Джеймс Эллрой - Widespread Panic

Claire said, “I’m here to marry him, not skin him alive.”

The waiter bopped back. I played host and poured drinks. I said, “Don’t smoke. This stuff tends to ignite.”

We settled in. I studied Claire. I gassed on her crooked teeth and bold brown eyes. Here’s my first fitful impression:

She’s an agent provocateur. She lives to make shit shimmy to her own beat and bounce to her terms.

She said, “Jimmy’s been briefing me. Steve Cochran, and all that.”

She lived to pry. I caught that. I rerouted a reply.

“ All that ’s the Rock deal, for the moment. Now that I’ve seen you in person, Miss Klein, I’ve got some ideas.”

Jimmy sipped laced lemonade. “We’re listening, boss.”

I sipped lemonade. Claire sipped lemonade. Her pupils popped, instantaneous. Her brows broiled with sweat.

“Here’s the drift. Six dates, covered in Confidential. Atypically wholesome by Confidential ’s standards, but we’ll lay in some anti-Commie repob, to justify that. You play yourself. You’re the bohemian algebra teacher at Le Conte Junior High. You meet Rock at Scrivner’s Drive-In. You were sipping a pineapple malt, and some pachucos hassled you. This works an antipachuco message into the text. Rock walks into this fracas and beats up the pachucos. A flame sparks. He gives a pep talk to your algebra students. It’s heartwarming. You have six dates. Your separate worlds collide and merge. Rock takes you to Ciro’s and the Mocambo. You take him to culture caves and groove on le jazz hot. He proposes, you accept, the squarejohn press covers the wedding. You shack for the foreseeable future, and Jimmy watchdogs Rock and diverts him off boys. There’s some bylaws I’ll run by you when I know you better, and I’m not so afraid you’ll scratch my eyes out.”

Jimmy hoot-hooted. He eye-strafed the room and pupil-popped a built boy with bleached-blond hair. He ducked off to cull contact. I had Claire Klein to myself.

She said, “Let me guess the bylaws. Then I’ll tell you what’s acceptable, and what’s not.”

“Shoot, baby.”

Claire said, “No side deals with Rock, his boyfriends, or any men I meet through him. No obvious extramarital liaisons with men I want to work on my own, or men I just plain like. Quit my job at Le Conte, or turn it into some jive fable of me helping underprivileged kids. Fink out all the skeevy goings-on I see in my swanky new Hollywood life.”

I sipped laced lemonade. I made This Gesture. It meant bravo/stalemate/your move, mama-san.

Claire lit a cigarette. Bold girl. Brilliant girl. She understands chemical combustion. Her lemonade fails to ignite.

“No deals. Your bylaws stink. And, before you ask, yeah — I did pull a knife on Burt Lancaster. And, before it comes up, I was at Ciro’s the other night, and caught your act with Joi Lansing, and if you think she’ll ever play bait for you after the Cochran gig, think again. I’m better at this line of work than she is, and I’m not letting you lay down restrictions, even if it means blowing this ‘Rock’s wife’ caper sky-high.”

I took it in. I lit a cigarette. Freon Freddy. My lemonade fails to ignite.

“Okay. Do what you want. And, before you ask, yeah — I’ll consider you for any bait gigs that might come up for the magazine.”

Claire blew smoke rings. “It’s not all a one-way street, baby. I’ve got quite a bit of inside dirt, and I’ve got no qualms about sharing it, especially as it pertains to the Reds and their sort of filth. I’ve finked to HUAC, and I’ll fink to you — and at least you’ll properly compensate me.”

I made This Gesture #2. It meant capital C capitulation and wrung-out relinquishment.

Claire laughed. She flashed her crooked teeth. I went all woo-woo. Hey there, you with the stars in your eyes.

“Freddy O.’s a pushover. It’s the last thing in the world I expected.”

I said, “Let’s go someplace and fall down. Let’s crawl into a hole and not come out for a while.”

Claire said, “Not tonight. I’ve got test papers to grade, and I can’t let those disadvantaged kids down.”

2/19/54

Late nites become me. They obfuscate and overtake me. They send me where I’m supposed to be.

I pulled up and parked on Camerford. LAPD yanked their crime-scene guard. The shit shack now stood dark. The clock marched toward midnite. I ran my radio and notched Nachtmusik.

Stan Kenton’s “Machito.” Jimmie Lunceford’s “Uptown Blues.” Gonesville, Daddy-O. Mad music to B and E by.

I ditzed the dial and extended the interlude. I got bop, by way of Bird and Deranged Dizzy. Bop bops me and sends me where I’m supposed to be.

I brought my evidence kit. I brought my burglar’s tools. I was jazzed and jacked-up exhausted.

I’d worked Operation Rock Wife all day. Sexville, Daddy-O. Close contact with Claire Klein had me gooooooone.

Jimmy handled Rock and played director. Confidential supplied a foto man. I called Harry Fremont and brought him into the gig. Harry sprung three badass beaners from the Lincoln Heights drunk tank. They portrayed the pachucos who mob-menace Claire. We staged our stirring scene at Scrivner’s Hollywood. Claire sips a pineapple malt in her ’51 Ford. Rock lurks nearby. Swish carhops swarm him. He signs mucho autographs.

Jimmy feeds the cholos their motivation. He stamps them Stanislavskiites at the gate. Dig it: you want white pussy baaaaaaad.

They surround Claire’s car. They coochie-coo her and weenie-wag her. Claire shrieks. Rock rocks to the rescue. He pounds the three pachuco punks to the pavement. LAPD rolls up and rousts the beaners. Harry Fremont cued them in advance.

It all worked, perfecto. Our fotog shot film and stills and got it all in four takes. Rock meets Claire. It’s love at first sight. Jimmy counseled reluctant Rock. Brother, you have to. Lew Wasserman decrees that you take a wife.

I called Harry and pledged him five yards for his work. Harry shot me leads per the Horvath snuff.

Lead #1: he ran the plate number on that cop car I saw at the crime scene. Bip — it’s a Fed sled/FBI/on loan to serpentine Senator Joe McCarthy and his L.A. Commie hunt. Lead #2: the Hats pulled in a shitbird pal of George Collier Akin’s. He was a hump hot-prowl man himself. The Hats were hammering him haaaaaaaard.

Bird bopped me. Dizzy dinged me. I pulled on rubber gloves. I grabbed my evidence kit and rolled.

Shadows shrouded me. Streetlights were dim. I poured across the porch and braced the front door. I pulled a #4 pick and jammed the jamb upside the latch spring. The door popped open, faaaaast.

I pulled my penlight. I locked myself in. I laid my evidence kit on a chair. Harry got me the PD’s print manifest. Joan’s prints and her kids’ prints were inked in.

Smudge-and-smear locations were noted. No other known or verified prints were found and logged in. Here’s my job: roll overlooked touch-and-grab surfaces. Contrast and compare.

Chez Joan. It’s all there for you to touch and taste. She’s there for you as your own. Go forth, Pervdog — contrast and compare.

I roamed. I spread print powder on unlisted surfaces and pulled up dust and palm sweat. I worked back toward Joan’s bedroom and saved it for last. I hit the kids’ bedroom. It broke my hard heart. I pulled an unlogged little-kid print off a bed rail. I checked shelves and drawers for stashed booty and got zilch.

The kitchen reeked of overripe food and dumped trash. I rolled it, regardless. I dusted the breakfast-nook table and pulled up a full-digit print. I checked the print manifest and compared tents, arches, and whorls. Eureka — it’s an unknown.