James Ellroy - American tabloid

Juan chatted up the whores. The cops kept, sizing him up.

The snipper bowed and walked backstage. Ruby announced last call. Juan zeroed in on a zaftig brunette.

They’ll walk out the front door. Pete won’t see them. Their combustion might affect Juan’s hit performance.

Kemper popped the clip out of his piece and dropped it on the floor. He left one round in the chamber-let’s toy with the hit a little more.

The brunette stood up. Juan stood up. The cops looked them over.

The cops huddled. One cop shook his head.

The girl walked toward the parking-lot door. Juan followed her.

The lot fed into an alley. The alley was lined with hot-sheet-hotel doorways.

Pete was just outside.

Juan and the girl disappeared. Kemper counted to twenty. A cleanup man started slapping tables with a rag.

Kemper walked outside. A light mist stung his eyes.

Pete was pissing behind a dumpster. Juan and the whore were strolling down the alley. They were moving toward the second doorway on the left-hand side.

Pete saw him. Pete coughed. Pete said, “Kemper, what are you-?”

Pete stopped. Pete said, “Fuck… that’s Juan…”

Pete ran down the alley. The second door on the left opened and closed.

Kemper ran. They hit the door together at a full sprint.

A center hallway ran back to front. Every door on both sides was closed. There was no elevator-the hotel was one story only.

Kemper counted ten doors. Kemper head a stifled screech.

Pete started kicking doors in. He threw his weight left, then right-clean pivots and clean flat-heel shots sheared the doors off their hinges.

The floor shook. Lights snapped on. Sad old sleepy winos cringed and cowered.

Six doors went down. Kemper crashed through number seven with a shoulder snap. A bright ceiling light caught the face-off.

Juan had a knife. The whore had a knife. Juan had a dildo strapped to the crotch of his blue jeans.

Kemper aimed at his head. His one round in the chamber went way wide.

Pete pushed him out of the way. Pete aimed low and fired. Two magnum shots blew out Juan’s kneecaps.

He spun over the bed rail. His left leg dropped off at the knee.

The whore giggled. The whore looked at Pete. Something passed between them.

Pete held Kemper back.

Pete let the whore slit Juan’s throat.

o o o

They drove to a doughnut stand and drank coffee. Kemper felt Dallas ooze into slow motion.

They left Juan there. They walked to the car. They drove off law-abidingly slow.

They didn’t talk. Pete didn’t mention his toy-with-fate number.

This weird adrenaline had everything running in slow motion.

Pete walked over to a pay phone. Kemper watched him feed coins into the slots.

He’s calling Carlos in New Orleans. He’s pleading for your life.

Pete turned his back and hunched over the phone.

He’s saying Banister fucked up. He’s saying Boyd killed the henchman he never should have trusted.

He’s pleading specifics. He’s saying, Give Boyd a piece of the hit-you know he’s a competent guy.

He’s pleading for mercy.

Kemper sipped coffee. Pete hung up and walked back to their table.

“Who’d you call?”

“My wife. I just wanted to tell her I’d be late.”

Kemper smiled. “It doesn’t cost that much money to call your hotel.”

Pete said, “Dallas is pricey. And things are getting more expensive these days.”

Kemper laid on some drawl. “They surely are.”

Pete crumpled his cup. “Can I drop you somewhere?”

“I’ll get a cab to the airport. Littell told that charter man to wait for me.”

“Back to Mississippi?”

“Home’s home, son.”

Pete winked. “Take care, Kemper. And thanks for the ride.”

o o o

His patio booked out on rolling hillsides. The view was damn nice for a discount motel.

He requested a southern exposure. The clerk rented him a cabin apart from the main building.

The flight back was beautiful. The dawn sky was goddamn lustrous.

He fell asleep and woke up at noon. The radio said Jack arrived in Texas.

He called the White House and the Justice Department. Second-string aides rebuffed him.

His name was on some kind of list. They cut him off midway through his salutations.

He called the Dallas SAC. The man refused to talk to him.

He called the Secret Service. The duty officer hung up.

He quit toying with it. He sat on his patio and replayed the ride start to finish.

Shadows turned the hills dark green. His replay kept expanding in slow motion.

He heard footsteps. Ward Littell walked up. He was carrying a brand-new Burbeny raincoat.

Kemper said, “I thought you’d be in Dallas.”

Littell shook his head. “I don’t need to see it. And there’s something in L.A. I do need to see.”

“I like your suit, son. It’s good to see you dressing so nicely.”

Littell dropped the raincoat. Kemper saw the gun and cracked a big shit-eating grin.

Littell shot him. The impact knocked him off his chair.

The second shot felt like HUSH NOW. Kemper died thinking of Jack.

The bellhop handed over his passkey and pointed out the bungalow. Littell handed him a thousand dollars.

The man was astonished. The man kept saying, “You just want to see him?”

They stood by the housekeeping shed. The bellhop kept checking their blind side. He said, “Make it quick. You’ve got to be out before those Mormon guys get back from breakfast.”

Littell walked away from him. His head raced two hours ahead and locked in to Texas time.

The bungalow was salmon-pink and green. The key unlocked three deadbolts.

Littell walked in. The front room was filled with medical freezers and intravenous drip caddies. The air reeked of witch hazel and bug spray.

He head children squealing. He identified the noise as a TV kiddie show.

He followed the squeals down a hallway. A wall clock read 8:09-10:09 Dallas time.

The squeals turned into a dog food commercial. Littell pressed up to the wall and looked through the doorway.

An IV bag was feeding the man blood. He was feeding himself with a hypodermic needle. He was lying buck cadaverous naked on a crank-up hospital bed.

He missed a hip vein. He jabbed his penis and hit the plunger.

His hair touched his back. His fmgernails curled over halfway to his palms.

The room smelled like urine. Bugs were floating in a bucket filled with piss.

Hughes pulled the needle out. His bed sagged under the weight of a dozen disassembled slot machines.

The dope hit home. Heshie unclenched and eked out a smile.

Pete wiped off the needle. “It’s happening about six blocks from here. Wheel yourself to the window about 12:15. You’ll be able to see the cars go by.”

Heshie coughed into a Kleenex. Blood dripped down his chin.

Pete dropped the TV gizmo in his lap. “Turn it on then. They’ll interrupt whatever they’re showing for a news bulletin.”

Heshie tried to talk. Pete fed him some water.

“Don’t nod out, Hesh. You don’t get a show like this every day.”

o o o

Crowds packed Commerce Street from curb to storefront. Homemade signs bobbed ten feet high.

Pete walked down to the club. He had to buck entrenched spectators every inch of the way.

Jack’s fans held their ground. Cops kept herding avid types out of the street and back onto the sidewalk.

Little kids rode their dads’ shoulders. A million tiny flags on sticks fluttered.