Джеймс Эллрой - Shakedown - Freddy Otash Confesses

They fell in the shit in ’50. They sold Spanish fly to a high-school nympho and promised her a date with Donkey Don. The Donkster reneged. The nympho impaled herself on the gearshift of a ’46 Buick and hemorrhaged. San Diego PD filed assault one. The judge tossed the case. A ripe rumor: he was one of Race Rockwell’s regular tricks.

Their pad was a little wood-frame job overrun by bougainvillea. I rang the bell at 23:00 and got no answer. A loose window screen gave me quick access. I crept flashlight-first and inventoried.

The boys possessed Nazi armbands, Mickey Spillane novels, and combat-pinned Marine blues. Barbells, camera and lighting gear, nudist-colony mags going back to ’36. Souvenir snapshots from the Klub Satan, Tijuana, New Year’s ’48. Ticket stubs from the Manuel Ortiz — Harold Dade fight. A promotional contract for a nigger stumblebum named Junior “Knockout” Wilkins.

I walked out to the porch. I brought a pint of the boys’ Old Crow with me. I recognized the ribbons on their uniforms. I was training troops in Parris Island while they stormed Guadalcanal.

I sipped bourbon. I got a light load on. A jalopy pulled up at 1 a.m. The boys piled out and made for the door.

I whipped out my badge and held my flashlight beam on it. It was très dark out. I couldn’t see them cringe and capitulate. I imagined it, ghoul-like.

“My name’s Fred Otash. You’re going into business with me.”

Exuberant extortionist, enterprising entrepreneur. A round-the-clock roundelay as I licked my lips for Liz.

I got half-gassed with the lads and laid down the law: 20 percent of your smut biz in trade for police protection. And — you’re now the naughty nucleus of Fred O.’s stud farm. Get ready to bring the brisket to some housewives in heat.

Donkey Don laid a ladle of bennies on me. I buzzed through a tour of duty downtown. I broke up a fistfight at the Jesus Saves Mission. I chased a raft of Red agitators out of Pershing Square. I popped a whip-out man at the Mayan Theater. I busted a high-spirited kid setting winos on fire with a blowtorch.

My tour of duty tapped down. I went by the criminal-courts building and read up on divorce law. I reserved a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel and scrounged refreshments off local merchants. Lou’s Liquor Locker supplied champagne. Hank’s Hofbrau coughed up cold cuts. Fast delivery was assured.

I swooped by my pad and traded my cop suit for a Cary Grant ensemble. Oh, yeah — it’s your ardent arriviste poised to pounce!

The bungalow was big and boss, flouncy and flamboyant. The bellman sneered at the baloney and cheese backlit by spotlights. He rolled his eyes and split. I paced and smoked myself hoarse. The bell rang at 8 o’clock on the dot.

There she is — Elizabeth Taylor at twenty.

She stood in the doorway. I fumbled for an opener. She wore a tight white dress that caressed her curves and clamored up her cleavage. She said, “If I move too fast, I’ll split a seam. Help me over to that couch.”

I grabbed an elbow and steered her. She felt my hand tremble and smiled. I sat her down and poured two glasses of ’53 domestic. We perched on the couch and offered up a toast.

Liz raised her arm. A dress seam split down to her hemline. She said, “Shit. I didn’t have to wear this. You’re just the bird dog for my divorce.”

I yukked. Liz said, “Don’t marry me, okay? I can’t keep doing this for the rest of my life.”

“Have I got a chance?”

“More than you think. Hotel heirs and queer actors haven’t worked out, so who’s to say a cop wouldn’t?”

I smiled and sipped champagne. Liz reached around, snagged a slice of baloney, and snarfed it. The dress was still constricting her. She looked plainly plaintive.

I unzipped the back and gave her some breath room. She sighed — Aaaaah, that’s good.

The shoulder straps went slack and fell down her arms. She deadpanned it. Our knees brushed on the couch. Liz retained the contact.

“How do I cut loose of Michael? I can’t cite mental cruelty, because he’s a sweetheart, and I don’t want to hurt him. I know you have to show just cause in order to sue.”

I refilled her glass. “I’ll bug your house. You get Wilding looped and get him to admit he digs boys. I levy the threat in a civilized manner, and he consents to an uncontested divorce.”

Liz beamed. “It’s that easy ?”

“We’re all civilized white folks. You probably earn more money than him, but he’s older and has substantial holdings. You broker the property split and the alimony along those lines.”

“And how are you compensated?”

“I get 10 percent of your alimony payments, in perpetuity. You keep me in mind and refer me to people who might require my services.”

Liz laid an arm across the couch cushions. Her dress collapsed past her brassiere. Our eyes found a fit. The rest of the room vaporized.

“And how will I keep you in mind? There’s lots of people vying for my attention.”

“I’ll do my best to make this a memorable evening.”

It was, for me.

Liz passed away a few years ago.

If I get to heaven, I’ll grill her per that first time.

It started out clumsy and sweet. My punch line cued the first kiss. Liz was already victimized by too-tight attire. She shrugged her dress off down to her waist. Our kisses multiplied.

I carried her into the bedroom. She popped off three buttons on my shirt. They zinged across the room. We laffed. I heard the radio a bungalow over. Rosemary Clooney sang, “Hey, there — you with the stars in your eyes.”

We got naked. State it stark: we were built boss, stratosphere stacked and hung homewrecker heavy. We were the boffo best of L.A., circa ’53.

We made love all night. We drank champagne with Drambuie chasers. We smoked two packs of cigarettes and spritzed gossip. We put on robes and climbed to the roof of the bungalow at dawn.

An A-bomb test was scheduled in Nevada. The newspapers predicted some dazzling fireworks. Other bungalow dwellers were up on their roofs. There’s Bob Mitchum and a young quail smoking a reefer, there’s Marilyn Monroe and Lee Strasberg, there’s Ingrid Bergman and Roberto Rossellini. Everybody looks fuck-struck and happy. Everybody’s got a jug for the toast.

Everybody laffed and waved hello. Mitchum brought a portable radio for the countdown. He turned it on. I heard static and “... 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.”

The world went WHOOSH . The ground shook. The sky lit up mauve and pink. We all raised our bottles and applauded. The colors receded into bright white light. I had my arm around Elizabeth Taylor. I looked Ingrid Bergman straight in the eyes.

L.A. ’53 was my ground zero. That A-bomb blast still shoots shock waves through me. My calendar pages are radioactively roasted. You can’t read the dates as they swirl.

There was smog in the air then. People coughed and gasped citywide. I never noticed it. The bomb-blast colors stayed with me. My L.A. was always mauve and pink.

I worked LAPD. I walked a downtown footbeat. I rousted Reds during the “Free the Rosenbergs!” fracas. I pinched pervs, purse snatchers, and pickpockets in Pershing Square. My smut-film biz laid in loot. Donkey Don Eversall plied his python all over Hancock Park. Joi was Donkey Don’s dispatcher. She coffee-klatched with horny housewives and set up the dates. Liberace gave me girl-talk gossip. Liz Taylor and Michael Wilding went to Splitsville. I got 10 percent of Liz’s alimony. Joi, Liz, and I threeskied on my Landing Strip. Liz knew a Pan Am stew named Barb Bonvillain. She flew the L.A. — to — Mexico City route and had half of Hollywood hooked on Dilaudid and morphine suppositories. Bad Barb was 6'3", 180, 40-24-36. She scored high in the women’s decathlon, Helsinki ’52. All four of us locked loins. The Landing Strip lurched. We murdered the mattress and banged the box springs down to the floor.