Disco's Out...Murder's In! by Heath Mattioli

Author:Heath Mattioli
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781627310239
Publisher: Feral House
Published: 2015-09-28T00:00:00+00:00

MY DAD, LEANING ON HIS GOOD FRIEND SAM SCIORTINO, UNDERBOSS OF THE LOS ANGELES CRIME FAMILY 1974–1979.

A phone call from Santino opened my eyes at dusk. Orders were to show up at Boxer and Youngblood’s for a mandatory meeting. Our leader wanted a full report on Shitdick and The Governor’s pimp incident. Since one of them was my recruit, all responsibility fell on me. Behaving in a correct manner when flare-ups occurred was paramount to Santino; he had zero tolerance for blowing it on the streets. Guarding LMP reputation was constant priority number one, not only in the punk scene, but also among all of Hollywood’s street denizens. Pimps of Hollywood were in fact a seminal part of the punk rock landscape. Their prime territory was Sunset Boulevard, on the corners of Stanley and Genesee, including the area around Tiny Naylor’s restaurant at Sunset and La Brea, where waitresses served customers on roller skates. All these locations of ill repute were right near dives we frequented, so LMP knew most of the hookers, along with their managers, either by face or in passing. Pimps still wore the quintessential garb of flamboyant colored suits with matching trench coats, furry hats, and pimp canes, like characters in some exploitation film. They all were known to be ruthless and possibly deadly, hence killing one of them could stir up serious unrest around our common territory. Protecting a cold-blooded reputation was essential to their existence as well.

Infamous funkster Rick James was as common to that part of our cityscape as the Hollywood sign. Every weekend, 8 p.m. sharp, Rick strolled down Sunset Boulevard along the stretch of hooker/pimp turf with a ladylove under each arm. Punks who infected the clubs on that strip found his presence irresistible. His methods were engaging to say the least. Rick acknowledged everybody, but only spoke to the streets—he knew the difference simply by looking at you, and Hollywood was his town. Oki-Dog also unloaded many a wiener to Mr. James and his late-night women. Each time I saw him, he gave me a handshake, followed by some street anecdote, before he sat with our table of outcasts. We must have added something to his life of cocaine, pussy, and moral pollution.

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