Джеймс Эллрой - Hollywood Nocturnes

Yeakel blew his wall plaque kisses. “I think Chrissy should win this next show.”

“Chrissy’s a professional. She’s singing back-up for Buddy Greco at the Mocambo right now.”

“I know that, but I want to do her a solid. And I’ll let you in on a secret: my applause meter’s rigged.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s a car battery hooked up to an oscilloscope screen. I’ve got a foot pedal I tap to goose the needle. I’m sure Chris would like to win — it’s a C-note and a free down payment on a snappy new Oldsmobile.”

I laughed. “With debilitating monthly payments?”

“Normally, yes. But with Chrissy I’m sure we could work something else out.”

“I’ll tell her. I’m sure she’ll play along, at least as far as the ‘free’ down payment.”

Bob’s phone rang — he picked up, listened, hung up. I scoped the window — Bud Brown and the fuzz type saw me and turned away, nervous.

Bob said, “I might have a way for you to buy out of your second “Rocket to Stardom” commitment.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’ve got to think it over first. Dick, I’m going to call Pizza De-Luxe right now. Will you...”

“Talk to Chrissy and tell her she just won an amateur talent contest rigged by this car kingpin who wants to stroke her ‘Tail Fins’?”

“Right. And ask for what she wants on her pizza.”

Chris was outside the sales shack, smoking.

I spilled quick. “Bob’s bringing in some quasi-pro talent for Sunday’s show. He wants you to sing a couple of songs. You’re guaranteed to win, and he’s got mild expectations.”

“If he keeps them mild, he won’t be disappointed.”

Smoke rings drifted up — a sure sign that Chrissy was distracted.

“Something on your mind?”

“No, just my standard boogie man.”

“I know what you mean, but if you tell me you’ll probably feel better.”

Chris flicked her cigarette at a Cutlass demo. “I’m 32, and I’ll always earn a living as an entertainer, but I’ll never have a hit record. I like men too much to settle down and have a family, and I like myself too much to sell my tush to clowns like Bob Yeakel.”

“And?”

“And nothing. Except that a car followed me after my Mocambo gig last night. It was scary — like the driver was checking me out for some reason. I think it might be Dot Rothstein. I think she got re-hipped on me after she saw me at your show at the Crescendo.”

“Was she at the Mocambo last night?”

“Yes. And it’s in L.A. County jurisdiction, and she’s an L.A. County Deputy Sheriff, which means... shit, I don’t know. Dick, will you and Leigh come to Buddy’s show tonight? Dot knows you’re friends with Mickey Cohen, and it might discourage her from making any moves.”

“We’ll be there.”

Chris hugged me. “You know what I envy about your career?”

“What?”

“That at least you’re notorious . At least that draft dodger thing gives you something to... I don’t know, at least overcome .”

A lightbulb went POP! — but I didn’t know what it meant.

The Mocambo JUMPED.

Buddy Greco was belting “Around the World” — working it scat-man style. Buddy not only sells you the song — he drives it to your house and installs it. Chrissy and another girl sang counterpoint — nightclub eyeball magnets.

Leigh and I perched at the bar. She was pissed: I’d told her Bob Yeakel gave me an out on “Rocket to Stardom” number two — work repo back-up for Bud Brown and another finance clown named Sid Elwell. Bob had a shitload of Darktown delinquents — I was to divert the owners while Bud and Sid grabbed their sleds.

I accepted Bob’s offer — the repo runs were scheduled for tomorrow. Leigh’s response: it’s another courage test. You don’t know how to pass on things like that.

She was right. Chrissy’s lightbulb POP! flickered: “At least the draft dodger thing gives you something to overcome .”

Buddy snapped lyrics — “I traveled on when love was gone, to keep a big fat swingin’ rendezvous” — the crowd snapped fingers along with him. Danny Getchell hopped ringside tables — snouting for Hush-Hush “Sinuendo.” Check Dot Rothstein by the stage: measuring Chrissy for a bunk at the Dyke Island Motel.

Leigh nudged me. “I’m hungry.”

I leaned close. “We’ll go to Dino’s Lodge. It won’t be long — Buddy usually closes with this number.”

“No more will I go all around the world, cause I have found my world in you — ooblay-oooh-oooh-baa-baa-doww!”

Big time applause — jealousy ditzed me. Dot sidled up to the bar and dug through her purse. Dig the contents: brass knucks and a .38 snubnose.

She threw me a sneer. Check her outfit: Lockheed jumpsuit, tire tread sandals. Chrissy signalled from the stage door — the parking lot, five minutes.

Dot chug-a-lugged a Scotch; the bartender refused payment. I stood up and stretched — Dot bumped me passing by. “Your wife’s cute, Dick. Take good care of her or someone else will.”

Leigh stuck a leg out to trip her; Dot sidestepped and flipped me the finger. The barman said, “She’s supposed to be here on a stakeout for the West Hollywood Whipcord, but all she does is drool for the chorus girls. The Whipcord’s supposed to like good-looking women, though, so I guess that let’s Dot out as a decoy.”

“The Whipcord’s Dot’s kind of guy. Maybe he can turn her straight.”

The barman roared. I doubled his tip and followed Leigh out to the parking lot.

Chrissy was waiting by the car. Dot Rothstein stood close by — bugging loiterers for ID’s. She kept one eyeball on Chris: strictly x-ray, strictly a scorcher.

I unlocked the sled and piled the girls in. Ignition, gas, zoom — Dot’s farewell kiss fogged my back windshield.

Heavy traffic on the Strip — we slowed to a crawl. Chris said, “I’m hungry.”

I said, “We’ll hit Dino’s Lodge.”

“Not there, please .”

“Why?”

“Because Buddy’s taking a group from the club there, and I’m betting Dot will crash the party. Really, Dick, anyplace but Dino’s.”

Leigh said, “Canter’s is open late.”

I hung a sharp right. Headlights swept my Kustom King interior — the car behind us swung right abruptly.

South on Sweetzer, east on Fountain. The Dotster had me running edgy — I checked my back mirror.

That car was still behind us.

South on Fairfax, east on Willoughby — that car stuck close. A sports job — white or light gray — I couldn’t make out the driver.

Deputy Dot Rothstein or??????

Scary alternatives: Chrissy’s old boyfriends, old dope customers, general L.A. friends.

South on Gardner, east on Melrose — those headlights goose goose goosed us. Leigh said, “Dick, what are you doing?”

“We’re being followed.”

“What? Who? What are you—”

I swung into a driveway sans signal; my tires plowed some poor fucker’s lawn. The sports car kept going; I backed out and chased it.

It zooooomed ahead; I flicked on my brights and blipped its tail. No fixed license plate — just a temp sticker stuck to the trunk. Close, closer — a glimpse of the last four digits: 1116.

The car ran a red on 3rd Street. Horns squealed; oncoming traffic held me back. Taillights flickered eastbound: going, going, gone.

Leigh said, “I’ve got no more appetite.”

Chris said, “Can I sleep at your place tonight?”

Repo adventures.

Cleotis De Armand ran a crap game behind Swanky Frank’s liquor store on 89th and Central, flaunting his delinquent 98 right there on the sidewalk. Bud Brown and Sid Elwell came in with cereal box badges and shook him down while I fed Seconal-laced T-Bird to the winos guarding the car. BIG fear: this was combustible L.A. Darktown, cop impersonation beefs probable if the ubiquitous LAPD swooped by. They didn’t — and I was the one who drove the sapphire-blue jig rig to safety while the guard contingent snored. Beginner’s luck: I found a bag of maryjane in the glove compartment. We toked a few reefers en route to our next job: boost a ’57 Star-fire off Big Dog Lipscomb, the southside’s #1 streetcorner pimp.