Джеймс Эллрой - This Storm

“Yes, but what’s in it for me?”

Dudley said, “I intend to rescue you and your family from the internment. Would a U.S. Army commission and a posting here suit you?”

Elmer doodled. It soothed his gourd and vitalized his brain cells.

Lyman’s was jam-packed. He nursed a highball and worked at his table. He scribbled up napkins. He drew pit dogs with sharp fangs and big dicks.

He wrote, “DUDLEY SMITH EATS SHIT!!!!!” He laughed. He scoped the bar and saw Thad Brown and Two-Gun Davis. The highball kicked in. He quit futzing around and got to it.

He wrote, “D.S. & T.G.” He underlined it and added question marks. He wrote, “T.G. to E.L. (murder vict)” and underlined it.

He wrote, “Donald Matsura & E.L. — ???” He wrote, “Can’t talk to Breuning & Carlisle — D.S.’s goons.” He wrote, “Kapek & Rice — too corrupt.”

He circled. He underlined. He drew arrows and X s and stitched all this shit up. He got bored and periscoped Lyman’s.

He saw Kay in a back booth. He saw Bill Parker’s redhead at the bar. She wore civilian vines now. Jim Davis crowded her. He blathered and sprayed pretzel gack.

Elmer wrote, “E.J. & J.C.” and drew a heart around it. He added Cupid’s arrow and got back to work.

He wrote, “T.G.’s address book—???” He wrote, “Hot-box phone calls—???” He wrote, “Calls to 14 Baja pay phones—???”

He drew an SQ circled by snakes. He drew more question marks. He drew Eddie Leng’s death rictus and french-fried feet.

Kay hopped in his booth. There she is, her all-time self.

Elmer scooped up his doodles. Kay laid down her Manhattan. Elmer plucked out the cherry and ate it.

“Tell me something I don’t know. And make it interesting, because it’s Saturday night, and the world’s got me batshit.”

Kay laughed. “Thad told me about the DB call New Year’s morning. I thought, Uh- oh, Elmer’s brother died close by there. That’s the chickens come home to roost.”

Elmer spit the cherry pit in an ashtray. Elmer jiggled Kay’s hands.

“I got no dish on this one. It’s ’42 now, and Wayne Frank cashed out back in ’33. I don’t see no hook between him and this here DB. And if I did, I wouldn’t know what to do, because I’m really just a whore-peddler, a bagman, and a strongarm thug. I might be the world’s luckiest white man, but I sure as shit am not much of a detective.”

Kay lit a cigarette. “There’s a look you get. Your jaw sets a certain way, and your eyes go flat. It’s like you’re saying, ‘The comedy hour’s over.’ ”

Elmer snatched her drink. He plucked an orange rind and waved the swizzle stick.

“The Dudster sent me out to kill a man, but I couldn’t do it. I been reading some C-town files, and it looks to me like that selfsame geek killed himself a tonged-up Chinaman.”

Kay looked him over. She had well-known X-ray eyes. Elmer squirmed and relit his cigar.

Bar chat escalated. Elmer caught threads. Jim Davis called FDR “Double-Cross Rosenfeld.” Joan Conville took offense.

Kay caught the kerfuffle. She X-ray-eyed Joan. Elmer said, “There’s your gossip.”

“If you mean vehicular manslaughter, I’ve already heard it. Lee told me. He said it’s worse than the dead Mexicans, but he wouldn’t say why.”

Elmer shrugged. “You know everything that I know. If there’s more to it, you could ask Bill Parker.”

Kay jiggled his hands. Elmer laced up their fingers.

“Kick Lee out. You don’t sleep with him, anyway. Tell Parker to leave his wife and marry you. If he nixes it, I’ll marry you. I’ll get a cop job in Bumfuck, Indiana. We’ll live fat and sassy on a farm someplace.”

Kay laughed and un laced their fingers. She scanned the bar and X-ray-eyed Big Joan.

He got itchy. He stayed batshit. He fought the Saturday Night Blues.

Elmer drove to his place and fed his tropical fish. Said fish ignored him. Itchy feet pushed him back out. L.A. was blackout black. He drove straight to Brenda’s place.

He almost walked in. Oooh-baby grunts stopped him dead at the door. He peeped the front window. Shit — Brenda’s shtupping Jack Horrall on the floor.

Elmer drove to Ellen’s place. He parked outside her building and reconnoitered. He elevatored up to her floor. He climbed out on a fire escape and peeped the front room. Shit — Ellen’s shtupping her husband on the couch.

More loose ends. More fucking rain. Mama, dem blues gots me baaaaaad.

Elmer drove to Chapman Park. Brenda’s fuck flop overlooked the Ambassador Hotel. Tonight, at the Coconut Grove: Glenn Miller and the Modernaires.

He parked and elevatored up. He let himself in and stormed the kitchen. He built a ham sandwich and a highball. He pondered dumb moves.

Send Kay flowers. Send Big Joan flowers. Take her to the Coconut Grove. Mess with Bill Parker.

Elmer guzzled his highball. He unlocked the wall peek and checked the camera gear. He skimmed the play-for-pay girl book.

Charlotte, French expert. Dirty Diane, striptease. Call the switchboard. You’re the boss. You get the woof-woof for free.

Or—

Hit the Lincoln Heights Jail. Brace Crazy Don Matsura. Remember? He had that menu for Eddie Leng’s Kowloon.

The rain got worse. He snail-trailed up the Parkway to 19th Avenue. The jail stood upside the off-ramp. He hooked right and sluiced up to a PD space. He got out and ran in.

The entrance hall was bare bones/all gray cement. Elmer brushed off his raincoat and shook himself dry. A night cop lounged by the gate racks. He wore that I-hate-this-job look. He beady-eyed a cheesecake book.

Elmer walked up and badged him. The night cop said, “So?”

Elmer said, “I’m with the Alien Squad. You’ve got a frisky Jap named Donald Matsura here. I know, because I brought him in.”

The night cop said, “He ain’t so frisky now. Banzai, if you know what I mean.”

“Why don’t you explain what you mean?”

“I mean, Chief Horrall called the watch commander. He said Ace Kwan would like a few words with your boy. As in, ‘Put him in a sweatbox and then walk away.’ ”

Elmer slipped the dink twenty. “Ace and I go way back. Call-Me-Jack, likewise. If Ace is still at it, I’d like to watch the show.”

“Well...”

Elmer doubled up the bribe. The night cop went Mum’s the word and racked the front gate. Elmer took the main catwalk back. Crisscrossed catwalks extended. Japs were packed in six and eight to a cell.

He hit a bisecting hall. He saw recessed doorways. Oh, yeah — it’s sweatbox row.

Four twelve-by-twelve rooms. All the same. Look-see mirrors/floor-bolted tables/two screwed-down chairs.

Elmer cut straight left. He peeped three mirrored doors and got bupkes. He peeped room #4 and got the real shit.

There’s Demon Don. There’s Uncle Ace. It’s the well-known third degree.

Ace was a known rubber-hose man. His hose looked heavy-duty. It was friction-taped. It stood straight up. It had to be ball bearing — packed.

Matsura was chair-cuffed. Ace swung the hose. He threw tight shots — arms, rib cage, legs.

Elmer popped the door. A shit and piss stink hit him. Matsura screamed. He bucked his chair. The floor bolts shimmied. One bolt pulled loose.

Ace saw Elmer. Ace said, “Jack H. give okay.”

Elmer said, “You mean Dudley did.”

Matsura dribbled blood on the table. Ace threw a head shot. Matsura screamed. Gold bridgework flew.

Ace gibbered. Matsura dribbled blood. Elmer saw gum flaps laced in.