Джеймс Эллрой: White Jazz

Indirect order: kill him.

Not HIM — THEM.

“We used to be a great-looking pair.”

“That part’s all on you now” — loose teeth, painful.

“You’re different, David.”

“Sure, look at me.”

“No, it’s that we’ve been together for five minutes and you haven’t asked me to tell you things.”

Glenda: carhop suntan, close to gaunt. “I just want to look at you.”

“I’ve looked better.”

“No, you haven’t.”

She touched my face. “Was I worth it?”

“Whatever it cost, whatever it took.”

“Just like that?”

“Yeah, just like that.”

“You should have grabbed that movie contract way back when.”

Money bags by the door — time closing in.

Glenda said, “Tell me things.”

Back to then, up to always — I told her EVERYTHING.

I faltered sometimes — pure horror jolted me silent. That silence, implicit: you — tell me .

Light kisses said no.

I told her all of it. Glenda listened, short of spellbound — like she knew.

The story hung between us. Kissing her hurt — her hands said let me.

She undressed me.

She slid out of her clothes just past my reach.

I roused slow — just let me look. Persistent Glenda, soft hands — inside her half-crazy just from looking.

She moved above me — propped up off my bruises. Just watching her felt wrong — I pulled her down.

Her weight on me hurt — I kissed her hard to rip through the pain. She started peaking — my hurt ebbed — I came blending into her spasms.

I opened my eyes. Glenda framed my face with her hands — just looking.

Sleep — day into night. Up startled — a clock by the bed — 1:14.

January 26.

A camera on the dresser — Pete’s ex-wife’s. I checked the film — six exposures remaining.

Glenda stirred.

I walked into the bathroom. Morphine Syrettes in a dish — I popped one and mixed it with water.

I got dressed.

I stuffed two hundred grand in Glenda’s purse.

The bedroom—

Glenda yawning, hands out, thirsty — I gave her the glass.

She gulped the water down. Stretches, little tucks — back to sleep.

Look:

A half-smile brushing her pillow. One shoulder outside the covers, old scars going tan.

I snapped pictures:

Her face — eyes closed — dreams she’d never tell me. Lamp light, flashbulb light: blond hair on white linen.

I sealed the film.

I picked up the money bags — heavy, obscene.

I walked out the door bracing back sobs.

Easy:

I took a bus to L.A. and got a hotel room. I had a typewriter sent up — one blank passport rendered valid.

My new name: Edmund L. Smith.

Picture valid: photo-booth snapshots, glue.

My ticket out: Pan Am, L.A. to Rio.

My wounds were healing up.

My new face was holding: no handsome Dave Klein showing through.

Morphine pops kept me calm and crazy exultant. This crazy notion: you walked.

Not yet.

I bought a new clunker — two hundred dollars cash. I took a detour airport-bound: 1684 South Tremaine.

8:00 A.M. — quiet, peaceful.

Voices inside — bellicose male.

I walked back, tried the rear door — unlocked. Laundry room, kitchen door — yank it.

J.C. and Tommy at the table, guzzling beer.

Say what?

What the—

J.C. first — silencer THWAP — brains out his ears. Tommy, beer bottle raised — THWAP — glass in his eyes.

He screamed: “DADDY!”

EYEBALL MAN! EYEBALL MAN! — I shot them both faceless blind.

Airport heat: Feds, Sheriff’s men, mob lookouts. Right through them — no blinks — up to the counter.

Friendly service, a glance at my passport. I checked my money bags through — “Have a pleasant flight, Mr. Smith.”

Gone — just like that.

The will to remember .

Fever dreams — that time burning .

Old now — a gringo exile rich off real estate. My confession complete — but still not enough .

Postscripts:

Will Shipstad — private practice from ’59 up .

Reuben Ruiz — Bantam champ, ’61–’62 .

Chick Vecchio — shot and killed robbing a liquor store .

Touch V. — managing drag-queen acts in Vegas .

Fred Turentine — dead — cirrhosis. Lester Lake — dead — cancer .

The place lost/the time burning/close to them somehow .

Madge Kafesjian — alone — that house, those ghosts .

Welles Noonan — convicted of jury tampering — 1974. Sentenced to three to five Fed — a Seconal OD suicide en route to Leavenworth .

Meg — old, a widow — my conduit there to here. Wealthy — our slum pads traded up for condos .

Spinning, falling — afraid I’ll forget:

Mickey Cohen — perpetual scuffler — two prison jolts. Dead — heart attack, ’76 .

Jack Woods, Pete B. — old, in failing health .

Dick Carlisle:

Retired from the LAPD — never charged as a Dudley Smith accomplice. “Dick the Fur King” — the Hurwitz stash expanded legit. Dry-cleaning mogul — the E-Z Kleen chain purchased from Madge .

Dudley Smith — still half-lucid, still a charmer: Gaelic songs for the girls who wet-nurse him .

Edmund Exley:

Chief of Detectives, Chief of Police. Congressman, Lieutenant Governor, current gubernatorial candidate .

Acknowledged Dudley Smith admirer — politically expedient, smart .

Dudley — rakish in his eye patch. Pundit when sane: snappy quotes on “containment,” always good for a news retrospective. A reminder: men were men then .

Glenda:

Movie star, TV star. Sixtyish — the matriarch on a long-running series .

Glenda:

Thirty-odd years famous. Always with me — those pictures held close. Ageless — every movie, every printed photo shunned .

In my dreams — spinning, falling .

Like Exley and Dudley and Carlislè .

Exiled from me, things to tell me — prosaic horrors that define their long survival. Words to update this confession to free me .

Dreams: spinning, falling —

I’m going back. I’m going to make Exley confess every monstrous deal he ever cut with the same candor I have. I’m going to kill Carlisle, and make Dudley fill in every moment of his life — to eclipse my guilt with the sheer weight of his evil. I’m going to kill him in the name of our victims, find Glenda and say:

Tell me anything .

Tell me everything .

Revoke our time apart .

Love me fierce in danger .