Джеймс Эллрой - Clandestine

Jurgensen put down his copy of Richard III and said, “Starting today, Underhill. We’ve got a man on vacation. No solo, though. No golden boy stuff. Just walk the beat with a partner. Now go to work.”

At eleven-thirty that night I committed my first crime as an adult. I drove up to Hollywood, parked in a gas station lot and walked up to Maggie Cadwallader’s apartment on Harold Way. Wearing gloves, I picked the lock on the door and made my way through the dark apartment to the bedroom. I carried a pocket flashlight, and by risking using it every few seconds I could tell that all of Maggie’s personal belongings had been cleaned out, presumably to better show the apartment to prospective new tenants when the publicity of her death died down.

In the bedroom, holding the flashlight awkwardly, I unscrewed the bedpost that had contained Maggie’s “priceless love gift.” It was gone. I replaced the post and unscrewed the other one: nothing there. The two remaining ones were solid, melded into the bedstead. It was as I had hoped. Still, there was double-checking to be done.

I drove to Hollywood Station, parked, walked in and showed my badge to the desk sergeant. “I’m with Seventy-seventh dicks,” I told him. “Is there anyone upstairs I can talk to?”

“Give it a try,” he replied, bored.

The squad room was deserted, except for a tired old cop writing reports. I walked in like I owned the place, and the old-timer looked up only briefly from his paperwork. When I didn’t see what I wanted lying around in plain sight, I cleared my throat to get his attention.

He looked up again, this time displaying bloodshot eyes and a weary voice. “Yes?” he said.

I tried to sound brisk and older than my years. “Underhill, Seventy-seventh Street dicks. I’m working South Central pawnshop detail. The loot told me to come up here and check the property report on that dead dame, Cadwallader. We find a lot of stuff pawned down in the Seventy-seventh that got clouted in Hollywood and West L.A. The lieutenant figured maybe he could help you out.”

“Shit,” the old-timer said, getting up from his chair and walking to a row of filing cabinets. “That was no burglary caper, if you ask me. My partner and I wrote that report.” He handed me a manila folder containing three typewritten pages. “There was nothin’ mis-sin’, accordin’ to the landlady, and she knew the stiff good. Could be the guy panicked. Don’t ask me.”

The report was written in the usual clipped department style, and everything from cat food to detergent was listed — but no mention was made of a diamond brooch, or any other jewelry.

There was a signed statement from the landlady, a Mrs. Craw-shaw, stating that although the apartment had been in complete disarray, nothing seemed to be missing. She also stated that Maggie Cadwallader, to her knowledge, had not owned jewelry or stocks and bonds, nor had she secreted in her apartment large sums of money.

The old cop was looking at me. “You want a copy of that?” he asked wearily.

“No,” I said, “you were right, it’s a dull report. Thanks a lot, I’ll see you.”

He looked relieved. I felt relieved.

It was twelve-forty-five and I knew I couldn’t sleep now even if I wanted to. I wanted to think, but I wanted it to be easy, not filled with panicky speculation over the dangerous risks I was taking. So I decided to break my silent vow of abstinence and drove out to Silverlake, where I knocked on the door of an old buddy from the orphanage.

He was mildly glad to see me, but his wife wasn’t. I told them it wasn’t a social call, that all I wanted was the loan of his golf clubs. Incredulous, he turned them over. I promised to return them soon, and to repay him for his favor with a good restaurant dinner. Incredulous, his wife said she’d believe it when she saw it, and hustled her husband back to bed.

I checked the clubs. They were good Tommy Armours, and there were at least fifty shag balls stuffed into the pockets of the bag. I went looking for a place to hit them, and to think.

I drove home and picked up Night Train. He was glad to see me and hungry for exercise. I found a few cold pork chops in the ice box and threw them at him. He was gnawing the bones as I attached his leash and slung the golf bag over my shoulder.

“The beach, Train,” I said. “Let’s see what kind of Labrador you really are. I’m going to hit balls into the ocean. Little chip shots. If you can retrieve them for me in the dark, I’ll feed you steak for a year. What do you say?”

Night Train said “Woof!” and so we walked the three blocks down to the edge of the Pacific.

It was a warm night and there was no breeze. I unhooked Night Train’s leash and he took off running, a pork chop bone still in his mouth. I dumped the balls onto the wet sand and extracted a pitching iron from the bag. Hefting it was like embracing a long-lost beloved friend. I was surprised to find I wasn’t rusty. My hiatus from golf hadn’t dulled that sharp edge my game has always had, almost from the first time I picked up a club.

I hit easy pitch shots into the churning white waves, enjoying the synchronization of mind and body that is the essence of golf. After a while the mental part became unnecessary, my swing became me, and I turned my mind elsewhere.

Granted: I had passed myself off as a detective twice, using my own name, which might cost me a suspension if it were discovered. Granted: I was going strictly on hunches, and my observations of Maggie Cadwallader were based on her behavior during one evening. But. But. But, somehow I knew. It was more than intuition or deductive logic or character assessment. This was my own small piece of wonder to unravel, and the fact that the victim had given me her body, tenuously, in her search for something more, gave it weight and meaning.

I whistled for Night Train, who trotted up. We walked back to the apartment and I thought, Wacky was right. The key to the wonder is in death. I had killed, twice, and it had changed me. But the key wasn’t in the killing, it was in the discovery of whatever led to it.

I felt strangely magnanimous and loving, like a writer about to dedicate a book. This one’s for you, Wacky, I said to myself; this one’s for you.

It was strange to be sitting in a bar looking for a killer rather than a woman.

The following night, free of the obsession that usually brought me to such places, I sat drinking watered-down Scotch and watched people get drunk, get angry, get maudlin and pour out their life stories to perfect strangers in alcoholic effusiveness. I was looking for men on the prowl, like myself, but the Silver Star on that first night held nothing but middle-aged desperation played to the tunes of the old prewar standards on the jukebox.

I closed the place, walking out at 1:00 A.M., asking the bartender if the place ever picked up.

“Weekends,” he said. “This joint really hops on weekends. Tomorrow night. You’ll see.”

The barman was right. I got to the Silver Star at seven-forty-five Saturday evening and watched as the joint started to hop. Young couples, servicemen on leave — easily recognizable by their short haircuts and plain-toed black shoes — elderly juiceheads, and single men and women casting lonely, expectant glances all competed for bar and floor space.

The music was livelier this evening, and tailored for a younger clientele; upbeat arrangements of show tunes, even a little jazz. A good-looking woman of about thirty asked me to dance. Regretfully I turned her down, offering a bad leg as an excuse. She turned to the guy sitting next to me at the bar, who accepted.

I was looking for “operators,” “lover-boy” types, “wolves” — men who could gain a woman’s confidence as well as access to her bed with surpassing ease. Men like myself. I spent three hours, sitting, changing seats from bar-side to table-side, sipping ginger ale, always looking. I began to realize that this might be a long, grueling surveillance. For all my eyeball activity, I didn’t see much.