Джеймс Эллрой - Hollywood Nocturnes

Holy Jesus Christ.

“And no reprisals against Bud and Sid. Really, Dick, Bud did you an all-time solid by bringing me into this scheme of yours. You’ll see, I’ll find you some good boys.”

I said, “I like the scalp angle. I want to keep it.”

DePugh pulled out photos. The top one: a dead Indian on a morgue slab. Three bullet holes in his face; “Sioux City, S.D. Coroner’s Office 9/18/51” stamped on back.

“Bud Brown and I are old pals from Sioux City. When I was on the Sheriff’s there, Chief Joe Running Car here got drunk and scalped his wife. I picked him up, and he copped to those Griffith Park snuffs. Chief tried to escape, and I killed him. Bud and I are the only ones who know that he confessed to the L.A. killings, and the only ones who’ve got the shack pegged. Chief Joe here — he’s your fall guy.”

Three bullet holes/one tight circle — DePugh took on a new panache. “Show me the other picture.”

He held it up. “Aah, my Janie.”

Nice: a redhead hot for some mischief. Sleek — Julie London minus 10,000 miles.

Leigh banged on the window and drew a question mark.

DePugh caught it. “You’ll think of something. Just don’t fuck my daughter, or I’ll kill you.”

Green eyes scorched me — I shaved some miles off Jane DePugh’s odometer.

In session: the Westwood People’s Study Collective.

The boss Pinko droned on: the labor strike aesthetic, blah, blah. Some collective: me, a few beatniks, a Hollywood “Producer” named Sol Slotnick — a wolf with fangs for sweet Janie.

My mind wandered. Sol and Jane made me walking in — Jane’s horns grew right on-cue. Now it was Commie biz as usual.

Blah, blah — the LAPD as management enforcers. A cheap one-room pad; shit-strewn cat boxes placed strategically. Bum furniture — my chair gouged my ass.

“It is well known that Chief William H. Parker has formed anti-labor goon squads at the request of wealthy contributors to LAPD fund drives.”

I called Chrissy and spilled on Dave DePugh’s shakedown — she agreed not to tell Leigh about it. I told her the kidnap scheme was still on — with DePugh supplying some pro muscle. Scared Chris: a light-colored sports car tailed her briefly last night. I mentioned Yeakel’s DMV contacts — a temp license trace might be possible.

Chrissy’s new instinct: Dot wasn’t the tail fiend. “I don’t know, Dick. I think maybe Dot’s too fat to pull shit that sinister.”

“... it is thus not untoward to state that police violence is violence aimed at subjugating the lower stratas of society.”

I flicked a cat turd off my chair. Jane crossed her legs my way — ooooooh, daddy!

A man walked in and sat down. Thirty-fiveish, hipster garb: sandals, Beethoven sweatshirt. I made him : an FBI face in the crowd at my desertion trial.

He made me : a ½ second quizzical look.

He didn’t make me make him — I glued on a deadpan quicksville.

Fed sharks circling — Janie, watch your mouth.

The Head Red called for questions. Jane said, “My dad’s an investigator with the McClellan Committee. They’re investigating corrupt labor unions, so I hope you’re not going to tell us that all unions are squeaky clean.”

Sol Slotnick raised a hand. “I ditto that sentiment. I made a picture once called Picket Line! I had some connections in the garment rack — I mean trade, and I had a kickback — I mean a reciprocal agreement going with the owner of a sweat sh — I mean factory, who let me film his peons — I mean workers, at work. Uh... uh... uh, I saw good on both sides of the picket line, which... uh... is why Picket Line! was the title of the movie.”

Sol looked at Jane. Jane looked at me. The Fed inched his chair away from a cat box.

The beatniks walked out oozing boredom. The Commie Commissar harumphed.

Sol, eyes on Jane: “I’m, uh, thinking of making a picture about that killer that’s strangling those kids up on the Strip, you know, the West Hollywood Whipcord. I want to show him as a... uh... out-of-work union guy who got fucked — I mean loused up by corrupt management practices. And... uh... when the cops shoot him, he’s gonna decry the corruption of the system while he spits blood and repents. It’s gonna be like Picket Line! I’m gonna show good and bad on both sides of the fence. I might even go the whole hog and have a Negro cop! See, this schvartze gas station attendant I know has taken some acting classes. I think I could do good business with this picture and do some social good to boot. I think I’ll call it Sunset Strip Strangler! ”

Sol looked at Jane.

Jane looked at me.

The Fed looked at Sol.

The Boss Pinko said, “Mr. Contino, you’re acquainted with the dark side of the police experience. Would you care to offer comments?”

“Yeah. I agree with everything Jane said.”

Jane threw me a swoon. Sol muttered, “Goyische prick” — I barely caught it. Mr. Commissar sighed. “Sometimes I think I’m running a lonely hearts club. And on that note, let’s call it a night. We’ll have coffee at the usual place, and I’ll do my best to upgrade the conversation.”

We hit Truman’s Drive-In and commandeered a booth. Sol slid in next to Jane; I sandwiched her from the flip side.

The Fed and the Red sat buddy-buddy close. Jane pressed into me — her nylons went scree-scree.

I signalled a waitress — coffee all-around.

The Fed said, “My name’s Mitch Rachlis.”

Introductons flew quick — the Commie tagged himself Mort jastrow. I ditzed Rachlis: “You look familiar, Mitch.”

Smart fucker: “My wife’s a fan of yours. We caught you at the El Rancho Vegas way back when, and a couple of times at the Flamingo lounge. We always sit up close, so maybe that’s why I look familiar.”

Smart fucker/good improvisor.

Sol moved on Jane. “Have you ever considered a career in motion pictures?”

Jane scrunched my way. “I’m keeping that option open. In fact, right now I’ve narrowed my career choices down to doctor, lawyer or movie star.”

“I could help you. If Sunset Strip Strangler! floats, you could play one of the victims. Can you sing?”

“I certainly can. In fact, that’s my fourth career option: recording star.”

“Sweetie, that’s wonderful. See, I could cast you as a nightclub songstress that attracts men like flies on sh — I mean like moths to the flame. The West Hollywood Whipcord gets a big boner — I mean a big thing going for you, and you get to perform a few numbers to showcase your singing skills.”

Mitch Rachlis butted in. “What are you working on now, Mr. Slotnick?”

“A picture called Wetback! It blows the lid off the treatment of migrant fruit pickers. It’s gonna stir up a load of shit — I mean controversy, and establish me as a producer of socially conscious pictures that deliver a message but don’t fuck with — I mean sacrifice a good story in the process. Sweetie, write your number down for me. I might need to call you soon for an audition.”

Jane complied — twice. One napkin slip went to Sol; one snaked into my pants pocket. Jane’s hand/my thigh — oooh, daddy!

Mitch the Fed looked at Sol — stone puzzled. Mort the Red scoped the whole group — stone disgusted.

Janie pressed up to me. “We should get together. I’d love to hear about your political struggle and what it’s like to play the accordion.”

“Sure, I’d like that,” came out hoarse — our leg to leg action crossed the line.

The Fed said, “See you all next week,” and hotfooted it. Jane lit a cigarette — Miss Teen Sophisticate, 1958. I checked the window — and spotted Rachlis outside by the pay phones.