Anders made a woeful face and returned to his former spot as the audience tittered. “Things are really getting bad in this country, ladies and gentlemen. It’s driving the image-makers nuts. Everybody’s getting so sensitive. Open a door for a lady and you get your home picketed by Women’s Lib. Have you heard, the emancipated female is now demanding equal rights for names. They say if the kid is coming outta their wombs, it oughta bear their names. I guess that makes sense, come to think of it. But the home run king of the National League, Geraldine Mays?
“Listen, this all goes back a long way. A few years ago the black civil rights groups demanded the end of blackface routines. They got it. The industry started hiring black actors for black roles. And that was good. But then several groups started demanding an end to black roles that don’t beautify the race. No more gardeners or chauffeurs or houseboys, right—none of that jazz. You think the employment picture in Hollywood is gloomy? You should see the black actors weeping, with no more gardeners and houseboys in the scripts.
“Listen, I’m not no ethnician, but … the Frito Bandito got shot outta the saddle because the Mexican-Americans got uptight over his accent. What’s that they’re saying about equal employment opportunities? And the funniest commercial in the history of television—the spicy meat balls gig—proved too spicy for the Italian-American living rooms.
“What’s going to happen to this country, ladies and gentlemen? What’s going to become of it when we’re all completely and finally sliced up into militant little minority groups all too damned stiff to laugh with each other. Huh? We’re going to have to rewrite all the history books. No slave roles, no immigrant roles, no bad Italians or rotten pioneers, no brawling Irishmen or Italian torpedoes or dumb Polacks, no crusty Englishmen or lazy Mexicans … what the hell is happening to our country, ladies and gentlemen?”
Anders seemed to have forgotten that he was up there to make the people laugh. He was pitching it to them hard and straight now, and no one was laughing, but Bolan could have heard a pin drop in the center of that huge room,
“We’ve got to look out for everybody’s image, that’s the most important job facing us today, it seems. We can’t mention Al Capone anymore; it makes the Italian-Americans uncomfortable. In our new history books, he’ll go down as Alfred Capingwell, a mischievious little rich kid who was a victim of police brutality. Not American police, of course. The ‘Society for the Image of Good Cops’ will have their say about that. We’ll blame it on the damned Canadians, they’re starting to get pretty snotty with us anyway, we’ll make it the damned Mounties what turned poor little Alfie onto bad times.
“What the hell is happening to this country, ladies and gentlemen? Listen, I’ll tell you what’s happening. You think I’m Tommy Anders, right? Wrong. My name is not Tommy Anders, I got it fixed years ago. You ready? Meet Guiseppe Androsepitone. It’s a good Italian name, but somehow it just wouldn’t look good on the billboards. You’d think a name like that, though, would give a guy certain privileges in certain segments of our society, wouldn’t you? But just a few hours ago, right outside those doors there, I thought I got mugged by a couple of criminal types. All right, let’s be honest … by a couple of Dignified Dagoes. I’ve got an imaginary hole up here on my head, and underneath these bandaids are some cuts I dreamed up. This mouse under my eye was caused, I guess, by a sloppy sandman.
“Imagination, all of it. I got non-mugged by two Dignified Dagoes who do not belong to the mythological Mafia … and that’s the truth. Ask the Attorney General of the United States. He’s even forbidden, the FBI to use the words Mafia and Cosa Nostra in their reports. Ask the Ford Motor Company. They’ve promised that no television show they sponsor will mention those unmentionable words. Is that rewriting history, or isn’t it?
“If it’s not, then I got beat up by a myth. This myth laid for me out there in the dark, see, and it jumped me and beat hell out of me for hurting the Italian image. Me, standing up here telling jokes and trying to bring a few smiles—me—I’m hurting the image. These two imaginary torpedoes cruise around wearing brass knuckles and massaging heads with blackjacks, they’re protecting the image.
“No, that’s not funny. I don’t blame you for not laughing. I’m not laughing either, even if I got non-mugged by an outfit that doesn’t exist because I made the mistake of mentioning something that never was. I can’t even laugh about it, and that’s got to be the wildest story I ever told, right?
“Well I got some disturbing news for you, ladies and gentlemen. There are worse things than a bad image. There are bad people, and they exist no matter what you call ’em or how you try to image ’em, they do exist. You don’t erase history by burning books, and you don’t do anything about righting the wrongs in this country by pretending that nothing is wrong.
“I wanta leave you with one last thought. Awhile ago I asked you, ladies and gentlemen, what the hell is happening to this country. I’ll tell you now what’s happening. The whole country is losing its guts. That’s right. It’s gone Hollywood, and that’s the truth. We’re all so interested in the image that we’re losing sight of some fundamental and important stuff. I’ve been telling you for years that I’m no ethnician. That’s a damn lie. I’m about as ethnical as a guy can get, and I wanta tell you that I’m not a damned bit ashamed of being Italian. I may not always be proud, but I’m never ashamed. What shames me is all these gutless wonders who’re afraid to be Italian. Or to be Mexican, or Black, or Polish, or whatever else they are. Because that’s what America is, ladies and gentlemen, it’s the freedom to be yourself, whatever that might be.
“But if you still want to sell out to the image-makers, then I got a word of advice for all you white-Anglo-Protestants out there. You’d better start thinking about your image. It’s getting loused up, and you people better get yourselves organized. You’ve been sitting around on your duffs laughing about myths, while behind your backs Black has become always Beautiful, Dago is nothing but Dignified, Polacks are forever Polished, and Jehovah’s Chosen are emerging as the brains of the country. So you WASPs had better come out of your dream world and get with this image business. Then we’ll drive all the image-makers everywhere clear outta their skulls.
“This is Guiseppe Androsepitone proudly saying good night and God bless you. And lookout for the St. Matthews—that’s the new mythological name for the Mafia. That is, until Giovanni Battista Montini raises a protest. What? You never heard of Giovanni Battista Montini? Well, would you believe … Pope Paul the Sixth?”
The little guy walked off under a standing ovation, evaded a stage director who was trying to steer him back out for a curtain call, and walked rapidly past Bolan toward the dressing rooms.
Following closely through the confusion, Bolan moved into the hallway several paces behind the comic. Two guys who looked as though they had just stepped out of a Silva Thins’ commercial were lounging near the dressing room door, their backs against the wall. Anders spotted them, halted, turned about, saw Bolan descending upon him, then he gave a resigned sigh and moved on along the hall.
Bolan was right on his heels when he reached the door. The two hoods started in behind the comic but Bolan got there first. He bounced the first one off to the opposite wall and met the second one with a graveyard gaze. “Bug off,” he quickly commanded.
Anders was standing just inside the dressing room, his eyes traveling rapidly between the three men in the hallway. The muscleman whom Bolan had unceremoniously shoved out of the action was tugging a leather sap out of his pocket and the other guy was just glaring at Bolan.
The comic gave an unconvincing chuckle and asked, “What the hell, are you guys fighting over me now?”
The one with the sap took a menacing step forward and told Bolan, “Butt out, Clyde. You’re not needed here.”
Bolan let his coat sag open to reveal the Beretta nestled there. “Try me,” he suggested.
The second torpedo had been staring curiously into Bolan’s face. When he saw th
e Beretta he gasped, “Shit, it’s him!” and made the fatal move, clawing inside his own coat for hardware.
The Beretta broke leather first, whisking out and up and spitting a pencil of flame through the muzzle silencer, a high-impact Parabellum hollow-nose phutting across the arm’s length range and splattering through the guy’s eye socket with a peculiar sucking sound, the head snapping back and rolling on the shoulders in instantaneous death.
Bolan was holding the dead man erect and showing the other one the muzzle of the Beretta Belle, and the guy was frozen there, his mouth open, horrified eyes riveted to the blood-and-tissue-splattered wall behind his partner.
“Take him,” Bolan snapped, and shoved the limp form onto the survivor.
“T-take him where?” the guy croaked.
“Where to, Anders?” Bolan asked calmly.
The comic scampered through the doorway to peer up and down the empty hall. “There’s an empty dressing room back there,” he yelped. “God, don’t put ’im in mine!”
“Show us,” Bolan commanded.
Anders led the way, the struggling torpedo with his dead burden following closely, Bolan bringing up the rear. They went into a room at the end of the hall and the hood panted, “What’re we doing, f’Christ sake what’s going on?”
Bolan ignored the query to ask Anders, “Are these the boys that muscled you?”
“Yeah, that’s them,” the comic replied in a choked voice.
The Beretta whispered without preamble, another Parabellum found mortal flesh and bone, and both Mafiosi crumbled to the floor.
“Okay, move,” Bolan told the comic, pushing him out the door and along the hallway.
Anders was wearing a sick look as they re-entered his dressing room. He went directly to the makeup table and took a pull at a bottle of Jim Beam, then turned to stare dazedly at the tall man in the blue suit. “Christ!” he said, and repeated it.
Bolan pushed the door shut and told his host, “It’s a friendly visit, Anders. We need a talk.”
“Well wait a damn minute.” The comedian sagged into a chair and passed a shaking hand across his eyes. “Please don’t ever come mad.”
“A man you know as Autry asked me to look in on you. Couldn’t do it himself, he’s not much better off than the two we just left.”
Anders’ head snapped up and he regarded his visitor with new interest “What do you mean? What happened to Autry?”
“Someone made a stretcher case out of him,” Bolan replied. “Your two friends back there, I’d guess.”
“My friends?”
“They’re sure not mine,” Bolan said.
The shaken man’s eyes were searching Bolan’s face for a clue to his puzzle. “You’re not with the mob then,” he quietly declared.
Bolan showed him a sober smile and said, “Not hardly.” He removed the sunglasses for a moment, then put them back on.
The comic had come halfway out of his chair and a light was kindling in those horrified eyes. “Oh, hell, don’t tell me …”
“Call me Frankie,” Bolan suggested. “Let’s cut out. I believe we have things to discuss.”
Anders was giving his caller a fascinated stare. “You’re not a myth, either,” he said quietly.
“I might be if we don’t get out of here pretty quick.”
“Hell, my God, Mr. Bolan, I’m not no … Frankie, I mean. Everybody gets their name fixed, huh. Okay yeah, I got a room here but I know a better place. The Ranger Girls gave me a key to their bungalow when these torpedoes started pushing me around. Hey man, you can ride shotgun in my corral any time, and that’s no joke.”
Bolan grinned and followed the little guy out of the room. The best stand-up comic in the business was wearing off his shock and the sharp mind was bouncing back for a new stand. They crossed the rear of the stage and cut through the kitchen, heading for the bungalows at the opposite side of the hotel complex, Anders keeping up a quickfire patter of one-liners regarding the mythical reality of violence in contemporary American life.
But Bolan’s mind was moving forward to a much more pointed routine from the hottest comic in the land. It was time for a Command Performance, and the audience of one had a life-or-death interest in the newest and un-funniest monologue of the non-ethnologist.
They were going to play a name game.
And the stakes were-life … or death.
6: SHOW TIME
It was a two-bedroom stucco job made to look like an adobe hut, except for the glass front overlooking the pool, with the standard Vegas posh interior and a small combination kitchenette-bar huddled in a corner of the living room. A hideaway bed was extended and ready for occupancy, taking up much of the living area.
Bolan took a quick walk-through, encountering nothing but an incredible litter of feminine clothing and incidentals. Opened and overflowing suitcases congested both bedrooms, and the bath was a hazard area of miniature clotheslines and damp lingerie. Both closets were overflowing with plastic traveling bags stuffed with dresses of every description. Boots, shoes, sandals, sneakers and everything that could be put on a foot were scattered all about the place.
Bolan completed his inspection and found Anders pouring liquids into two glasses at the bar. “Choice,” the perennial funnyman announced. “Whiskey and soda, or soda and whiskey. Which will it be?”
“Thanks, neither,” Bolan told him. “How many of these girl rangers are there, Anders?”
The comedian chuckled and corrected him. “Ranger Girls,” he said, “with a capital R and a Capital G and a yo-ho-ho just to think about ’em. They’re really sensational. Four, count ’em, four. Going on the bill tomorrow. They sing, they dance, they tell jokes, and they knock your eyes out.”
Bolan got the feeling the little guy was talking just to drown out his heartbeat.
“Between ’em they also play fifteen musical instruments. They got here early, to catch the competition along the Strip. Old show biz tradition, nobody loves a performer like another performer. Trouble is, most of the clubs show at the same time, so we don’t get a chance to catch each other unless we come early or stay late. They’re nice kids, Bolan. We’ve billed together at Miami Beach, Tahoe, San Juan—hell, everywhere. We’re friends, though, that’s all. They saw me get it, just outside here a few hours ago, and I guess they’re all that saved me from a worse beating than I got. They started yelling, the goons took off, the girls pulled me in here and called a doctor. Gave me a key, told me to stay as long as I like, and then went supper-clubbing.” He grinned. “That’s show biz. What else you wanta know?”
“Why’re they muscling you? And don’t tell me they just don’t dig your act.”
“The act I do, I’m lucky I don’t get mugged twice a night.”
“You know what I mean.”
Anders sighed and took a long pull at his drink. “Yeah. The mob. The mythical Mafia. I’ll tell you something, Bo—Frankie. If Autry sent you, then you should know also why I’m getting muscled.”
“We weren’t able to discuss the fine points. He just said that you’re in trouble, something you don’t want the cops in on just now.”
“Look … I’ve been fifteen years getting where I’m at, and it’s been uphill all the way. If those guys think I’m going to hold still for a death kiss now they’re outta their minds. I fought guys like that all my life, grew up on the streets with ’em, and I thought I’d gotten away from all that. But I found out better. There’s no getting away from those guys, Bolan, they’re like ants at a picnic.”
“What guys? The mob?”
“Yeah, the myths. They’ve grabbed control of my managers. I’ve been with ASA since ’62 and they’ve always been a great outfit. But now—”
“ASA?” Bolan queried.
“That’s American Show Association. They manage and book talent all over the world, and they’ve always been one of the best. I find out now that one of the partners sold out to the mob. He’s working for them now—fronting for them, I guess—drawing a sa
lary. Listen, I’m not—”
“Why worry, Anders? Why should you care who books you, so long as you keep getting the top spots?”
“Look, Bolan, you know better than that. You wanta feed me straight lines though—okay, let’s play. You know how it goes. Let the mob get one finger on you, just one, pretty soon they got it clear up your ass and they’re turning you wrong-side-out like a dirty sock.”
“Give me a for instance,” Bolan said.
“For instance. Okay, try this one. I’ve been opening the winter season at the Fountains in Miami Beach every year for the past five. Me’n the management have this thing going, we’re like old buddies. Any time I’m passing through I sleep there, and I always get the visiting royalty treatment. It’s been that way for five years. Get the picture?”
“I’ve got it,” Bolan assured him. “Go on.”
“So this winter an old tradition went to hell. Tommy Anders did not open the season at the Fountains. ASA told me the hotel figured it was time for a change. Okay, it hurt a little, but I bought the story. I go on to San Juan and spend a couple of months playing the islands. Last month I’m coming back through Miami. I stop at the Fountains as usual. No visiting royalty treatment this time, no buddy-buddy at all. I finally corner my old buddy Jake in his office and I ask him what’s going on. Then I get the story. You ready?”
Bolan nodded. “I’m ready.”
“The guy is scared out of his skull. He tells me I can go to hell if I like, but he’s not going with me. He says he’s not giving the mob one little fingerhold on his place and furthermore he’ll do no more booking through ASA. That’s hurting him, sure, some of the most popular acts in the business are under ASA management, so I’m stunned, see. I finally pull the story out of Jake. They hit him with this routine, see. He can get Tommy Anders to open his season, sure, but there’s certain new conditions now. ASA don’t like some of the people the Fountains is doing business with. They don’t like his suppliers, especially his booze distributors, and they don’t even like the laundry he uses. They give Jake this long list of hotel supply outfits and tell him he’s got to use them exclusively if he wants ASA talent in his showbills.
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