Джеймс Эллрой - Widespread Panic

She twirled her ashtray. She sipped absinthe on the rocks and nibbled french fries.

“Joi’s shacking with Steve Cochran. Jimmy called and told me. He said he helped Joi pack the rest of her stuff.”

I said, “The Teletype travels fast. I just found out myself.”

“I hope this consoles you. Jimmy said there was a very big girl asleep in your bed. She’s about as tall as that colored guy from KU. Joi hexed her and poured liniment on her basketball shorts.”

I laffed and took a jolt of Claire’s absinthe. It stung my too-taxed liver and looped to my head. Claire tossed french fries on my place mat.

“Bondage Bob cut you a check for your wardrobe. He wants you dressed to the nines for your Mocambo date next week. You’re doubling with Rock and Jimmy. Jimmy’s bringing Liz Taylor. He’s inked for some big oater set in Texas, soon. Rock and Liz top-bill him. Jimmy and Liz are strictly platonic. They’ll make sure Rock doesn’t light out after some hunky chorus quiff.”

Claire lit a cigarette. “I’ll sell Liz some Israel bonds. She’s devoted to the cause now. She’s sub rosa with this wheeler-dealer, Mike Todd. She never stays unmarried for long. Mike’s a landsman of the old school. Liz is forbidden fruit to him.”

I laffed. “Liz is low-hanging fruit of the new school. Confidential winks at divorces, and the magazine will always be kind to her.”

Claire tossed a changeup. “I shivved that Mex who whipped his chorizo out on me. Jimmy got him lit up on the Method, but he whipped it too close to my face.”

I tossed a changeup. “Harry Fremont saw a Fed intel file. He said you were in on the King David Hotel bombing, back in the British mandate.”

“I planted the bomb. And then I played girl sabra and lovingly carried out dead Englishmen.”

“The PD guys took the Mex to Georgia Street Receiving. You were kind. It was a superficial flesh wound. He got off easy.”

Claire twirled her ashtray. “You’ve got a history with Georgia Street. Harry loves to dish. He said your guy didn’t get off so easy.”

“Let’s not get into scalp counts. I couldn’t possibly compete with you.”

Claire smiled. “You’ve got lineage. The Lebanese come to fight. You’re a Christian, so your people were surely considered elites.”

I made the jack-off sign. “I fell off my camel and landed in L.A. My whole life’s nothing but a prelude to you.”

Claire yukked. “I’ll never say yes, and I’ll never say no. At some point we’ll want to fall down together, and we’ll both know the moment when it comes.”

I got chills. I chugged Claire’s absinthe. Wormwood whipped my wig and winged me back to Weimar Berlin. I joined a bevy of bohemians at the Hotel Adlon. We’re there to cull the cusp of the abyss.

“What are you doing in L.A.? You didn’t come here to teach school and see what happens next, and you’re overqualified for studio gigs and bait jobs.”

Claire said, “People here love to talk. Jimmy, Harry, Bob Harrison. I’ve come to understand that you’re interested in Connie Woodard, and I’m interested in her, too.”

I said, “Don’t stop now.”

Claire said, “I came to L.A. to kill a man. I don’t know his name, but I think Connie Woodard might. It’s all design and opportunity with me, as it is with you.”

I drove home. I drove home jazzed and jacked to the gills and SCARED down to my shit-stained shorts.

The pad was queerly quiescent. Stretch dropped her USC silks on the living room floor. She left a note propped by the phone.

“Harry Fremont called. Meet him at the Central DB tomorrow. 10:00 a.m. Hat Squad. A 459 suspect. Mandatory.”

I walked back to the bedroom. A bedside night-light was on. Stretch was crapped out on my bed. She was tucked in under the covers and dead asleep. Lance the Leopard was curled up on top of the duvet. Stretch was too tall for the bed. I covered her feet. Lance growled at me. Don’t mess with my woman, you hump.

I know when I’m licked. I walked back to the living room and fell asleep on the couch with my clothes on.

Interrogation Room #3

2/21/54

The Hats had a hump in the hot seat. A claustrophobe closet/one table/six chairs. One fat phone book in vivid view.

He’s Delbert Davis Haines/white male American/DOB 6-12-18. He’s tight with George Collier Akin. They met and compared notes at Quentin. Haines did a doomsday dime for 459 plus rape-sodomy.

Harry Fremont dragged a dragnet and hauled him in. He was alibied up for the Joan Horvath homicide. He blew blues clarinet at a round-the-clock romp at the Riptide Room. Dexter Gordon, Chet Baker, and Art Pepper alibied him.

Harry said he’d made pay-phone contact with Akin. Haines said Akin was casing cooze for a Red Devil Bandit comeback. He’s bidding Beverly Hills bye-bye. He’s back on L.A. city turf.

The Hats hovered. They straddled chairs and loomed over Haines. I kicked my chair against a side wall and scoped it. Haines was a junkie. He skin-popped Big “H” and held off a habit. He was snaggletoothed and pustule-pocked. He wore a Sir Guy shirt and slit-bottom khakis. He was one mean motor scooter and bad actor.

Max Herman said, “You could waltz, Delbert. We’ve got nothing on the books we can hold you on.”

Red Stromwall said, “Or we could concoct something and hold you indefinitely.”

Harry Crowder said, “Or we could get ugly.”

Eddie Benson said, “You know what we want and who we want, and the sooner you give it to us, the less likely it is that we’ll lay on the grief.”

Haines said, “Who’s that guy kicking his chair back? I think I’ve seen him before.”

Max Herman said, “That’s Mr. Otash. He’s a former Los Angeles policeman, currently employed as a private investigator.”

Haines said, “He’s a greaseball. I’m very much attuned to racial distinctions. I’m on the editorial board for the National States’ Rights Party, and I write for Thunderbolt Magazine. ”

Red Stromwall said, “Let’s stick to the topic at hand. George Collier Akin. You know what we want.”

Haines picked his nose and ate the goober. He said, “I want your wife to suck my big dick.”

Red phone-booked him. Wham! — a big roundhouse shot. His face hit the table. His nose cracked. Blood blew out.

He tried to wipe his face. Harry Crowder grabbed his hands and cuffed them to his chair slats. The ratchets racked deep and drew blood.

Haines giggled and licked blood off his lips. He wagged his well-hung tongue at the Hats.

“I’m the Lizard of Love. Check my rap sheet. I’m a go-down man from way back.”

Harry Crowder said, “We like Akin for a burglary-homicide two nights ago. Lower Hollywood. Camerford off Vine. The victim’s name was Joan Horvath. Does that ring a bell with you?”

Haines said, “Your wife rings my bell, eight nights a week. She’s a go-down girl from way back.”

Harry phone-booked him. He sidled a sidewinder shot. Haines’ head whiplashed. Nose blood and mouth blood blew wide. Two teeth hit the far wall.

Eddie Benson said, “Joan Horvath. Camerford off Vine. The B and E snuff there. She wakes up and fights him. Does this sound like Akin? Has he mentioned the job to you?”

Haines licked his lips and torqued his tongue. He said, “Your wife mentioned that you’re hung like an amoeba. That’s why she brings me all the woof-woof.”

Eddie phone-booked him. He ripped a reverse sidewinder. It tore one eyebrow loose. Blood spattered the opposite wall.

I said, “Joan Horvath was pushing forty. She had some gray hair, and she was on the stout side. I bet Akin likes it younger and firmer, and Harry Fremont told me the Red Devil Bandit doesn’t range that far north and west.”