Джеймс Эллрой - Widespread Panic

I inked it on a fresh print card. My pad prowl was now two hours and ten minutes in. My heart hurtled on overdrive. I stepped into Joan’s bedroom and stood there.

Stale perfume stung me. It was Tweed or Jungle Gardenia. The Pervdog’s a scent dog and knows whereof he speaks. I caught Joan’s underscent. It jazzed me and fucked me up, in caustic concurrence. I penlight-flashed the walls and saw something.

A small borehole. Right there. The east-facing wall. Just above the floor. White Spackle paste caked at the edges. One frayed wire sticking out.

I knelt and flashed a close-up. I’m a bug-and-tap pro. I know bug-and-tap work when I see it. This was a bore-and-tap access point. The frayed wire was old. The bug-and-tap mounts had been removed. The Spackle paste was old and crumbled. The bug-and-tap removal man did a shit camouflage job.

Stale perfume. Tweed or Jungle Gardenia, mixed with her—

I went through the bedroom drawers. Joan’s underthings were stacked neatly. The stale perfume scent became her scent, all by itself.

I racked out at the Ranch Market. Bondage Bob called early and drilled me out of a dream. Joi rolled her eyes and held her hands two feet apart. Joi flipped me off and walked out of my life.

Bondage Bob reprised my dreary dreamscape. He demanded dish on the Steve Cochran gig. I laid out the lowdown on Joi’s bait job. Bondage Bob popped his perceived punch line:

Luscious Lana Turner On Skids — Soon To Sign Smut Contract!!!

We discussed Steve the Stud’s phone bills. He called Jack Kennedy and society scribe Connie Woodard. We discussed my address-book thefts at Jack’s hotel suite. Connie’s a Hearst hack. But — she’s got listings for the blustery blacklist boys of the Hollywood Ten. Plus V. J. Jerome and other Red rogues. Bob considered Commophile Connie the key to my perceived Something Big. Joi’s bait-and-bug job confirmed it.

Steve the Stud blathers per his “political pals.” The address book/phone bill parlay. Connie Woodard calls Steve twenty-four times. Steve calls Connie twenty-one times. Jack Kennedy calls Steve nineteen times. Steve calls Jack fourteen times. Commophile Connie’s once removed from Jack the K. Bondage Bob called it all a “pinko porridge” — now running into Red.

I told Bob I’d jump on Connie Woodard, and hung up. I omitted the time-consuming cost of my Horvath-snuff crusade. Time tumbled down on me. I reflex-popped two Dexedrine and turned time my way.

I had a pile of pilfered paper from the L.A. DA’s Office. Writs and rejoinders, summonses and subpoenas — all signed, sealed, and loaded with legalese. I crafted a subpoena for Joan Horvath’s college transcripts. I stamped it and forged it under the seal of DA Ernie Roll. I filled in the blur of blank paper and laid in the lawyeresque. I figured the UCLA admin hacks would kick loose within one week.

Rain and wild wind whipped me west on Wilshire. The run to Westwood Village took an hour and a half. My Packard pimpmobile carved a course westbound. Water-wilted pedestrians got out of my way.

I parked and ran into the main admin building. I flashed my Special DA’s Investigator badge at a wowed desk lady. Ernie Roll shot me the shield. I’d pulled him out of the shit with two Jailbait Jills at a Jonathan Club soiree.

The desk lady pledged quick compliance. I winked to seal the deal. L.A. was winter storm — struck. The haul back to Holly weird would take two hours plus. I had time to kill. I schlepped over to the north campus library and ordered up microfiche.

The Hearst-hack Herald. Constance Woodard’s column. Look for pro-Commie calumny cloaked in society slush. Look for Steve the Stud and Jack the K. puff pieces and mere mentions. See what jumps out.

The microfiche ran from December ’53 back to August ’51. Connie’s column was called “Connie’s Column.” A small pic denoted all her one-page spreads. I recalled La Woodard from Jack K.’s A-bomb party. She was a knock-kneed redhead of the spinster-idealist ilk. She’d be richly ripe for Red recruitment.

I moved microfiche through a machine. I read Connie’s columns. My hackles hopped at the start. Every Hancock Park hoedown, every debutante do and cutesy cotillion contained a rip on the Reds. It was tooooooooo much of a good thing. It was waaaaay out of print proportion. I scrolled back and hit May 16, ’53. Jack K. attends a lawn bash. It fetes limp-wristed loser Adlai Stevenson. Connie properly prongs Adlai and calls him “pink in more ways than one.” Ooohhy, Connie — you got dat right. But — she singles out Jack’s kid brother, Bobby the K. She suck-up cites his tight ties to Joe McCarthy. And, dig: McCarthy has already disgraced himself. He’s now anathema to astutely informed anti-Reds.

Tooooo much of a good thing. Waaaaay out of print proportion.

What’s going on here? Connie’s got Jack’s name in her address book. It’s right beside John Howard Lawson and V. J. Jerome. She calls Jack. She calls Steve Cochran. Steve’s anti-A-bomb. That’s suspect in itself. Steve’s making “celebrity smut.” He’s “leaning left these days.”

I scrolled back through Connie’s columns. I skimmed for Jack and Steve worked into the word stew. ’53, ’52, ’51. There — August 18.

Steve’s captivating kids at a Shriners wingding. Connie’s ever the muddled muckraker and gooey gadfly here.

“B-movie heartthrob Steve Cochran broke hearts at the Shriners last night, and not the hearts of the willing women so often attributed to him. No, readers — and he didn’t brawl his way through the corridors of Children’s Hospital, nor did he hit any doctors or slap any nurses who got in his way. He simply showered affection on those less fortunate than he, and in the process he claimed the hearts of many, including myself. Isn’t it time the world looked at this very talented and humane young man as the gifted and sensitive artist that he is?”

I was floored, flabbergasted, and flipped into a rage. It’s the Parthenon of Puff Pieces. It’s the deus ex machina of disingenuousness. Connections, deflections, lies unworthy of me. I sensed it was Something Big at the start. Now I knew it was Something Wrong.

I levitated out of the library. Something Big/Something Wrong. I surfed the tsunami east on Sunset. It was some mad monsoon. A homing instinct homed me in on Havenhurst Avenue. I cut south and pulled up by Steve Cochran’s courtyard.

Sit-still surveillance. Hard rain to hide me, couched curbside. Old Crow to kill the cold.

I dialed down the defroster and kept the windows clear. I strafed eyeball paths to the rear carport and Studly Steve’s door. Time faltered and failed to trample my trance. Hours passed. Steve Cochran and Joi Lansing came out of the carport and headed for home.

His home. Her home now. They lugged her luggage. The matched set I bought her. Monogrammed at Mark Cross.

Some cute couple. A matched set. The Stacked and the Hung. Joi wobbled on too-high heels. A Band-Aid on Steve’s right cheek set off his jawline and failed to mar his good looks.

Boo-hoo. Nobody knows de trouble ise seen, nobody knows my sorrow. Somebody, save me. Who said size doesn’t count? I’m sunk in this sink of self-hate.

I bolted. I cut down to Fountain and came back up Crescent Heights. I parked in the rear lot and entered Googie’s. I saw her, straight off. She wore her culture-cave ensemble. Blue jeans, Bass Weejuns, baleful Beethoven sweatshirt.

I primped. I popped two Sen-Sen for instant fresh breath. She was alone. She sat in a back booth. I feigned the nonchalance of the cool and the callous and walked straight up.