything interesting about him?”
“Interesting meaning sleazy?”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
“He was porking a lot of the ladies in his flocks.”
“That I’ve heard.”
“And then about six months ago, he came into some money.”
“Inherited, you mean?”
Kenny shook his head. He had beagle brown eyes. Plaintive. He made you want to put a dog biscuit in his paw. “I guess not.
He just suddenly had some money. Paid off the loan on that garage he uses for his church. Paid off a lot of bills, too.”
“But nobody knows where the money came from?”
“Nobody I talked to.”
“Wonder where he’d get money? The place he came from—^th hill people don’t have any money.” He hesitated. “You want me to see what I can find out.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“In fact, maybe I can get some ideas from it. You know, sort of playing private eye. You ever watch “Peter Gunn?””
“Never miss it.” And I didn’t.
“How about that Mancini music?”
Henry Mancini had revolutionized
television theme music. His music was as much a part of the noir feel of the show as the scripts and the actors.
Kenny put his glasses back on. Raised his Steinbeck. “Writing sleaze is starting to take its toll on me, man.”
I stood up. “How so?”
“Even readin’ somebody like Steinbeck. You know, like this really serious, really fine writer. I keep waiting for the sex scenes now.”
“Yeah, I can see where that could get to be a problem.”
“Like my mom was watchin’ Little Women the other night on the boob tube.”
“Yeah?”
“And all I could think of was how I could
turn it into a sleaze book. Like all the sisters are grown up now but they’re lesbos.”
“Little Lesbos.”
“That’s exactly the title I was thinking of.
Exactly, man.”
“I’d hold off on that one awhile, Kenny.”
“Yeah, for one thing, the people who read my books —they probably wouldn’t see the parallel to Louisa May Alcott anyway.”
Little Lesbos.
At least it was alliterative.
A squat, plump puppy followed me out of the town square and all the way to the sidewalk, then went bounding back to his people.
The heat wasn’t too bad yet—st in the low seventies—j the sort of temperature plump little puppies love.
Six
“I wouldn’t expect you to like him, McCain.
He’s a cultured gentleman.”
“Yeah, some cultured gentleman, the way he went after Alger Hiss.”
“Alger Hiss is pink right down to his lace panties.”
“Nixon himself said that.”
“Wrong,” she said, pleased, as always, to correct me. “That was Harry Truman himself, McCain.”
“Bull roar.”
“Bull roar yourself. Look it up. Harry Truman, the darling of the lefties, had a crony out in California he wanted to run for congress.
Felt the man could beat Nixon. Then Helen Gahagan Douglas came along and decided to run against Nixon.
“You mean Dr. Edmond DeMille wasn’t right? They don’t have a secret handshake?”
“Who’s Dr. Edmond DeMille?”
“I am. That’s one of my pen names. I wrote a book called When Your Daughter Is a Lesbo. DeMille is even more full of shit than I am.”
That was Kenny’s greatest virtue. The self-deprecation. He didn’t harangue you the way some of his compatriots did. I’d never even heard him describe anybody as “square.” That was why I liked his books, too. I
appreciated the errant erections they sometimes inspired but even more I appreciated the humor he was able to sneak in.
“My mom tells me you did an article on Muldaur.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Hey, wasn’t that wild?
Him dying and all.”
“The Judge wants me to find out what happened before Richard Nixon gets here.”
He whipped his shades off. “Richard
Nixon is coming here?”
“That’s right. In six days. Having dinner with her at her club.”
“That Nazi.”
“I agree, Kenny. But right now I need to know about Muldaur. You find out anything interesting about him?”
“Interesting meaning sleazy?”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
“He was porking a lot of the ladies in his flocks.”
“That I’ve heard.”
“And then about six months ago, he came into some money.”
“Inherited, you mean?”
Kenny shook his head. He had beagle brown eyes. Plaintive. He made you want to put a dog biscuit in his paw. “I guess not.
He just suddenly had some money. Paid off the loan on that garage he uses for his church. Paid off a lot of bills, too.”
“But nobody knows where the money came from?”
“Nobody I talked to.”
“Wonder where he’d get money? The place he came from—^th hill people don’t have any money.” He hesitated. “You want me to see what I can find out.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“In fact, maybe I can get some ideas from it. You know, sort of playing private eye. You ever watch “Peter Gunn?””
“Never miss it.” And I didn’t.
“How about that Mancini music?”
Henry Mancini had revolutionized
television theme music. His music was as much a part of the noir feel of the show as the scripts and the actors.
Kenny put his glasses back on. Raised his Steinbeck. “Writing sleaze is starting to take its toll on me, man.”
I stood up. “How so?”
“Even readin’ somebody like Steinbeck. You know, like this really serious, really fine writer. I keep waiting for the sex scenes now.”
“Yeah, I can see where that could get to be a problem.”
“Like my mom was watchin’ Little Women the other night on the boob tube.”
“Yeah?”
“And all I could think of was how I could
turn it into a sleaze book. Like all the sisters are grown up now but they’re lesbos.”
“Little Lesbos.”
“That’s exactly the title I was thinking of.
Exactly, man.”
“I’d hold off on that one awhile, Kenny.”
“Yeah, for one thing, the people who read my books —they probably wouldn’t see the parallel to Louisa May Alcott anyway.”
Little Lesbos.
At least it was alliterative.
A squat, plump puppy followed me out of the town square and all the way to the sidewalk, then went bounding back to his people.
The heat wasn’t too bad yet—st in the low seventies—j the sort of temperature plump little puppies love.
Six
“I wouldn’t expect you to like him, McCain.
He’s a cultured gentleman.”
“Yeah, some cultured gentleman, the way he went after Alger Hiss.”
“Alger Hiss is pink right down to his lace panties.”
“Nixon himself said that.”
“Wrong,” she said, pleased, as always, to correct me. “That was Harry Truman himself, McCain.”
“Bull roar.”
“Bull roar yourself. Look it up. Harry Truman, the darling of the lefties, had a crony out in California he wanted to run for congress.
Felt the man could beat Nixon. Then Helen Gahagan Douglas came along and decided to run against Nixon.
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