Джеймс Эллрой - Widespread Panic

It rained that day. It was some mad monsoon. Wild winds whipped me along on my foot beat. I stopped at a lockbox phone and called the station. The deskman told me to hotfoot it to 668 South Olive. They were shooting a Racket Squad episode in the lobby. They needed a hard boy to shoo off autograph hounds.

I headed over there. I caught a taut tailwind and slalomed in the slush. It was a medical building. The lobby was all lit up. I caught a frazzled fracas, right off.

Lights, cameras, boom mikes. Here’s the action, straight up.

A jug-eared cat was hassling a boss blonde. He wore pegged chinos and a gone jacket. She was built, va-va-voom.

The cast and crew orbed the scene. Jug Ears grabbed the blonde’s arm and applied abrasions. It gored my gonads and hit my heartstrings. I walked up behind him. He saw my shadow and swift swiveled. I notched his nose with a palm shot. I looped a left to his larynx. I kneed his nuts as he dropped.

The blonde genuflected. I tipped my hat. Jug Ears cradled his busted beak and moaned for his mama. The cast and crew clapped.

The blonde said, “He’s my ex-husband. He stiffed me for three months’ alimony.”

I kicked him in the head and lifted his wallet. Jug Ears mama-moaned anew. The cast and crew whistled and stomped.

The wallet weighed in heavy. I fanned the cash compartment and counted a sea of C-notes. I handed them to the blonde. She dropped them in her purse and dropped a dollar on her ex-hubby. She said, “For old times. He was good in the sack.”

I laffed. I reached in my pocket and handed her a card. Understated class shows. There’s my name, phone number, and “Mr. Nine Inches.”

She dropped the card in with her cash stash. A guy yelled, “You’re up, Joi. Scene 16-B.”

She winked and walked away from me. I cuffed Jug Ears behind his back and pay-phone-called the station. Holly weird: they filmed the scene with the ex coma-conked and cuffed on the floor.

I walked outside and smoked a cigarette. A black-and-white cruised by and hauled the ex to Georgia Street. I thought of Ralph Mitchell Horvath. A kid returned my calling card. She wrote on the back: “Joi Lansing. 39-25-38. Googie’s, tonight at 8:30.”

I’ve got a boss bachelor pad, straight up from the Strip. It’s jammed with Jap flags and shadow-boxed Lugers. There’s a periscope perched on my porch. I peep neighbor women and gas their gestalts.

I’m a voyeur. It’s vampiric. I study people. I rage to know their secret shit.

My bedroom features a biiiiiiiig walk-in closet. I’ve got sixty Sy Devore suits. My dresser drawers drip with lacy lingerie. My lynxlike lovers leave me mucho mementos.

I’ve got a file on Ralph Mitchell Horvath. I culled it from PDs and penitentiaries statewide. I know all Ralphie’s secrets.

He poked a Mexican sissy in reform school. He fathered two half-wit kids. He pimped his wife to cover his poker debts. He scored prescription goofballs from a Chink pharmacist.

I dug up that dirt. It bought me distance on Ralphie. It held off his hold on me. Know your foe. I’ve known that godless gospel since my crib.

I dressed sharp for Joi Lansing. I wore my crocodile loafers and hid my heater in a shoulder rig. A spritz of Lucky Tiger — and a short stroll to the meet.

Googie’s was a coffee cave on Sunset and Crescent Heights. The space-age aesthetic rubbed me raw. Fluorescent lights/Naugahyde/chrome. A hip hive for showbiz shitheels headed for Hell.

I walked in. Joi Lansing table-hopped. She wore a too-tight gown and a meager mink stole with a pawnshop tag attached. The joint buzzed per a sneak peek in Glendale. A Googie’s regular played a love scene with Bob Mitchum. Bad Boy Bob slipped her tongue. They toked a reefer in the RKO backlot. She blew him in his ’51 Ford.

A hubbub juked the joint. I knew I radiated FUZZ. I crashed into a booth and unbuttoned my jacket. A flit flamed by and ogled my piece. He hopped to a hen party, one booth over. Dig this dirt: the barman at the Cockpit Lounge ran an all-boy slave auction. Adlai Stevenson got embroiled and embarrassed. The hens hooted — ha, ha, ha!!!

Joi sat down. I pointed to the pawnshop tag. She pulled it off and dropped it in the ashtray.

I said, “Thanks for the invitation.”

Joi said, “Thanks for the revenge. That guy fractured my left wrist on Saint Patrick’s Day, ’49.”

“You’re too young to have an ex-husband.”

“Yeah, and I’m estranged from number two. I’d head to Reno for a quickie, but it might not work. We got hitched in T.J., so the paperwork could get dicey.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Well, you’re a policeman.”

I lit a cigarette and held the pack out. Joi shook her head.

“He’s on parole, and he’s a grasshopper. You could call Narco. That might do me some good.”

I shook my head. “Give me his address. I’ll think of something.”

“He’ll be here at nine-thirty. He’s been living at the Y since I kicked him out, and the fry cook here takes his phone calls. He’s a nonunion grip. I stiffed him a fake message after I met you. You’re a producer at Fox, with a job for him. You’re meeting him in the parking lot.”

I laffed. “You just assumed that I’d do it?”

Joi laffed. “Come on, Freddy. That stunt you pulled downtown, and ‘Mr. Nine Inches’? What won’t you do for money or gash?”

A Mex busboy sidled by. I grabbed a belt loop and stopped him. He saw my roscoe and got the shiver-shakes.

I socked him a sawbuck. “Go to the kitchen and get me a bag of weed. You’ll be on the night train to Culiacán if you don’t deliver.”

Manuel went Sí, sí and moved out. Joi laffed and bummed a cigarette. I blew a high smoke ring. She blew a higher one. They hit the ceiling and mushroomed, Hiroshima-esque.

Manuel meandered back with the mota. I told him to scram. The hen party parsed a new nugget. Ava Gardner sacked Sinatra. She’s shacked with a heavy-hung extra at Monogram.

I said, “What’s your real name?”

Joi said, “Joyce Wassmansdorff.”

“Give me the fill-in.”

“I’m from Salt Lake City. I’m twenty-four. I went to the MGM school, and went nowhere.”

“But now you’re up-and-coming?”

Joi stubbed out her cigarette. “I’m uncredited in six pictures, and credited in four. I’ve got Racket Squad, Gangbusters, and a comedy with Jane Russell in the can.”

“Give me some dirt on Russell.”

“What’s to give? She’s a Goody Two-shoes married to that quarterback for the Rams.”

I eyeballed the room. Paranoia pounds me, periodic. The two crew cuts by the take-out stand? They’re Bill Parker’s boys. I’d seen them at Central. They were purse-lipped puritans out to bag bent cops.

Joi said, “You’ll need money to enjoy my company.”

I re -eyeballed the room. I exercised my X-ray vision. A punk I popped for flimflam made me and beat feet.

Joi said, “It’s nine-thirty. Look for a little guy with a big pompadour.”

I bopped back to the parking lot. Pompadour lounged upside a ’51 Merc. I closed in close. He orbed my shoulder rig and went Oh shit. He wore light-colored slacks. Piss coursed and covered his cuffs. I dug in, diplomatic.

“Don’t contest the divorce. I’ll negotiate your alimony payments. Send the check directly to me. I’ll take my cut and deliver the rest to Miss Lansing.”

Pompadour held up his hands. It was Don’t hit me, hoss. I pulled out the bag of weed and caught his left mitt in one motion. I pressed hard and finagled a full fingerprint spread.

A drizzle drifted down. I gestured toward the street. Ex-hubby #2 took off running.