Джеймс Эллрой - Clandestine

I was starting to get depressed and even a little angry when I noticed two definite lowlife types approach the bar and lean over to speak in undertones to the bartender, whose face seemed to light up. He pointed to a door at the rear of the place, next to a bank of phone booths and cigarette machines. Then all three walked off in that direction, the barman leaving the bar untended.

I watched as they closed the door behind them, then waited two minutes. I went over to the door and knelt down, sniffing at the crack where it met the floor. Reefer smoke. I smiled, then transferred my gun from its holster to the pocket of my sports coat, flipped open my badge’s leather holder and very casually but forcefully threw my right shoulder into the doorjamb, splintering the wood and throwing the door wide open.

The noise was very sharp and abrupt, like an explosion. The three grasshoppers were standing against the back wall next to a ceiling-high collection of whiskey crates, and they jumped back and threw up their hands reflexively when they heard the noise and saw my badge and gun.

I looked back into the bar. No one seemed to have noticed what had happened. I closed the door behind me, softly. “Police officer,” I said very quietly. “Move over to the left-hand wall and place your hands on it, above your heads. Do it now.”

They did. The smell of the marijuana was rank and sensual. I patted the three men down for weapons and dope, but came up with nothing except three fat reefers. All the guys were shaking and the bartender started to blubber about his wife and kids.

“Shut up!” I snapped at him. I pulled the other two guys back by their shirt collars, then shoved them in the direction of the door. “Get the hell out of here, you goddamn lowlife,” I hissed, “and don’t ever let me see you in here again.”

They stumbled out the door, casting worried glances at the barman.

I secured the door by placing a crate of gin bottles against it. The bartender cowered against the wall as I walked toward him. He fumbled in his pockets for cigarettes, looking at me imploringly for permission.

“Go ahead, smoke,” I said. He lit up. “What’s your name?” I asked.

“Red Julian,” he said, eyeing the door.

I eased his fears. “This won’t take long, Red. I’m not going to bust you, I just need a little help.”

“I don’t know no sellers, honest, Officer. I just light up once in a while. Fifty cents a throw, you know.”

I smiled sardonically. “I don’t care, Red. I’m not with narcotics. How long have you worked here?”

“Three years.”

“Then you know what goes in this place — all the regulars, the con artists...”

“This is a good clean room, Officer, I don’t let no—”

“Shut up. Listen to me. I’m interested in pickup artists — pussy-hounds, guys who score regular here. You help me out and I’ll let you slide. You don’t and I’ll bust you. I’ll call for a patrol car and tell the bulls you tried to sell me these three reefers. That’s two to ten at Quentin. What’s it gonna be?”

Red lit another cigarette with the butt of his old one. His hands were shaking. “We get hotshots, they come and go,” he said. “We got one guy who comes and goes, but comes regular when he’s in town. A good-lookin’ guy named Eddie. That’s the only handle I got on him, honest. He picks up here all the time.” Red backed away from me again.

“Is he here tonight?” I asked.

“Naw, he comes in when it’s quieter. A real smoothie. Flashy dresser. He’s not here tonight, honest.”

“Okay. Listen to me. You’ve got a new regular here. Me. What nights are you off?”

“Never. The boss won’t let me. I work six to midnight, seven days a week.”

“Good. Has Eddie been coming in lately? Scoring?”

“Yeah. A real smoothie.”

“Good. I’ll be coming back, every night. As soon as Eddie comes in, you let me know. If you try to tip him off, you know what’ll happen.” I smiled and held the three reefers under his nose.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Good. Now get out of here — I think your customers are getting thirsty.”

I closed the bar again that night. No Eddie.

First thing Sunday morning I went to a drugstore in Santa Monica that did one-day photo processing. I left four newspaper photographs of Maggie Cadwallader, telling the man, who shook his head dubiously, that I wanted his best reproduction blown up to snapshot size, six copies by six o’clock that evening. When I waved a twenty-dollar bill under his nose, then stuck it in his shirt pocket, he wasn’t so dubious. The photos I picked up that afternoon were more than adequate to show to potential witnesses.

Red was nervously polishing a glass when I took a seat at the bar early Sunday night. It was sweltering hot outside, but the Silver Star was air-conditioned to a polar temperature.

“Hello, Red,” I said.

“Hello, mister...”

“Call me Fred,” I said magnanimously, sliding the blowup of Maggie Cadwallader across the bar to him. “Have you ever seen this woman?”

Red nodded. “A few times, yeah, but not lately.”

“Ever see her with Eddie?”

“No.”

“Too bad. Slow house tonight, eh?” I said, looking around the almost empty bar.

“Yeah. Daylight saving time kills it this early. People don’t think it’s right to drink before dark. Except booze-hounds.” He pointed toward a bloated couple mauling each other on one of the lounge sofas.

“I know what you mean. I had a friend once who liked to drink. He said he only liked to drink when he was alone or with people, in the daytime or the nighttime. He was a philosopher.”

“What happened to him?”

“He got shot.”

“Oh, yeah? That’s a shame.”

“Yeah. I’m going to have a seat on one of those sofas facing the door. If our buddy shows up, you come and let me know, capische?”

“Yeah.”

By eight o’clock the bar was filled to half its capacity, and by ten the sustained darkness had me feeling like a bat in the Carls bad Caverns.

At around eleven o’clock, Red walked over and nudged me. “That’s him,” he said, “at the bar. The guy in the Hawaiian shirt.”

I motioned Red away and sauntered past the man on my way to the men’s room, taking the stool next to him when I returned and catching a heady whiff of his lilac cologne. I called to Red loudly and ordered a double Scotch, in order to get a reaction from Eddie. He turned toward me, and I committed to memory a handsome face, delicate and arrogant at the same time, well-tanned, with curly, rather long brown hair, and soft, deep-set brown eyes. Eddie turned back quickly, engrossing himself in his martini and the woman sitting next to him, a skinny brunette in a nurse’s uniform who was courteously feigning interest in his conversation.

“... So it’s been good lately. The trotters, especially. Don’t believe what you read. There are systems that work.”

“Oh, really?” the brunette said, bored.

“Really.” Eddie leaned into the woman. “What did you say your name was?”

“Corrinne.”

“Hi, Corrinne, I’m Eddie.”

“Hi, Eddie.”

“Hi. You like the ponies, Corrinne?”

“Not really.”

“Oh. Well, you know it’s really just a question of getting to know the game. You know?”

“I guess so. I don’t know, it just bores me. I’ve got to go. Nice meeting you. Bye.”

The brunette got up from her stool and left. Eddie sighed, then finished his drink and walked back in the direction of the men’s room, stopping and standing in front of the full-length mirror on the wall and going through an elaborate ritual of smoothing his hair, brushing lint off his shirt, checking the crease in his trousers and smiling at himself several times from different angles. He seemed satisfied, as he should have been: he was the very prototype of the smooth-talking L.A. lounge lizard, designed to charm, manipulate, and seduce. For a split second, I felt revulsion at my own womanizing, before telling myself that my motives were certainly entirely different.