Джеймс Эллрой - Widespread Panic

Wow — Frantic Freddy’s in demonic demand!!! He’s THE man to see!!!

Joi kvetched. She emphatically emasculated my last stirring statement. We wire-whipped her in the back of Bernie’s bug van. Freddy, the mike-mount’s too tight. Freddy, the lead wire’s bunched up in my brassiere. Bernie, quit honking me — get your fat paws off my tits.

The wire job ate up fifteen minutes. We shooed Joi out and reparked on Steve Cochran’s side of the street. Joi broadcast static and high heels hitting pavement. Our earmuffs caught every rustle and riff. Bernie worked the transceiver. The live feed fed furtively in. Knock, knock — Joi’s at Studly Steve’s door. Creak/gnash — door-lock noise — Studly Steve’s letting her in.

Static/voice burble/sound overlap. Bernie ditzed dials and recalibrated the rustles and riffs. We got settle-in sounds. Glasses clink/Steve serves drinks/cigarette lighters click.

Joi sighs. That’s her “We’re seated” signal. It’s laying in, loud and clear. Incriminate yourself, shitbird. Smut’s a felony bounce. Confidential gonna get yo ass. San Quentin’s surging yo way.

Joi said, “Who decorated this place, Hermann Goering?”

Steve said, “It’s set decoration for the movie. I’m deep into the immersion aspect of it all. There’s this subplot I’m working on. The guy who’s out to repopulate the world is a former Nazi sympathizer, and he renounces Nazism and moves into a one-world mind-set. Apostasy is a major theme of this movie. It’s not all fun and games, and hide the salami.”

Joi hooted. “Baby, you’re avant-garde.”

“I’m beyond it, you mean.”

Joi: “ Yeah? Well, who else thinks so? By that I mean, how many name people have you signed up, other than yourself as the star?”

Steve: “Anita O’Day and Barbara Payton have inked contracts, as they say in the trades. Lana Turner’s on the ropes and considering it.”

Joi: “That’s week-old bread at half price, sweetie. Anita’s a junkie, and Babs is turning cheapie tricks out of Stan’s Drive-In. And, Lana — she’s just jerking your chain.”

Steve: “Hang on to your hat. I’ve inked Gene Tierney. You’ve got to gas on that one. She scored in Laura and Leave Her to Heaven, and she was Jack Kennedy’s fiancée, back before he married that lockjawed stiff Jackie.”

Ooooh — Jack the K. jumps in. Ooooh — his name in Studly Steve’s address book.

Joi: “My ex, Freddy, sent some girls down to Acapulco, to spice up Jack’s honeymoon. I know from Jack, believe me.”

Steve: “And I know from Freddy O. My pals in politics have been passing along rumors. The studios are putting together a slush fund to put the skids to Confidential. Freddy and his storm troopers have been ratting out all these fags, dykes, and politically enlightened people. The boom’s coming down on Freddy, mark my words.”

Bernie made the jack-off sign and went Oy. The sweats swept over me. “Slush fund.” “Politically enlightened people.” That read RED in my book.

Joi: “Name names, lover. Your pals in politics. Who’ve I got looking over me, to make sure that the you know what don’t hit the fan, if I appear in this movie of yours?”

Steve: “Jack Kennedy, for starters. Joe McCarthy, even though he’s a fasco in the Confidential mode. Also, we’ve got Senator Bill Knowland, and Senator Hubert Humphrey. All these heavy guys are pals of mine, and these guys will put the squelch on any rumors that might seep out about the film, and you’ve got my word that it will only be screened for high-ticket people in politics and the industry — people who want to see — pardon my French — movie stars fucking and sucking and preaching the anti-A-bomb gospel as only I can write it. This is a high-ticket endeavor from jump street, lady — and you can get in on the ground floor.”

Bernie went He craaaazy. Bernie grabbed his crotch and went Oy. Static broke through the broadcast. I doused dials and cleared the feed.

Joi: “...and it’s not like I don’t need the coin. But I’ll tell you, though — the idea of screwing on film flips my switch. As long as the film doesn’t make the rounds, like that photo of Marlon Brando with his mouth full.”

Steve: “Marlon wants to appear in the film. I have this on good authority.”

Joi hooted. “You’re out of your gourd. As Bondage Bob Harrison says, ‘I’ve got your good authority swinging.’ ”

Steve scoffed. “Mr. V. J. Jerome’s my good authority. How’s that for naming names? All the Group Theatre actors take their orders from him. And don’t give me that fasco smear that he’s in the employ of the Comintern. V.J. knows quality entertainment when he sees it.”

Joi scoffed. “Okay, we’re naming names. Okay, name me one name that can do me some good if and when my movie and TV career goes in the tank.”

Steve: “Harry Cohn. How big is that ? He runs Columbia, and he’s bankrolling my film. He will personally see to it that nobody outside of a very elite circle of people see this movie. This is not a smut flick like you see at those Elks Club smokers.”

The transceiver fritzed and glitched and broadcast stark static. It consumed the conversation. Bernie doused dials and replugged the console. I snared snippets of chat.

Steve: “Come on. It’s not like you’ve never auditioned.”

Joi: “Well... it’s... not like I’m in any kind of ordained situation.”

Line buzz/fuzz/stuck static. Wire warp and burned bulbs — the console’s coughing smoke—

I dumped my headphones and hauled out of the van. I ran across the courtyard, rapidamente. I circled Steve the Stud’s building and peeped ground-floor windows. I saw Steve’s noxious Nazi regalia and Joi’s skirt and shoes, shorn in a heap. I saw Jap flags and shadow-boxed shrunken heads, and heard gruff growls in bass-baritone. I tracked a trail of nylon stockings and men’s Jockey briefs. I peeped one last Walpurgisnacht window—

And saw Joi gobble Steve the Stud, tonsil-deep.

Call me Cornuto. Call me shame-shattered and shit-shorn of power and agency. I made the midnite meet at Googie’s. I surged with self-pity. Stretch called my answering service. She dumped our date and cited early practice. The Pervdog of the Nite knows better. Stretch now roils recumbent in savage sapphic embrace.

I sat alone. I nursed a numb-your-soul highball. Joi walked in the back door. She saw me and glimpsed my sick sorrow. I was l’étranger out of cool Camus — gallows-bound of my own device.

Joi went oooh-la-la. She rolled her eyes and held her hands two feet apart. She shot me the finger and walked back out the door.

I bebopped to a boo-hoo beat. Cuckold/ Cornuto /jilted Johnny left in the lurch. Somebody save me. I’m sunk in this sink of self-hate.

Jimmy Dean and Claire Klein walked in the back door. La Klein wore blue jeans, Bass Weejuns, and a baleful Beethoven sweatshirt. She was rangy, busty, dark-haired, and unadorned. She had that proud/New York Jew/don’t-fuck-with-me look.

I stood up. I primped. I blew off the blues and bloomed in the glow of new love.

They ambled over. This was biz on Bondage Bob’s timecard. I snapped my fingers. My funk went finito.

A wetback waiter wafted into view. I ordered a pitcher of off-the-menu/high-test lemonade. 150-proof bourbon. Some ambiguous amphetamine. Pounded potions from Hop Ling’s Hormone Hutch.

Jimmy played emcee. “Claire, this is Freddy. Freddy, this is Claire. I’m here as a full partner in this enterprise, and to ensure that Rock doesn’t get hurt.”