Джеймс Эллрой - Hollywood Nocturnes

Janie smiled — teen steam wilted my pompadour. I put a dollar on the table, mumbled good nights and split.

The parking lot spread out behind the phone bank. Rachlis stood in an open booth, his back to me. I eased by just inside earshot.

“... and of all people, Dick Contino was at the meeting.”

“... the whole thing wasn’t exactly what you’d call subversive.”

“... no, I don’t think Contino made me... yeah, right, I was there at his trial.”

“... yes, sir... yes, sir... Slotnick is the one we’re interested in. Yes, that wetback movie does sound pro-Communist... yes, sir, I’ll...”

I walked down Wilshire, relieved: Joe Fed wasn’t after Jane — or me. Then guilt goosed me: this extortion gig felt like a blight on my marriage. Another phone bank by the bus stop — I called Chrissy.

Her service answered: “Miss Staples will be spending the night at OL-24364.”

My number. Chris probably called Leigh and asked to sleep over — that car probably tailed her again.

Shit — no kidnap scheme/extortion scheme confidante.

A directory by the phone. I looked up Truman’s, dialed the number and paged trouble.

Jane came on. “Hello?”

“This is Dick. Would you like to have dinner tomorrow night?”

“Oh, yes! Yes, I would!”

Please God: protect me from this Teenage Temptress—

The mail arrived early. I went through it on the sly — half expecting notes from the dangerous DePughs. Irrational: I only met them yesterday.

Leigh was still asleep; Chrissy sawed wood on the couch. She confirmed it last night: the light-colored sports car tailed her again — and she thought the driver was wearing a Halloween mask. I insisted: you’re our guest until this bullshit resolves. Her DePugh Dilemma advice: warn Sol Slotnick on the Feds and let Jane down easy. Buy her dinner, be her pal — but no wanka-wanka. PROTECT OUR RELATIONSHIP WITH DAD AND OUR BOSS KIDNAP CAPER.

Bills, Accordion Quarterly Magazine . A letter to Miss Christine Staples, no return address on the envelope.

Waa! Waa! — baby Merri back in her bedroom.

Chrissy stirred and yawned. I said, “There’s a letter here for you.”

“That’s odd, because nobody knows I’ve been staying here on and off.”

I tossed the envelope over; Chris opened it and pulled a sheet of paper out. Instant heebie-jeebies — she trembled like Jell-O with the DT’s.

I grabbed it — one yellow legal pad page.

Swastika decals circling the borders — model airplane stuff. Glued-on newspaper letters: “I WANT TO FUCK YOU TO DEATH.”

My brain zipped:

Dot Rothstein or???? The tail car, temp license 1116 — who? The tail car geek might have followed Chris here and glommed the address — but why send a letter here? The fiend might have seen Chris and I on “Rocket to Stardom”; he could have bagged my address from the phone book. Longshot: he could have resumed his tail after I chased him that first night Chrissy slept here.

Chris reached for her cigarettes; a half dozen match swipes got one lit. I said, “I’ll take this to the cops. We’ll get you some proper protection.”

“No! We can’t! It’ll screw the kidnap thing up if we’ve got cops nosing around!”

“Sssh. Don’t wake Leigh up. And don’t mention the kidnap gig when she might hear you.”

Chris spoke soto voce. “Talk to Bob Yeakel about checking with his DMV people on the license again. Maybe we can get a name that way, and turn it over to Dave DePugh. Then maybe he can lean on the guy to make him stop. I don’t think this is Dot Rothstein, because I don’t think she could squeeze into a sports car.”

“I’ll talk to Bob. And you’re right, this isn’t Dot’s style.”

Chris stubbed her cigarette out. Shaky hands — the ashtray jittered and spilled butts. “And ask Bob to give us some time off. Remember, he said he’d cut you loose on your second show if you helped out with those repossessions.”

I nodded. Leigh walked in cinching her robe; Chris held her mash note up show-and-tell style. My stoic wife: “Dick, go to your father’s house and get his shotguns. I’ll call Nancy and Kay and have them bring some ordnance over.”

My dad kicked loose two .12 gauge pumps. I called Bob Yeakel and batted 500: yes, Chris and I could have a few more days off; no, his DMV contact was out of town — there was no way he could initiate a license check. I buzzed Dave DePugh’s office to pitch a kidnap skull session — the fucker was “out in the field.”

The White Pages listed Sol Slotnick Productions: 7481 Santa Monica Boulevard. I drove out to West Hollywood and found it: a warehouse down the block from Barney’s Beanery.

I shoved the door open; industrial smells wafted up. Sweat Shop City: rows of garment racks, sewing machines and pressers. Signs in Spanish posted, easy to translate: “Faster Work Means More Money”; “Mr. Sol Is Your Friend.”

I yelled — nobody answered.

Cramped — I scissor-walked to the back. Three Border Patrol cars stood on blocks; a nightclub set stood on a platform: bar, tables, dancefloor.

Homey: sleeping bag, portable TV. Foodstuffs on the bar: crackers, Cheez Whiz, canned soup.

“Yeah, yeah, I live here. And now that you have witnessed this ignominy, state your business.”

Sol Slotnick, popping through bead curtains in a bathrobe.

“I also swiped this robe from the Fountainbleu Hotel in Miami Beach. Contino, what is this? First you steal Jane DePugh’s heart, and now you come to torment me?”

Why mince words?

“I’m happily married, and I’ve got no interest in Jane. I was sent in to pull her out of that Commie group before she hurts herself. You should get out, too. There’s an FBI plant in the group, and he’s interested in you . The local FBI’s got some bee in its bonnet that Wetback! is pro-Red.”

Sol grabbed a bar stool and steadied himself. Rainbow time: he went pale, then flushed bright-red. Lunch time: he wolfed a stack of saltines and Cheez Whiz.

His color stablizied. A belch, a smile — this clown digested grief fast. “I’ll survive. I’ll shift gears like when I lost my backing for Tank Squadron! and doctored the script into Picket Line! Besides, I just joined that fakoktah group to chase trim. I saw Jane on the street up by UCLA and followed her to my first meeting. You know, I think I want to marry her as well as drill her. I’m forty-nine years old, and I’ve had three heart attacks, but I think a young cooze like that could add another twenty years to my lifespan. I think this is one Jew she could seriously re- JEW vinate. I could make her a star, then trade her in for some younger poon before she starts cheating on me with handsome young greaseballs like you. Contino, tell me, do you think she’d consent to a nude screen test?”

The spritz had me reeling. Sol built a cracker/Cheez Whiz skyscraper and snarfed it. Fishbelly white to red and back again — the spritz hit overdrive. “You know, I’d love to use you in a movie — you and Janie, what a pair of filmic lovebirds you could be. Most of your publicity has been poison, but it’s not like you’re Fatty Arbuckle, banging starlets with Coke bottles. Dick, a wholesome young slice of low-fat cheese like Jane DePugh could ream me, steam me, dry clean me and get me off this B-movie treadmill to Nowheresville that has had me exploiting aggrieved schvartzes and taco benders to glom the cash to make these lox epics that have given me three heart attacks and a spastic colon. Dick, I own this factory. I hired illegal aliens to sew cut-rate garments until the INS nailed me for harboring wetbacks, because I let them sleep here on the premises in exchange for a scant one-half of their pay deducted from their checks. The INS nailed me and fined me and shipped most of my slaves — I mean workers — back to Mexico, so I glommed some Border Patrol cars for buppkis at a police auction and decided to make Wetback! to atone for my exploitation sins and defer the cost of my fine. Now the Feds want to crucify me for my egalitarian tendencies, so I won’t be able to shoot Wetback! I’ve got these Mex prelim boxers lined up to play illegals, but they’re really illegals, so if I shoot the movie, the INS will round them up and put them on the night bus to Tijuana. Dick, all I want to do is make serious movies that explore social issues and turn a profit, and slip the schnitzel to Jane DePugh. Dick, I am at a loss for words. What do you recommend?”