Джеймс Эллрой: Hollywood Nocturnes

Nancy walked back to the pay phones. I said, “Danny, this is publicity I don’t need.”

“Dick, I disagree. Look at what that marijuana contretemps did for Bob Mitchum. I think this portrays you as a good-looking, hotheaded gavonne who’s probably — excuse me, ladies — got a schvanze that’s a yard long.”

I laughed. Danny said, “If I’m lyin’, I’m flyin’. Seriously, Dick, and again, excuse me, ladies, but this makes you look like you’ve got a yard of hard pipe and you’re not afraid to show it.”

I laughed. Leigh sent up a silent prayer: save my husband from this scandal rag provocateur.

Nancy shot me a whisper. “I just talked to Ella Mae Cooley. Spade’s been beating her up again... and... Dick... you’re the only one who can calm him down.”

I drove out to Spade Cooley’s ranch. Rain slashed my windshield; I tuned in Hunter Hancock’s All-Request Show. The gang at Googie’s got a call through: Dick Contino’s “Yours” hit the airwaves.

The rain got worse; the chrome accordion on my hood cut down visibility. I accelerated and synced bio-thoughts to music.

Late ’47, Fresno: I glommed a spot on Horace Heidt’s radio program. Amateur night stuff — studio audience/applause meter — I figured I’d play “Lady of Spain,” lose to some local babe Heidt was banging and go on to college.

I won.

Bobby-soxers swarmed me backstage.

I turned eighteen the next month. I kept winning — every Sunday night — weeks running. I beat singers, comics, a Negro trombonist and a blind vibraphone virtuoso. I shook, twisted, stomped, gyrated, flailed, thrashed, genuflected, wiggled, strutted and banged my squeeze box like a dervish orbiting on Benzedrine, maryjane and glue. I pelvis-popped and pounded pianissimos; I cascaded cadenzas and humped harmonic hurricanes until the hogs hollered for Hell — straight through to Horace Heidt’s grand finals. I became a national celebrity, toured the country as Heidt’s headliner, and went solo BIG.

I played BIG ROOMS. I cut records. I broke hearts. Screen tests, fan clubs, magazine spreads. Critics marvelled at how I hipsterized the accordion — I said all I did was make schmaltz look sexy. They said where’d you learn to move like that? — I lied and said I didn’t know.

The truth was:

I’ve always been afraid.

I’ve always conjured terror out of thin air.

Music and movement are incantations that help keep it formless.

1949, 1950 — flying high on fame and callow good fortune. Early ’51: FORM arrives via draft notice.

FORM: day sweats, night sweats, suffocation fears. Fear of mutilation, blindness, cancer, vivisection by rival accordionists. 24-hour heebie jeebies; nightclub audiences packing shrouds. Music inside my head: jackhammers, sirens, Mixmasters stripping gears.

I went to the Mayo Clinic; three headshrinkers stamped me unfit for Army service. My draft board wanted a fourth opinion and sent me to their on-call shrink. He contradicted the Mayo guys — my I-A classification stood firm.

I was drafted and sent to Ford Ord. FORM: the Reception Station barracks compressed in on me. My heart raced and sent livewire jolts down my arms. My feet went numb; my legs fluttered and dripped sweat. I bolted, and caught a bus to Frisco.

AWOL, Federal fugitive — my desertion made front page news.

I trained down to L.A. and holed up at my parents’ house. Reporters knocked — my dad sent them away. TV crews kept a vigil outside. I talked to a lawyer, worked up a load of show biz panache and turned myself in.

My lawyer tried to cut a deal — the U.S. Attorney wasn’t buying. I took a daily flailing from the Hearst rags: “Accordion Prima Donna Suffers Stage Fright at Fort Ord Opening,” “Coward,” “Traitor,” “Yellow Belly,” “Chicken-Hearted Heartthrob.” “Coward,” “Coward,” “Coward.”

My BIG ROOM bookings were cancelled.

I was bound over for trial in San Francisco.

Fear:

Bird chirps made me flinch. Rooms closed in coffin-tight the second I entered them.

I went to trial. My lawyer proffered Mayo depositions; I detailed my fear on the witness stand. The press kept resentment fires stoked: I had it all, but wouldn’t serve my country. My response went ignored: so take away my fucking accordion.

The judge found me guilty and sentenced me: six months in the Federal pen at McNeil Island, Washington.

I did the time. I put on a sadistic face to deter butt-fuckers. Accordion slinging gave me big muscles — I hulked and popped my biceps. Mickey Cohen, in for income tax evasion, befriended me. My daily routine: yard trusty work, squeeze-box impromptus. Ingratiating showman/psycho con — a schizophrenic performance that got me through my sentence unmolested.

Released — January, ’52. Slinking/creeping/crawling anxiety: what happens next ?

Winter ’52 — one big publicity watch. Big “Contino Out of Jail” coverage — most of it portrayed me as a coward case-hardened by prison.

Residual fear: would I now be drafted?

Winter ’52 — no gigs, BIG ROOM or otherwise. My draft notice arrived — this time I played the game.

Basic training, communications school, Korea. Fear back-burner-boogied; I served in a Seoul-based outfit and rose from private to staff sergeant. Acceptance/taunts/shoving matches. Resentment oozing off guys who envied what they thought I’d come home to.

I came home to tapped-out momentum and DRAFT DODGER in red-bait neon. I received an unsolicited presidential pardon — my COWARD taint rendered it toilet paper. I became a vanishing act: BIG ROOM stints replaced by lounge gigs; national TV shots down-graded into local stuff. Fear and I played peek-a-boo — it always seemed to grab my balls and twist just when it felt like something inside me could banish all the bullshit forever.

I hit Victorville. L.A. radio had faded out — I’d been listening to shitkicker ditties. Apt: I pulled up to the Cooley ranchhouse soundtracked by Spade’s own, “Shame, Shame on You.”

The porch reeked: marijuana and sourmash fumes. TV glow lit up windows bluish-gray.

The door stood ajar. I pressed the buzzer — hillbilly chimes went off. Dark inside — the TV screen made shadows bounce. George Putnam spritzed late local news: “... the fiend the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s have dubbed the ‘West Hollywood Whipcord’ claimed his third and fourth victims last night. The bodies of Thomas ‘Spike’ Knode, 47, an out-of-work movie stuntman, and his fiancee Carol Matusow, 19, a stenographer, were discovered locked in the trunk of Knode’s car, parked on Hilldale Drive a scant block north of the Sunset Strip. Both were strangled with a sash cord and bludgeoned post-mortem with a bumperjack found in the back seat. The couple had just come from the Mocombo nightclub, where they had watched entertainer Buddy Greco perform. Authorities report that they have no clues as to the slayer’s identity, and—”

A ratchet noise — metal on metal. That unmistakable drawl: “From the size of your shadow, I’d say it’s Dick Contino.”

“It’s me.”

Ratch/ratch — trigger noise — Spade loved to get zorched and play with guns.

“I should tell Nancy ’bout that ‘Whipcord’ sumbitch. She just might find herself a new pen pal.”

“She already knows about him.”

“Well... I’m not surprised. And this old dog, well... he knows how to put things together. My Ella Mae got a call from Nancy, and two hours later Mr. Accordion himself shows up. Heard you tanked at the Crescendo, boy. Ain’t that always the way it is when proving yourself runs contrary to your own best interests?”

A lamp snapped on. Dig it: Spade Cooley in a cowboy hat and sequin-studded chaps — packing two holstered six-guns.