Visiting PLO Headquarters At The Beverly Hills Hotel
I had visions of Eva knocking over Robert Stack or Milton Beryl on her way up the red carpet like a drunken bowling ball knocking over pins in the next bowler’s lane. Just like my friend Tina had done last year when she was visiting from San Antonio. Milton hadn’t called the cops so Tina and I escaped the evening news. I didn’t want to chance it a second time.
I rushed over to the Union 76 station on Wilshire next to the Beverly Hilton and dragged Eva into the men’s restroom where I splashed cold water on her face and wrists for a few minutes. Best I can do on such short notice, I thought.
Somehow Eva walked the red carpet without jostling anyone famous so I parked in a dark spot next to the bus stop/payphone kiosk in front of the Beverly Hills Hotel, crossing my fingers and hoping the client inside had already drunk up all the available house booze.
“Bloody Arab wanker ‘ad ‘is own switchboard up there in ‘is room.” Eva announced as she flopped back into my car an hour later, “and flippin’ bodyguardsh everywhere,” she slurred.
“Itsh a right bleedin’ circus in that room. ‘ad the bodyguards stay in the room while I wash workin.’ Bleedin’ embarrashing They even followed me down on the bleedin’ lift, pinchin’ me arsh. Bloody ‘ell.”
“His own telephone switchboard in his room?” I asked, avoiding the bodyguard question. “Wow.” Actually, Eva told me, he had the whole floor. He had guards armed with machine guns roaming the hallways. You’d never know it from the outward appearance of The Beverly Hills Hotel, but for a few weeks that floor must’ve been PLO headquarters.
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