Джеймс Эллрой - Widespread Panic

“The pad was ransacked. I think he was looking for something besides purse cash and whatever else he could carry away. There was over six grand of your penance money stashed in Joanie’s clothes closet, and he didn’t bother to find it or steal it. This whole deal reeks of personal animus. It’s an I-hate-you-and-I’m-going-to-kill-you job, and that spells revenge.”

I flashed my flash roll and rolled off five more C-notes. Harry snatched them up.

“You’re a white man, Freddy. I’ll have complete background paper on Joanie by tomorrow.”

I got noxiously nostalgic. “Harry,” “Ralphie,” “Joanie.” ’49 to ’54. A kid cop THEN. A Pervdog of the Nite NOW.

“I remember that day in the squadroom. You were younger and not quite so fat. ‘Hey, kid, you look bored. Go shag this Ralphie guy and kill him.’ ”

Harry went nix. “Can it, Freddy. You can’t pull the shit you pull in your everyday life and think that this jive crusade of yours will render you squeaky-clean.”

“Clean,” shit. “Jive crusade” — malignantly more so. Harry Fremont was bent and bought and paid-for since the year one. He knew bewilderingly bupkes per Opportunity is Love.

I drove back to my pad. The door was whipped wide open. I heard screeches, yowls, growls, eeeeks, and roars. I ran inside and grokked on the grief.

Catfight. Lance the Leopard versus Joi Lansing — my exultant ex and extortion partner par excellence.

Joi was packing left-behind undies. Lance smelled thievery. He pinned Joi to the back wall and clawed her clothes to torn tatters. Her dress dripped off of her. He sharp-shredded her brassiere. His claws caught frayed fabric and rip-rip-ripped. I sensed sexual intent. Lance lashed at Joi. He orgiastically ordered up a cross-species striptease.

I laffed. Joi screeched, “Freddy?” I grabbed Lance’s spiked collar and pull-pull-pulled. Lance went sulky submissive. He cursory-growled and slither-slunk to the bathroom. I heard him lap up a toilet-water aperitif.

I said, “What’s shaking, baby?”

Joi said, “You loser shitheel.”

I stepped toward her. She stepped toward me. She launched a left hook and landed it mid-face. She ripped a right. I let it land and pushed her down on the bed.

She said, “One for what you did to Johnnie, and one for that stunt you pulled at Ciro’s. And tell Lee to get that rape-o cat declawed.”

I pulled a chair up. Joi grabbed her purse and dug out her cigarettes. I lit her up.

“It’s good to see you, kid.”

“You insouciant shitheel. I’m never coming back to you, and I’m never working with you again — not in this lifetime.”

I laffed. “How’s this sound? Rock Hudson needs a wife. Lew Wasserman’s protecting his reputation and Universal’s investment. I could let you be the girl, for ten percent of the alimony deal when you dump him.”

Joi kicked out at me. Her shoes flew wide and missed me. Her nylons were nicked and rife with runs. Lance clawed cloooose.

“I’m never coming back to you.”

“I heard you the first time.”

“No more shakedowns, no more bait jobs, no more three-ways.”

“Come on. You’re saying no more Liz Taylor in the sack?”

Joi blew smoke up at me. Her fierce façade cracked a tad. She’d landed two good ones. I wiped blood off my lips.

“The world’s hip to you, Freddy. Your ‘Tattle Tyrant holds Hollywood hostage’ shtick is wearing people thin.”

“Who’s ‘people,’ babe? Come on. Name some names that mean something to me.”

Joi rehooked her brassiere. “How’s Steve Cochran sound? He said he’s seen you and Bernie Spindel lurking around his place. He ran a bug check and came up empty, but he’s got you pegged as Public Cockroach Number One, and he said you’re heading for a good ass kicking.”

Steve the Stud. There’s a grabber. It’s an irksome inkling of Something.

I lied loud. “His building’s full of call-girl cribs. Bernie and I were planting some taps. ‘Lurking,’ shit. He’s talking out of his ass, and the magazine’s got no stake in him.”

Joi flipped her burning butt at me. It singed my Sy Devore coat.

“You’re jealous. Steve’s got all the goods you’re envious of. I know you, Freddy. You’ve got to know what’s going on with him, and you’ll pay me for the debrief.”

My throat clamped and closed tight. My hands shimmy-shimmied. I whipped my wallet out and tossed bills on the bed.

Joi culled the cash and counted it. Confidential comes up flush. A grand for a five-minute snitch.

“I ran into Steve at Johnnie’s. He told me he’s making a ‘message’ smut movie, based on a hillbilly song by Bill Haley and His Comets, whoever the hell they are. He’s trying to recruit some name actors and actresses, because the film will only be shown privately, so no one’s career will get hurt. The song’s called ‘Thirteen Women and Only One Man in Town.’ The atom bomb destroys the world, except for thirteen women and a man in this little desert burg, and the man has a giant dick, and he’s on a crusade to repopulate the world. Get it? Steve’s out of his gourd, and he’s the director, the writer, and very obviously the star. He said he’s got financial backing, but I don’t believe him. Get it? He wants to lure thirteen women to the desert and get laid, and odds are, there’s no film in the camera, and it’s all some pipe dream.”

“Celebrity smut.” Steve Cochran’s name in Jack Kennedy’s address book. The phone records. Steve calls Jack/Jack calls Steve/Steve calls Jack.

I smelled Something.

“Five grand, love. I’ll hot-wire you and send you in to bait him.”

Joi smiled. “You’re malleable, Freddy. You’ve always been easy to manipulate. It’s the only thing that attracted me to you.”

I rolled to the Ranch Market. A radio broadcast broiled, up in my office. Dig: sodden Senator Joe McCarthy rips Reds and socks out southland subpoenas. Dig, ditto: Jolting Joe and Bondage Bob are jungled up — larcenous land deals and sleazoid slum holdings. Heh, heh — Fractious Freddy knows all and holds all trump cards tight.

I turned off the radio and checked my in-box. Harry Fremont delivered, quicksville. Bingo! — a background brief on Joan Hubbard Horvath.

Joan, the big brain and undulating underachiever. She matriculates at UCLA, circa ’39–’45. She logs advanced degrees in Eastern European languages. She speaks fluent Italian, Polish, and Russian. She works as an interpreter for the California State Senate, circa ’46–’47. She marries riotous Ralphie Horvath, circa ’48. She hatches his second-rate seed. She’s got no visible means of support, then to now. But — this bodes BIG — Red Stromwall finds a Bank of America passbook tucked in Joan’s undie drawer. AND — the current balance exceeds fourteen grand.

That’s a brain broiler. That’s prongingly provocative.

I recalled that cop car parked at the crime scene. I recalled that rear plate number I wrote down. I buzzed Central Burglary and braced Harry Fremont. Who’s this cop cad working for? The plate number ain’t LAPD. Harry said the suffix denoted a Fed sled. Maybe FBI or Treasury.

I downed two Dexedrine and gargled Old Crow. Aaahhh — my bloodstream blossomed and swelled. I called my answering service and checked my messages. Aaahhh — the wide world wants Freewheeling Freddy!!!

Joi called. Her koffee klatch with Steve the Stud was set for 7:00 p.m. Stretch called. She said she’d pop by my pad later. Bondage Bob called. Update me, sweetheart — what’s with heavy-hung Steve? Jimmy called. It’s official — Claire Klein’s in for the Marry Rock gig. Midnite at Googie’s — be there for the meet and greet. I called Bernie Spindel. Six-fifteen at Havenhurst. Joi’s jamming up Steve the C.