Джеймс Эллрой - Widespread Panic

Some new solar system subsumed me. Streetlights went mauve and pink. A-bomb particles parsed and pierced my windshield. I eyeballed passersby. Every man’s face went gargoyle, every woman’s went succubus. Steve Cochran sang “Das Horst Wessel Lied.” I ripped Nazi flags off his walls.

There’s Vine Street. I cut south and cut east on Camerford.

The Horvath house was hot-lit, postmidnite. Nosy neighbors gawked. Outside arc lights glare-glowed the pad and strafed the sky. I parked behind a row of black-and-whites and K-cars. Plainclothesmen and bluesuits pounded the porch. Kids’ toys and furniture were loose on the lawn. The front door stood open. Print men dusted walls. Foto men snapped fotos. Lab men fiber-swept the floors.

Burglary dicks checked window openings and cluck-clucked. I saw Harry Fremont at work. The red devils ripped me and turned it all topsy-turvy. I went blank. Arc-light glare burned my eyes. Joan Horvath and Joan Perkins kissed me like Liz in that close-up. I went black-blank and blinked. I saw Bill Parker and Red Stromwall pass a flask on the porch. I slid my car seat back to deflect the arc light. I got snug and supine. I said, “Please, God — make me safe,” and passed out.

I passed out cold and woke up windshield-warmed by the sun. My windows were up. A cop type stood in the street and eyeballed me. I didn’t recognize him. He got into an unmarked unit parked in front of me. I grabbed a stray piece of paper and wrote down the rear plate number.

It all came back. I prayed my way out of the sunlight and blinked back to black. Rosie Clooney sang, “Hey there, you with the stars in your eyes.”

2/17/54

I made the Mirror. Niteklub Inferno: P.I. Fred O. In Frantic Fracas. I made the Herald: Confidential Cop Otash In Ciro’s Brouhaha. The hot headlines heartwarmed me. They instilled instant pride. Joan Horvath dead-deadened it. Freddy, what thou hath wrought.

Bondage Bob called and congratulated me. The insidious ink spiked Confidential ’s early-morning sales. Ciro’s was Sheriff’s turf. Bob called Gene Biscailuz and pledged ten thou to his reelection campaign. It covered the cost of my ten-minute tantrum and frosted out possible beefs.

Joan Horvath got a bleary blip in the Herald ’s local spread. Widow Woman Slain in Hollywood Home. Burglary-Sex Motive Cited.

Bob and I biz-talked. I tossed him the tattle on the Rock Hudson wife hunt and laid out the lowdown on the would-be wives. Bob knew candidate Claire Klein. She played shakedown shill at Whisper, back in ’51. Her part-time gig at Universal was a plain ploy to meet extortable men. I weighed in: We’ve got to scoop the fan mags on this one. Dole out the dish on Rump Ranger Rock’s disingenuous dates with real women. Sock in the subtext. It’s a shadow shuck. Hollywood will fuck you when no one else will.

Bob agreed. He added, And we’ll double-cross Rock on his wedding nite and expose his boy bent. We yukked the irksome irony. I dumped the dirt on the Steve Cochran gig. Bob pooh-poohed the Nazi-Jap fetish trove and called Steve a history buff and no more. He himself paid five thou for a swastika-print bikini once worn by Leni Riefenstahl. His girlfriend turned heads at that big Polio Fund pool party.

“And, Freddy — I heard Cochran leans left, if anything.”

I closed with the cloying clue of “Celebrity Smut.” Bob told me to work the listening post my own self. “ And — if it pans out, we’ll send in a female ringer to entrap Steve — Claire Klein might be good.”

Bob signed off with “Sayonara.” I offered “auf Wiedersehen,” boss. I shit, showered, shaved, and made myself march to the mirror. I saw myself and saw where all this was going. Freddy, what thou hath wrought. I called Harry Fremont and made a lunch date.

I drove home. A basketball hoop was nailed beside my front door. Stretch sank long hook shots. She wore her USC silks. Neighbor kids watched. Lance the Leopard lounged in my doorway. Kids patted him and fed him potato chips.

I snuck up behind Stretch. I said, “If you convince me you’re really nineteen, I’ll toss your hair and kiss your neck.”

Stretch laughed. She dropped the ball and pulled her hair to one side. The kids scoped the exchange. What’s this repob? She’s bigger than him.

“I was born January 18, 1935, at Good Samaritan. That means you can go ahead.”

I caressed her bare shoulders and kissed her neck. I stood tiptoed to do it. The kids clapped. Lance the Leopard looked over and growled.

Stretch sank three long ones and swiveled. She grabbed my belt and pulled me inside my own pad. Lance followed us in. He detoured to the front bathroom and guzzled toilet water. Stretch waved to the kids and kicked the door shut.

I crapped out on the couch. Stretch stretched out and laid her head on my lap.

“My mom showed me the Mirror. Did you have fun at Ciro’s last night?”

“Do you live with your mom and dad?”

“I live with my mom. My dad was killed on Saipan, when I was eight. What did you do in the war?”

“I was a drill instructor at Parris Island. I trained Marines who got killed at Saipan, but I never went overseas myself.”

“Why not?”

“Because I knew I’d get killed, and I didn’t have the stones to take the risk.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m fearful and selfish, and I have to get whatever it is that I want, and that’s as far as I’m going with this line of questioning.”

Stretch balled my hands into fists and kissed the knuckles. She kicked off her sneakers and dangled her feet off the couch. Lance hopped on my favorite chair and licked his balls.

“You’re watchful, too. You forgot to mention that. And you’re diffident and circumspect around me. And none of the girls at Linda’s hates you, even though you broke half the liquor bottles during that Beverage Control raid in ’48. And you’re chagrined for digging on me, even though you spy on people and expose them in print, and beat the crap out of people who threaten to sue your low-life magazine.”

I smiled. “I stole the bottles I didn’t break, and Billy Eckstine bought them off me at half price.”

“Billy likes you. I wouldn’t be here if he didn’t.”

“Billy’s Billy, and he’s not all moonlight and roses. He tried to promote you to me and my recently ex girlfriend.”

Stretch pried my fists loose and placed my hands on her breasts. Hey there, you with the stars—

“Billy overrates me, in lots of different ways.”

“You’re nineteen, and you’re looking around. I get that you’re bold — and you think the rules don’t apply to you. That’s as far as I’ll take that line of chat, until I see you start making mistakes.”

“You’re saying the only thing that you can teach me right now is efficacy?”

“I’m saying that for some people, opportunity is love, and you might be one of them.”

The dizzy duo at the listening post. Leashed Leopard and Large Lady. Race Rockwell and Ward Wardell swooooooned.

Stretch wore a tweed skirt, saddle shoes, and a pink oxford shirt. Lance wore a spiked collar that Bondage Bob bought him for Christmas. I brought three pizza pies and a cold case of Brew 102.

Stretch loomed and she-lorded it over three big men. Lance roamed the rooms and let people pat him. Race fed him anchovy pizza. Ward showed off our new corkboard. There’s Operation Rock Wife bold-bannered — with nude pix and dippy dossiers tacked below.

We snarfed pizza pie and went to work. Race worked the Hunan Hut tap, I worked the Cochran line. Ward worked Call-Girl Line #1. Stretch got Call-Girl Line #2. Cool kicks motivated me. It was the lez line. Bernie Spindel and I hot-wired the crib — Flores south of Sunset. The sin sational sapphic scene sang dusk to dawn and entrapped occasional big-name babes and butches. Let’s see how Stretch registers and reacts.