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Running on fear--that car chase spooked her. I told her I'd have Bob Yeakel tap some DMV slave to trace the license--my backstage pitch shot her some last-minute poise.
      Chrissy:
      Scorching "Someone to Watch Over Me" like the Gershwins ALMOST wrote it for her--going hushed so her voice wouldn't crack--the secret of mediocre songsters worldwide.
      Chrissy:
      Shaking it to "You Make Me Feel So Young"; putting the make out implicit: _she'd_ call _you_ at three o'clock in the morning.
      Chrissy:
      Wolf whistles and scattered claps first time out. Better luck at final bow time: Bob Yeakel hooked the applause rig up to an amplifier.
      Chrissy won.
      The crowd was too drunk to know they got bamboozled.
      Bob congratulated Chris and stroked her tail fins on-camera-- Chris swatted his hand.
      Ramon moaned for Johnny.
      The sales crew snarfed Pizza De-Luxe pizza.
      Leigh called to say she'd caught the show on TV "Dick, you were better off as Chucko the Clown."
      I grabbed Chrissy. "Tell Bud and Sid to meet us at Mike Lyman's. You gave me an idea the other day."

      *   *   *

              Bud and Sid made Lyman's first. I slipped the headwaiter a five spot; he slipped us a secluded back booth.
      We huddled in, ordered drinks and shot the shit. Topics covered: "Rocket to Stardom" as epic goof; would my repo work spring me from my second producing gig? Bud said he spieled the car chase to Bob Yeakel; Bob said he'd try to DMV-trace the temp license. Sid reprised the Big Dog repo--I used it to steer talk down to biz.
      "I've been stuck with this 'Coward' tag for years, and I'm tired of it. My career's going nowhere, but at least I've got a name, and Chrissy doesn't even have that. I've got an idea for a publicity stunt. It would probably take at least two extra men to pull off, but I think we could do it."
      Bud said, "Do _what?_"
      Chris said, "I've got a hunch I know where this is going."
      I whispered. "Two hoods kidnap Chrissy and I at gunpoint. The hoods are psycho types who've got this crazy notion that we're big stars who can bring in ransom money. They contact Howard Wormser--he's the agent who gets both of us work--and demand some large amount. Howard doesn't know the gig's a phony, and either calls the fuzz or doesn't call the fuzz. In either case, Chrissy and I heroically escape. We can't identify the kidnappers, because they wore masks. We fake evidence at the place where we were held hostage and tough it out when the cops question us. We're bruised up and fucked up from the ordeal. The kidnappers, of course, remain at large. Chrissy and I get a boatload of publicity and goose our careers. We pay off the fake kidnappers with a percentage of the good money we're now making."
      Three deadpans.
      Three-way silence--I clocked it at one minute.
      Sid coughed. "This is certifiably nuts."
      Chris coughed and lit a cigarette. "I like it. If it works, it works. If it doesn't, Dick and I go to jail. We've both been to jail, so we know we can survive. I say maybe this is the real "Rocket to Stardom," and if it isn't, c'est-la-goddamn-guerre. I say better to try it than not to. I say the entertainment business thrives on bullshit, so why not try to shovel some of our own?"
      Bud strafed me: wary eyes, working on sad. "It's dangerous. It's illegal, probably to the tune of a couple of years in jail. And you're what the cops would call a 'known associate' of me and Sid. I could probably set you up with some guys more removed, so the cops couldn't link you to them. See, Dick, what I'm thinking is: if you're _determined_ to do it, then maybe we could make some money by cutting down the chance you'll get caught. _If you're determined to do it, hell or high water_."
      Those eyes--why so _sad?_
      "I'm determined."
      Bud pushed his drink aside. "Then it has to look real. Let's go, there's a place you should see."

      *   *   *

              We convoyed up to Griffith Park