Джеймс Эллрой - This Storm

Elmer eyeballed Ruth’s bungalow. He had peeper tendencies. He liked to perch and watch. He saw nifty shit that way.

Sibelius diminuendoed. Babs Stanwyck breezed out Ruth’s door. Note her wet hair and love-struck demeanor. Woo-woo! Round Heel Ruth rides both ways!

Babs breezed to her boss Packard coupe and peeled northbound. Elmer breezed into the courtyard. Ruth sat on her steps. She looked flustered and distractified.

“Sergeant Elmer has once again been lurking. It is a leitmotif with him. He lurks to allay his restlessness and to sate his curiosities. Sergeant Elmer is a voyeur. He should move to Berlin and join the Gestapo.”

Elmer yukked. Ruth had that mordant streak. It played off-kilter now. She still played distractified.

“I liked the Sibelius.”

“There was nothing to like. You are an undiscerning listener. Barn-dance music is more your métier.”

Elmer sat down beside her. Their arms brushed. He felt tremors. Round Heel Ruth, electrizized.

“You seem shook up, sweetie. You’d think a sleepover with Babs would have you all pacified.”

Ruth lit a cigarette. “I was at the Musicians’ Local on Vine Street all night. I filled in for an absent first violin and recorded the third Bartók Quartet. Babs came by to pick up a book I’d borrowed, and to wash her hair. She enjoys my shampoo, more than she appreciates my prowess. You are ever the policeman, Elmer. You attribute motive in a most paranoic way.”

Elmer laughed. “Let’s hit the hay. It’s been too long, and I’ve missed you.”

Ruth X-ray-eyed him. “You’ve been crying. Your face is flushed and mottled, and your beady eyes are bloodshot. Am I the source of your tears? I would think a man as promiscuous as you would engage a woman such as I with more distanced affections.”

Elmer teared up. Not that much. He was done in and sobbed out.

“I withheld a confession. Eight people died. I’m in some shit I can’t step out of, in more ways than I can count.”

Ruth flicked her cigarette. It hit a wet grass strip and fizzled.

“Scheiss, eh? Are you in the scheiss as the Koenigs, Sandor, and I seem to be? We are facing a Federal deportation order, my callow friend. The lawyer Otto secured for us explained the motive behind it, so I will explain it to you. Your Mr. Hoover is perturbed, because our names were mentioned in a memorandum pertaining to extortion and an FBI agent under house arrest. Expulsion from the United States. Does not my scheiss exceed your scheiss, mein herr ?”

Extortion. House arrest. That meant Ed the Fed Satterlee.

“I didn’t come here to brawl with you, love. I didn’t show up to compare notes on who’s got it worse, either.”

Ruth said, “You have blood on your hands. Allow me to commiserate, and add that it is not Jewish blood, and not the blood of three hundred.”

“Are we going for volume here? Is Jewish blood any better than plain old white and Mexican blood?”

Ruth wheeled and slapped him. She knocked off his hat. Her nails raked his cheek and drew blood.

Buzz said, “I’m going to kill him. Dudley Liam Smith, muerto. It’s the only way this deal makes any sense.”

Elmer relit a cigar. “This deal has never made sense, and it never will. There’s too much to it, and it goes back too far. It’s not supposed to make sense. Kay told me that, and if Kay says something, it’s true.”

Daylight stakeout. Elmer’s sled. Four eyes on 562 South Linden. This four-flat apartment house. This pink mock château. Gelb had the upstairs-left spot.

Buzz relit a cigar. “I rented a motel room, up the Ridge Route. Nice and secluded. We’ll put the blocks to El Comrade there.”

Elmer said, “Bring your pet scorpion. One look at him, and Gelb’ll shit his britches.”

Buzz scoped Elmer’s cheek. “Ellen clawed you, right? I’ve seen a couple of her pictures. She’s got that caged-tigress thing going.”

Elmer tiger-growled. “Girlfriend #4 scraped me. She’s your jungle cat.”

Buzz said, “I mixed a terp and chloral hydrate cocktail. We’ll sedate Gelb and toss him in the trunk.”

Elmer blew smoke rings. “You don’t seem too upset about those dead folks up in Kern.”

Buzz said, “Easy come, easy go. It’s not like losing your own near and dear.”

Elmer dozed. He dipped to some torrid locale. Jungle Cat Ruth scratched him. Jungle Cat Annie loved him. Jungle Cats Brenda and Ellen tossed him out in the rain. Jungle Cat Kay took him home to her glade.

Some stray cat nudged him. Elmer blinked and opened his eyes.

Buzz went Looky, looky. He pointed across the street and up. Frankie Carbajal ambled toward Comrade Gelb’s place. He wore a Sir Guy shirt and loose flannels. Note the creepy-crawler tennis shoes and gun bulge.

Elmer rubbed his eyes. It’s no mirage. Frankie’s out of custody and up from Mexico. El Whipout Man de Sinarquismo. He’s loose in Beverly Hills.

Buzz said, “We’ll give him five minutes. If he comes out with Gelb, we’ll grab them from behind.”

Elmer said, “We’ll work singles otherwise. I’ll flip you for who takes Gelb.”

Frankie jogged up to Gelb’s door. He knocked. The door stayed shut. Frankie whipped out a set of lock picks. He had fast hands. He picked the lock and crept in. The door slammed shut.

Buzz dug out a quarter and flipped it. Elmer called heads. The quarter hit tails. Elmer went Shit.

They timed Frankie’s visit. Elmer orbed his wristwatch. It ticked off two minutes flat. The door popped open. Frankie stumble-walked back out. He looked all of a sudden fright-wigged and racked with the frets.

He stumble-walked down the stairs and weaved back toward Wilshire. Elmer and Buzz piled out and foot-dogged him. They closed the gap. They closed too fast. Frankie looked back and saw them.

Buzz pulled his roscoe. Elmer pulled, likewise. Frankie pulled his waistband piece. They all got their bearings. They all dug in and aimed straight and threw shots all at once.

Frankie stood his ground. He popped two rounds. They hit parked cars and zinged wide. Elmer and Buzz ran up, shooting. Buzz cracked this Chevy’s windshield and tore up the ragtop. Elmer nailed Frankie, waist-high. Frankie pitched ass over elbows and popped shots at the sky.

Elmer and Buzz ran up. Frankie sprawled, supine. Elmer kicked his gun hand. Frankie spit blood and dropped the piece. Looky-loos craned out their windows. What’s this big noise about?

Buzz looked around. Frankie bit his lips and pawed at his hip wound. Elmer went Aw-oh. An old lady across the street screamed.

Elmer reholstered. Buzz grabbed Frankie’s neck scruff and dragged him down the Wilshire-flank alley. Frankie wailed and flailed. Buzz looked around. Parked cars and hedgerows covered him. He shot Frankie three times in the head.

Muzzle job. Frankie spilled the sabotage lead. Dead men tell no—

Elmer wheeled and ran. He ran to the mock château and stumble-tripped up the stairs. He kicked the door off the hinge plates. It caved in and crashed upside Meyer Gelb’s legs.

He’s flat on his back. He’s been tortured. There’s congealed cuts on his arms and his neck. There’s a bullet hole in his forehead. It’s small caliber. The blood’s dried maroon.

Elmer prowled the room. The walls were plastered with pix of Boss Man Hitler and Butcher Stalin. Note the scrawled-up margins. It’s all weird shit about fires and storms.

The plaza newsstand hawked the L.A. papers. The Herald headlined the Fed-probe acquittals. They ran the snuff piece, page two.

BEVERLY HILLS SHOOT-OUT! POLICE KILL SUBVERSIVE! MAN SLAYS COMMUNIST BOSS!