He hung up. I didn’t waste time trying to figure out what was the business. Who questions a command performance?
I was passed through several hands and many rooms of one of those crazy colonial-type mansions off Beverly Drive, and finally was shown into a private projection room. Bonannino sat alone with a beer can. He was looking at a blank screen. He wore a white terry-cloth robe and looked like a huge ripe olive with eyes.
“Sit down, Eastland. Hurry and sit down,” he said. I sat in a reclining chair facing the screen. “This is a blowup of a television tape projection. Had it sent over from CBS television studios, re-taped from the four o’clock newscast this afternoon.” He turned and yelled and waved his hand at technicians hiding somewhere. “Ripeta! Ripeta!”
“Ripeta! Ripeta!”The ligh
