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close. A sports job--white or light gray--I couldn't make out the driver.
      Deputy Dot Rothstein or ??????
      Scary alternatives: Chrissy's old boyfriends, old dope customers, general L.A. friends.
      South on Gardner, east on Melrose--those headlights goose goose goosed us. Leigh said, "Dick, what are you doing?"
      "We're being followed."
      "What? Who? What are you--"
      I swung into a driveway sans signal; my tires plowed some poor fucker's lawn. The sports car kept going; I backed out and chased it.
      It zooooomed ahead; I flicked on my brights and blipped its tail. No fixed license plate--just a temp sticker stuck to the trunk. Close, closer--a glimpse of the last four digits: 1116.
      The car ran a red on 3rd Street. Horns squealed; oncoming traffic held me back. Taillights flickered eastbound: going, going, gone.
      Leigh said, "I've got no more appetite."
      Chris said, "Can I sleep at your place tonight?"

    4.

              Repo adventures.
      Cleotis De Armand ran a crap game behind Swanky Frank's liquor store on 89th and Central, flaunting his delinquent 98 right there on the sidewalk. Bud Brown and Sid Elwell came in with cereal box badges and shook him down while I fed Seconal-laced T-Bird to the winos guarding the car. BIG fear: this was combustible L.A. Darktown, cop impersonation beefs probable if the ubiquitous LAPD swooped by. They didn't--and _I_ was the one who drove the sapphire-blue jig rig to safety while the guard contingent snored. Beginner's luck: I found a bag of maryjane in the glove compartment. We toked a few reefers en route to our next job: boost a '57 Starfire off Big Dog Lipscomb, the southside's #1 streetcorner pimp.
      The vehicle: parked by a shoeshine stand at 103 and Avalon. Customized: candy-apple red paint, mink interior, rhinestonestudded mud flaps. Bud said, "Let's strip the upholstery and make our wives fur stoles"--Sid and I were thinking the same thing.
      The team deployed.
      I unpacked my accordion and slammed "Lady of Spain" right there. Sid and Bud walked point on Big Dog Lipscomb: across the street, brownbeating whores. Someone yelled, "Hey, that's Dick Contino"--Watts riff-raff engulfed me.
      I was pushed off the sidewalk--straight into Big Dog's coon coach. An aerial snapped; my back hit the hood; I played prostrate and didn't miss a note.
      Look, Mom: no fear.
      Foot scrapes, yells--dim intrusions on my reefer reverie. Hands yanked me off the hood--I went eyeball to eyeball with Big Dog Lipscomb.
      He swung on me--I blocked the shot with my accordion. Contact: his fist, my keyboard. Sickening cracks: his bones, my breadand-butter baby.
      Big Dog yelped and clutched his hand; some punk kicked him in the balls and picked his pocket. His car keys hit the gutter--with Bud Brown right there.
      I was flipped and tossed in the car--Sid Elwell with some mean Judo moves. The sled zoomed--Sid with white knuckles on a mink steering wheel.
      Look, Mom: no fear.
      We rendezvoused at Teamster Local 1819--Bud brought the back-up sled. My accordion needed a face-lift--I was too weedwafted to sweat it.
      Sid borrowed tools and stripped the mink upholstery; I signed autographs for goldbricking Teamsters. That lightbulb POP! flickered anew: "Draft dodger thing. . . gives you something to overcome." That car chase crowded my brain: temp license 1116, Dot Rothstein after Chrissy or something else?
      Bud shmoozed up the Local prez--more information pump than friendly talk. A Teamster begged me to play "Bumble Boogie"--I told him my accordion died. I posed for pix instead--the prez slipped me a Local "Friendship Card."
      "You never can tell, Dick. You might need a real job someday."
      Too true--a wet towel on my hot fearless day.
      Noon--I took Sid and Bud to the Pacific Dining Car. We settled in behind T-bones and hash browns--small talk came easy for a while.
      Sid put the skids to it. "Dick. . . ask you something?"
      "Sure."
      "You know.