James Ellroy - L. A. Confidential

Terry Lux-plastic surgeon to the stars. Sanitarium boss: booze, dope cures, abortions, detoxification heroin available-the cops looked the other way, Terry treated L.A. politicos free. "Morry, that's all you've got?"

"Ain't that enough? Look, what I don't have, Sid might. Call him, but remember I got the exclusive."

Jack hung up, called Sid Hudgens. Sid answered: "«Hush-Hush». Off the record and on the QT."

"It's Vincennes."

"Jackie! You got some good Nite Owl scoop for the Sidster?"

"No, but I'll keep an ear down."

"Narco skinny maybe? I want to put out an all-hophead issue-shvartze jazz musicians and movie stars, maybe tie it in to the Commies, this Rosenberg thing has got the public running hot with a thermometer up their ass. You like it?"

"It's cute. Sid, have you heard of a man named Pierce Patchett?"

Silence-seconds ticking off long. Sid, too Sid-like. "Jackie, all I know on the man is that he is very wealthy and what I like to call 'Twilight.' He ain't queer, he ain't Red, he don't know anybody I can use in my quest for prime sinuendo. Where'd you hear about him?"

Bullshitting him-he could taste it. "A smut peddler told me."

Static-breath catching sharp. "Jack, smut is from hunger, strictly for sad sacks who can't get their ashes hauled. Leave it alone and write when you get work, «gabishe?»"

Hang up-bang!-a door slamrning, cutting you off, some line you couldn't cross back to. Jack drove to the Bureau, MALIBU RENDEZVOUS stamped on that door.

The Ad Vice pen stood empty, just Millard and Thad Green in a huddle by the cloakroom. Jack checked the assignment board- more no-leads-walked around to the supply room on the QT. Unlocked-easy to pull off a snatch. Downwind: the high brass talking Nite Owl.

"Russ, I know you want in. But Parker wants Dudley."

"He's too volatile on Negroes, Chief. We both know it."

"You only call me 'Chief' when you want something, «Captain»."

Millard laughed. "Thad, the sappers found matching spents in Griffith Park, and I heard 77th Street turned the wallets and purses. Is that true?"

"Yes, an hour ago, in a sewer. Blood-caked, print-wiped. SID matched to the victims' blood. It's the coloreds, Russ. I know it."

"I don't think it's the ones in custody. Do you see them leaving a rape scene on the southside, then driving the girl around to let their friends abuse her, «then» driving all the way to Hollywood to pull the Nite Owl job-when two of them are high on barbiturates?"

"It's a stretch, I'll admit that. We need to nail down the outside rapists and get Inez Soto to talk. So far she's refused. But Ed Exley is working on her, and Ed Exley is very good."

"Thad, I won't let my ego get in the way. I'm a captain, Dudley 's a lieutenant. We'll share the command."

"I worry about your heart."

"A heart attack five years ago doesn't make me a cripple."

Green laughed. "I'll talk to Parker. Jesus, you and Dudley. What a pair."

Jack found what he wanted: a tape recorder/phone tapper, bolt-on style, headphones. He hustled it out a side door, no witnesses.

Dusk, Cheramoya Avenue: Hollywood, a block off Franklin. 5261: a Tudor four-flat, two pads upstairs, two down. No lights-probably too late to glom " Chester " the day man. Jack rang the B buzzer-no response. An ear to the door, a listen-no sounds, period. In with the key.

Jackpot: one glance told him Hinton played it straight-no cleanout. Pervert fucking Utopia-floor-to-ceiling shelves jammed with goodies.

Maryjane: leaf, prime buds. Pills-bennies, goofballs, red devils, yellow jackets, blue heavens. Patent dope: laudanum, codeine mixtures, catchy brand names: Dreamscope, Hollywood Sunrise, Martian Moonglow. Absinthe, pure alcohol in pints, quarts, half gallons. Ether, hormone pills, envelopes of cocaine, heroin. Film cans, smutty titles: «Mr. Big Dick», «Anal Love», «Gang Bang», «High School Rapist», «Rape Club», «Virgin Cocksucker», «Hot Negro Love», «Fuck Me Tonite», «Susie's Butthole Deelite», «Boys in Love», «Locker Room Lust», «Blow the Man Down», «Jesus Porks the Pope», «Cocksucker's Paradise», «Cornholers Meet the Ramrod Boys», «Rex the Randy Rottweiler». Old stag books: T.J. venues, women sucking cock, boys sucking cock, up-the-hole close-ups. Dusty-not a hot item; empty spaces alongside, maybe the good smut, his smut, was piled there: make Lamar for cleaning that out? Why? The rest of the shit spelled felony time to the year 2000. Snapshots- candid-type pix-real-life movie stars in the raw. Lupe Velez, Gary Cooper, Johnny Weissmuller, Carole Landis, Clark Gable, Tallulah Bankhead muff-diving, corpses going 69 on morgue slabs. A color pic: Joan Crawford and a notoriously well hung Samoan extra named "O.K. Freddy" fucking. Dildoes, dog collars, whips, chains, amyl nitrite poppers, panties, brassieres, cock rings, catheters, enema bags, black lizard pumps with six-inch heels and a female mannequin covered by a tarp- plasterboard, rubber lips, glued-on pubic hair, a snatch made from a garden hose.

Jack found the bathroom and pissed. A mirror threw his face back: old, strange. He went to work: tapper to the phone, the oldie smut skimmed.

Cheap stuff, probably Mex-made: spic hairstyles on skinny junkie posers. Vertigo: he felt swirly, like a good hop jolt. The dope on the shelves made him drool; he mixed Karen in with the pictures. He paced the room, tapped a hollow place, pulled up the rug. Bingo on a cute hidey-hole: a basement, stairs leading to an empty black space.

The phone rang.

Jack hit the tapper, picked up. "Hi. Whatever You Desire"- Lamar Hinton mimicked.

Click, a hang-up, he shouldn't have used the slogan. A half hour passed-the phone rang. "Hi, it's Lamar"-casual.

A pause, click.

A chain of smokes-his throat hurt. The phone rang.

Try a mumble. "Yeah?"

"Hi, it's Seth up in Bel Air. You feel like bringing something over?"

"Sure."

"Make it a jug of the wormwood. Make it fast and you made a nice tip."

"Uh… gimme the address again, would ya?"

"Who could forget digs like mine? It's 941 Roscomere, and don't dawdle."

Jack hung up. Ring ring again.

"Yeah?"

"Lamar, tell Pierce I need to… Lamar, is that you, boychik?"

SID HUDGENS.

Lamar-with a tremor. "Uh, yeah. Who's this?"

Click.

Jack pushed "Replay." Hudgens talked, recognition creeped in-

SID KNEW PATCHETF. SID KNEW LAMAR. SID KNEW THE FLEUR-DE-LIS RACKET.

The phone rang-Jack ignored it. Splitsville-grab the tapper, wipe the phone, wipe all the filth he'd touched. Out the door queasy-night air peaking his nerves.

He heard a car revving.

A shot took out the front window; two shots smashed the door.

Jack drew, fired-the car hauling, no lights.

Clumsy: two shots hit a tree and sprayed wood. Three more pulls, no hits, the car fishtailing. Doors opening-eyewitnesses.

Jack got his car-skids, brodies, no lights until Franklin and a main traffic flow. No make on the shooter car: dark, no lights, the cars all around him looked alike: sleek, wrong. A cigarette slowed him down. He drove straight west to Bet Air.

Roscomere Road: twisty, all uphill, mansions fronted by palm trees. Jack found 941, pulled into the driveway.

Circular, looping a big pseudo-Spanish: one story, low slate roof. Cars in a row-a Jag, a Packard, two Caddies, a Rolls. Jack got out-nobody braced him. He hunkered down, took plate numbers.

Five cars: classy, no Fleur-de-Lis bags on plush front seats. The house: bright windows, silk swirls. Jack walked up and looked in.

He knew he'd never forget the women.

One almost Rita Hayworth a la «Gilda». One almost Ava Gardner in an emerald-green gown. A near Betty Grable-sequined swim-suit, fishnet stockings. Men in tuxedos mingled-background debris. He couldn't stray his eyes from the women.