Jonathan Santlofer - L.A. Noire - The Collected Stories

The one thing I know is how to talk to women, especially the unhappy ones, the ones who are sick to death of their husbands and their miserable lives, the ones who’ve packed their bags and left, who drink too much and wear their rayon skirts too tight and who stink of cheap perfume, just like that dame who checked in two nights ago, Mary something-or-other, who I’d pegged at forty-something, though she claimed to be thirty, gammin’ for me, acting all Fifth Avenue when she was anything but, complaining about this and that, like the world owed her a living, while I lugged her bag up three flights, doing my best Bing Crosby, nodding and smiling, I know, I know, and her showing off how she worked at the May Company department store selling dresses and how she knows everything about fashion, something called the New Look, and me saying, That’s swell, nodding and smiling till my face hurt and then, later, she’s downstairs again, bending my ear and crying on my shoulder and I’m all sympathy till some sailor comes in, twenty-one, twenty-two, and she stops talking to me just like that and starts laughing it up with the kid and next thing I know they go off arm in arm and she doesn’t so much as give me a second glance or bother to say good night, but two hours later she’s back after dumping the sailor, or more likely he dumped her, staggering on her open-toed pumps all drunk and teary and wants to talk again, and my shift’s about to end so I say, How about a cup of coffee? and she says, That’d be swell, and I say there’s an all-night diner up on Mulholland and we get into my beat-up Dodge coupe and I drive to a deserted lover’s lane, and when I pull to a stop, she asks, Where the hell are we? but I don’t say anything, just lean over to kiss her and she slaps me across the face and I think, that’s it for her. I punch her and her head hits the side window so hard I think it’s going to break the glass but the only thing that breaks is her head, blood all over my goddamn window and upholstery, and I leave her there a minute, get out of the car and come around and open her door and she slumps out, moaning, and I drag her across the field by her arms and she’s kicking and scratching, crying and stuttering, N-no—p-please—no, but all I’m seeing is Carole tucking bills inside her brassiere and hands coming over my face and covering my mouth and the smell of old man whiskey breath while my fingers tighten around her neck.

When I stop, she’s lying still and I’m out of breath and have to sit on the damp ground for a minute and I look at her face, all purple and bloated, and I don’t feel so good anymore. I thought that would do it, calm my urges, but here they are again, begging to be fed sooner than expected, like someone has wound my muscles and nerves too tight and my head is pounding and there’s only one way to get relief.

I pace back and forth in my room feeling sad and mad and disgusted because I’d planned to start over in L.A., have a new life, but it’s just the same old thing.

The sun finally comes up orange and soft under the smog and I go down the hall to the bathroom, take a leak, cover my mug with Barbasol, use my finger to create an ear-to-ear grin, careful not to nick myself while I shave. Afterward, I splash on Skin Bracer and rub more Brylcreem into my hair and use my comb to make a perfect part, and think, John or Jon or Jamey, you look pretty darn good, and I feel better, too, almost calm, like maybe everything’s going to be okay after all. I put on a clean shirt and a tie and go downstairs whistling “Life Is Just a Bowl of Cherries , ” head west on Hollywood Boulevard, the air warm and a little thick, until I reach North Cherokee and see the pale green sign for Musso & Frank Grill.

Inside, still feeling good, I order my favorite breakfast—flannel cakes, the Musso & Frank version of pancakes—which is the cat’s meow. I sip black coffee and open the L.A. Times, read all about President Truman trying to stop communism and the United Nations voting to create a place just for Jews who suffered so bad during the war, then I turn a page and there it is in big bold letters: LOVER’S LANE MURDER. I skim the article, heart thumping like there’s a rabbit inside my chest, not sure what I’m looking for, my name? Maybe. Both wanting to see it and dreading that I will. I’m just reading how the police have booked the dame’s husband on suspicion of her murder when the waitress brings my pancakes and I practically jump out of my seat.

“Honey,” she says. “You’d better lay off the coffee,” and smiles, lipstick creeping into the sides of her mouth, and I picture Carole’s lips but manage to smile back and say, “Hi-de-ho,” and she pivots on her low-heeled waitress shoes and I smother my flannel cakes with syrup and drink two more cups of coffee, in no hurry to get moving, the day yawning in front of me with nothing to do till my shift at the hotel and I feel okay now, my nerves under control.

The waitress comes back with my check and I accidentally-on-purpose brush my fingertips against hers, read her name off her ID, and say, “So, you must be new here, Lorraine. ” And she says, “Second day.” And I say, “Lemme guess, you’re an actress,” and she slides her hand up the back of her neck, pats her French twist, smiles again, and says, “Tryin’ to be.” And I say, “I know it’s rough, but you’ll make it, kid,” thinking she’s pushing thirty and her kid days are numbered. And she says, “Gee, thanks, mister,” and I feel disappointed because that “mister” part makes me feel old but I don’t let it bother to me too much. I ask, “When do you get off?” And she says, “Oh, today I’m leaving at four because I got an audition at Warner Bros.,” and she beams. “It’s just a walk-on, but you never know, right?” and pats her hair again. I say, “Right. So maybe I could pick you up later.” And she frowns and says, “I don’t think my boyfriend would like that.” And I say, “Neither would my girlfriend!” And we both laugh, but she’s already turned away and I’m thinking she’s not really my type, a bit too cheerful, and I’m about to go back to my paper when two guys come in, a big handsome galoot I recognize right away as Johnny Stompanato, and the guy with him, none other than Mickey Cohen! I seen his picture dozens of times but he doesn’t look as glamorous in person, smaller, closer to my size, and I can’t stop staring at him, his dark eyes and dark eyebrows beneath a felt fedora and a wide silk tie with a turtle-and-fish design that must’ve set him back six, seven bucks easy, and my heart’s thumping again as they slide into the booth opposite mine and Lorraine pours them each a cup of coffee, posing while she does, hand on her hip, and me gaping.

Hey, Mickey, you don’t know me, not yet, but I know everything about you—your mother, Fanny, your three brothers, your first boxing match on April 8, 1930, and your last one on May 14, 1933, the fact that you ran gambling for Al Capone in Chicago, and I can’t tell you how sorry I am to hear about your pal Bugsy, but I was thinking I could help out, I mean now that you’re short a man at the Flamingo, work reception, you know, I got the experience, or whatever else you need, I’m your man—

All of this going through my mind as I continue to stare at Mickey over the rim of my coffee cup, totally lost in thought, when Mickey says, “What the hell are you looking at?” and I snap to and say, “Me? Nothing,” though I want to hold the newspaper up, point to the headline, and say, That’s me, I’m the guy who did it! but Mickey is giving me a cold hard stare, and Johnny Stompanato is giving me an even colder one, so I look away, fumble a few coins out of my pocket, and drop them on the table, trying hard not to let my hands shake.