Word: mick
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...Crowd. Like many other show folk in Hollywood, Lana liked to run with the hoodlum crowd that sprouted into semi-respectability in moviedom after World War II. High up in the crowd was a runty gambler named Mickey Cohen. To the movie folk, gum-chomping Mick typified a real-life heavy out of their own films; for the Mick to invite a star to his table in a swank joint seemed as thrilling for the guest as it would be if a rubberneck tourist were asked to drink with Lana Turner. The Mick and his crowd just loved...
...wanton Lana just loved one of the Mick's boys, olive-skinned, handsome Johnny Stompanato. A small-town boy with big ideas, Johnny was a preening gigolo, brushed his black hair thick and wavy, wore his shiny silk shirts open all the way down to his navel. He was also the fast-buck type, who, police well knew, built his bankroll by making time with thrill-seeking wealthy women, borrowed their money, rarely paid it back. Lana took Johnny in tow, paid his bills, flashed around the town on his muscular arm. When she flew to London last September...
Empty Seats. At week's end the team of Nick and Mick broke up. Mikoyan, the trade specialist, journeyed up to the Baltic seaports to demand to know why East Germany has made good only a third of its scheduled heavy-goods deliveries to Russia in the first half of 1957. Nikita Khrushchev and Ulbricht took the main show southward on a three-day swing through the Saxon farmland. A state-run corn farm delighted him; he pointed to stalks 9 ft. high, and recommended the "king of the plants" to East Germans as "sausage on a stalk...
...Horab Greenbloom, a character so prodigious that he nearly runs away with the book. Horab can only be described in superlatives of wealth, intelligence, vitality and childishness. He drives his Bentley at top speed, depending for guidance on his passengers ("What's that coming up on the left, Mick? Good God, you should have warned me minutes ago. It nearly hit us"). He flies his deHavilland Moth with the aplomb of Wrong Way Corrigan. Aiming for France, he makes a forced landing instead on a race track in Ireland. Even when he hears a native's brogue, Greenbloom...
Bittersweet Memories. If Mick Micheyl is a Parisian spring breeze, Juliette Greco is a gust from a dark grotto. In Manhattan last week, with her weedy dark hair hanging to her waist, she chanted in French the bittersweet songs that have made her famous at home. Her large, square hands shaped the phrases; her high-cheekbonsd, chalky face was alternately sullen and sad. In her best song, I Hate Sundays ("Every day of the week is empty and hollow, but there's worse than the weekday, there's pretentious Sunday"), her voice faded to an organ whisper. Even...