Джеймс Эллрой - Hollywood Nocturnes

I said, “Like you and Ella Mae. You beg her for details on her old shack jobs, then you beat her up when she plays along.”

Fluttering flags replaced George Putnam — KTTV signing off for the night. The National Anthem kicked in — I doused the volume. Spade slumped low in his chair and drew down on me. “You mean I shouldn’t have asked her if those John Ireland and Steve Cochran rumors were true?”

“You’re dying to torture yourself, so tell me.”

Spade twirled his guns, popped the cylinders and spun them. Two revolvers, ten empty slots, one bullet per piece.

“So tell me, Spade.”

“The rumors were true, boy. Would I be sittin’ here in this condition if those dudes were any less than double-digit bulls?”

I laughed.

I roared.

I howled.

Spade put both guns to his head and pulled the triggers.

Two loud clicks — empty chambers.

I stopped laughing.

Spade did it again.

Click/click — empty chambers.

I grabbed for the guns. Spade shot ME twice — empty chambers.

I backed into the TV. A leg brushed the volume dial — the Star Spangled Banner went very loud, then very soft.

Spade said, “You could have died hearing your country’s theme song, which might have gotten you the posthumous approval of all them patriotic groups that don’t like you so much. And you also could have died not knowing that John Ireland had to tape that beast of his to his leg when he wore swimming trunks.”

A toilet flushed upstairs. Ella Mae yelled, “Donnell Clyde Cooley, quit talking to yourself or God knows who, and come to bed!”

Spade aimed both guns at her voice and pulled the triggers.

Two empty chambers.

Four down per piece, two to go — 50–50 odds next time. Spade said, “Dick, let’s get blotto. Get me a fresh bottle from the kitchen.”

I walked to the bathroom and checked the medicine cabinet. Yellow Jackets on a shelf — I emptied two into a glass and flushed the rest. Kitchen recon — a Wild Turkey quart atop the ice box.

I dumped it down the sink — all but three finger’s worth.

Loose .38 shells on a shelf — I tossed them out the window.

Spade’s maryjane stash — right where it always was in the sugar bowl.

I poured it down the sink and chased it with Drano.

Spade yelled, “I am determined to shoot somebody or something tonight!”

I swirled up a cocktail: bourbon, Nembutal, buttermilk to kill the barbiturate taste. Spade yelled, “Go out to your car and get your accordion, and I’ll put it out of its misery!”

On the breakfast table: a TV remote-control gizmo.

I grabbed it.

Back to Spade. On cue: he put down one gun and grabbed his drink. One six-shooter on the floor — I toed it under his chair.

Spade twirled gun #2.

I stood behind the chair. Spade said, “I wonder if John used masking tape or friction tape.”

Blip, blip — I pushed remote-control buttons. Test pattern, test pattern, Rock Hudson and Jane Wyman in some hankie epic.

I nudged Spade. “I heard Rock Hudson’s hung like a horse. I heard he put the make on Ella Mae back when she played clarinet on your old Hoffman Hayride Show.”

Spade said, “Ixnay — Rock’s a fruit. I heard he plays skin flute with some quiff on the Lawrence Welk program.”

Shit — no bite. Blip, blip, Caryl Chessman fomenting from his death row cell. “Now there’s your double-digit dude, Spade. That cat is legendary in criminal annals — Nancy Ankrum told me so herself.”

“Nix. Shitbird criminals like that are always underhung. I read it in Argosy Magazine.”

Blip, blip, blip — beaucoup test patterns. Blip, blip, blip — test drive the new ’58 Chevy, Ford, Rambler, et fucking al. Blip) — Senator John F. Kennedy talking to reporters.

Spade pre-empted me. “Hung like a cashew. Gene Tierney told me he screws from hunger. Hung like a cricket, and he expects a standing ovation for a two-minute throw.”

Blip — more West Hollywood Whipcord re-bop.

Shit — running out of channels. Blip — an American Legion chaplain with 2:00 A.M. prayers.

“... and as always, we ask for the strength to oppose our Communist adversary at home and abroad. We ask—”

Spade said, “This is for Dick Contino,” raised his gun and fired. The TV screen imploded — wood splintered, tubes popped, glass shattered.

Spade passed out on the floor rag doll limp.

TV dust formed a little mushroom cloud.

I carried Spade upstairs and laid him down in bed next to Ella Mae. Cozy: inside seconds they were snoring in unison. I remembered Fresno, Christmas ’47 — I was young, she was lonely, Spade was in Texas.

Keep it hush-hush, dear heart — for both our sakes.

I walked out to my car. February 12, 1958 — what an all-time fucker of a night.

Bad sleep left me fried — hung over from my rescue run.

The baby woke me up. I’d been dreaming: I was on trial for Crimes Against Music. The judge said the accordion was obsolete; a studio audience applauded. Dig my jury: Mickey Cohen’s dog, Jesus Christ, Cisco Andrade.

Leigh had coffee and aspirin ready. Ditto the A.M. Mirror , folded to the entertainment page.

“Brawl Deep-Sixes Contino Opening. Nightclub Boss Calls Accordion King ‘Damaged Goods’.”

The phone rang — I grabbed it. “Who’s this?”

“Howard Wormser, your agent, who just lost ten percent of your Crescendo money and ten percent of your sixty-day-stand at the Flamingo Lounge. Vegas called early, Dick. They get the L.A. papers early, and they don’t like to sit on bad news.”

A Mirror sub-head: Draft Dodger Catcalls Plague Fading Star. “I was busy last night, or I would have seen this coming.”

“Seeing things coming is not your strong suit. You should have accepted Sam Giancana’s invitation to be on call for Chicago Mob gigs, and if you did you’d be playing big rooms today. You should have testified before that grand jury and named some Commies. You should— ”

“I don’t know any Commies.”

“No, but you could have gotten a few names from the phone book to make yourself look good.”

“Get me some movie work, Howard. Get me a movie gig where I can sing a few songs and get the girl.”

Howard sighed. “There is a certain wisdom to that, since young snatch is your strong suit. I’ll look into it. In the meantime, play a few bar mitzvahs or something and stay out of trouble.”

“Can you get me a few bar mitzvahs?”

“That was just a figure of speech. Dick, be calm. I’ll call when I’ve got you ninety percent of something.”

Click — one abrupt hang-up faded into noise outside — brake squeals, gear crunch. I checked the window — fuck — a tow-truck had my bar bumper-locked.

I ran out. A man in a Teamster T-shirt held his hands up. “Mr. Contino, this wasn’t my idea. I’m just a poor out of work union man with a family. Bob Yeakel said to tell you enough is enough, he read the papers this morning and saw the writing on the wall.”

The bumper winch ratched my trunk open. Record albums flew out — I grabbed an Accordion in Paris .

“What’s your name?”

“Uh... Bud Brown.”

I pulled the pen off his clipboard and scrawled on the album cover. “To Bud Brown, out-of-work union man, from Dick Contino, out-of-work entertainer. Dear Bud: why are you fucking with my beautiful Starfire 88, when I’m just a working stiff like you? I know that the evil McClellan Committee is harassing your heroic leader Jimmy Hoffa, in much the same way I was harassed during the Korean War, and thus you and I share a bond that you are trespassing on in your current scab status. Please do not fuck with my beautiful Starfire 88 — I need it to look for work.”