Джеймс Эллрой - Clandestine

I retrieved the bourbon bottle and drank while awaiting the rain. I thought of Lorna Weinberg. When the first raindrops fell I discarded the bottle and started the car, with no particular destination in mind.

Aimless driving consumed three hours. Lorna Weinberg, Wacky, and Dirt Road Dave consumed most of my thoughts. They were depressing thoughts, and my random driving reinforced my grim state of mind.

The rain was coming down in sheets, driven by a fierce north wind. It turned dark early, and for no logical reason I was drawn to the winding, treacherous Pasadena Freeway. Maneuvering its abrupt turns on rain-slicked pavement at top speed got me feeling better. I started thinking about my opportunities for advancement and the wonder-seeking that working Vice would afford me.

That provided me with a destination. As soon as I hit Pasadena I turned around and drove back to L.A., to Wilshire Division, to some vice hot spots old-timers had told me about. I drove by the hooker stands on West Adams where knots of Negro prostitutes, probably hopheads, waited under umbrellas on the off chance that a customer would brave the rain and supply them with money for dope. I cruised by the known bookie joints on Western, then parked and watched bettors come and go. They seemed as desperate as the hopheads.

I got the feeling that Vice wonder would be sad wonder, pathetic and hopeless. The neon signs on the bars and nightclubs I passed looked like cheap advertisements for loneliness eradicator.

It was almost nine o’clock. I stopped at the Original Barbecue on Vermont and took my time with a sparerib dinner, wondering where to go look for women. It was too late and too wet to chance anything but bars, and women who were looking for the same thing I was. That made me sad, but I decided that while I cruised I could peruse the bar scene from the standpoint of a rookie Vice cop and maybe learn a few things.

The joint on Normandie and Melrose was dead. Its main draw was the television above the bar. Slaphappy locals were laughing at the “Sid Caesar Show.” I left. In the next place, near L.A. City College, there were nothing but animated college kids, all coupled off, most of them shouting about Truman and MacArthur and the war.

I made my way southwest. I found a bar on Western that I had never noticed before — the Silver Star, two blocks north of Beverly. It looked warm and well kept up. It had a tricolored neon sign: three stars, yellow, blue, and red, arranged around a martini glass. “Silver Star” flashed on and off in bright orange.

I parked across the street at Ralph’s market, then dodged cars as I ran toward the neon haven. The Silver Star was crowded, and as my eyes became accustomed to the indoor fluorescent lighting I could tell that the place served more as a pickup joint than a local watering hole. Men were making advances to women seated beside them. The gestures were awkward, and the women feigned interest in the spirit of booze-induced camaraderie. I ordered a double Scotch and soda and carried it over to a dark row of booths against the back wall, choosing the only empty one. My legs were too long to keep from jamming into the table, so I stretched them out and sipped my drink, trying to look casual while remaining alert, with my eyes on the bar and front door.

After an hour and two more drinks, I noticed a comely woman enter the bar. She was a honey blond in her middle thirties. She walked in hesitantly, as though the place were unfamiliar and potentially hostile.

I watched as she took a seat at the bar. The bartender was busy elsewhere so the woman waited to be served, fiddling with the contents of her purse. There was an empty stool next to her, and I made for it. I sat down and the woman swiveled to face me.

“Hi,” I said, “it’s kind of busy tonight. The barman should be with you by Tuesday afternoon, though.” The woman laughed, her face slightly averted. I could tell why; her teeth were bad, and she wanted to be fetching without exposing them. It was the first endearment in what I hoped would be a long night of them.

“This is kind of a nice place, don’t you think?” she asked. Her voice was nasal and slightly midwestern.

“Yes, I do. Especially on a night like this.”

“Brrr,” the woman said. “I know what you mean. I’ve never been here before, but I was driving by in a cab and it looked so warm and inviting that I just had to stop in. Have you been here before?”

“No, this is my first time, too. But please excuse my bad manners. My name is Bill Thornhill.”

“I’m Maggie. Maggie Cadwallader.”

I laughed. “Oh, God, our names are so solid, like a trip to Great Britain.”

Maggie laughed. “I’m just a Wisconsin farm girl.”

“I’m just a big-city hick.”

We laughed some more. It was good laughter; we were playing our roles with both naturalness and refinement. The bartender came and I ordered a beer for myself and a stinger for Maggie. I paid. “How long have you lived in L.A., Maggie?” I asked.

“Oh, for years. What about you, Bill?” From that added intimacy I knew it was going to be. Relief and ardor flooded through me.

“Too long, I think. Actually, I’m a native.”

“One of the few! Isn’t it some place, though? Sometimes I think I live here because anything can happen, do you know what I mean? You can be walking down the street and something crazy and wonderful might happen, just like that.” The wonder in a nutshell. I started to like her.

“I know exactly what you mean,” I said, and meant it. “Sometimes I think that’s what keeps me from moving away. Most people come here for the glamour and the movies. I was born here, so I know that’s a lot of baloney. I stay here for the mystery.”

“You put that so well! Mystery!” Maggie squeezed my hand. “Wait a second,” she said as she finished her drink. “Let me see if I can guess what you do. Are you an athlete? You look like one.”

“No, guess again.”

“Hmmm. You’re so big. Is it an outside job?”

“No hints. Guess again.”

“Are you a writer?”

“No.”

“A businessman?”

“No.”

“A lawyer?”

“No.”

“A movie star!”

“Hah! No.”

“A fireman?”

“No.”

“I give up. Tell me what you do, and I’ll tell you what I do.”

“Okay, but prepare yourself for a letdown. I sell insurance.” I said it with boyish mock humility and resignation. Maggie loved it.

“What’s so bad about that? I’m just a bookkeeper! What we do isn’t what we are, is it?”

“No,” I lied.

“So there!” Maggie squeezed my hand again.

I signaled the bartender, who brought us refills. We raised our glasses in a toast. “To mystery,” I said.

“To mystery,” she repeated.

Maggie finished her drink quickly. I sipped my beer. It felt like time to make a move. “Maggie, if this weather weren’t so damn rotten, we could take a drive. I know L.A. like the back of my hand, and there’s lots of beautiful places we could go.”

Maggie smiled warmly, this time not worrying about showing her teeth. “I feel like getting out of here, too. But you’re right, the weather is rotten. We could go to my apartment for a nightcap.”

“That sounds nice,” I said, my voice tightening.

“Did you drive? I came in a cab.”

“Yeah, I drove. We can take my car. Where do you live?”

“In Hollywood. On Harold Way. That’s a little street off of Sunset. Do you know where it is?”

“Sure.”

“That’s right, you know L.A. like the back of your hand!”

We both laughed as we left the bar and hurried across rainy Western Avenue to my car.

Driving north on Wilton Place, the rain started to abate. Maggie and I avoided flirting, and talked instead about things like the weather and her cat. I didn’t particularly like cats, but faked great interest in meeting hers. I kept wondering about her body. In the bar she had never taken off her coat. Her legs were well formed, but I wanted to know the size of her breasts and breadth of her hips before we were nude together.