Джеймс Эллрой - Widespread Panic

I said, “Tell me something I don’t know. This juvenile delinquency turkey interests me.”

Babs tossed her cigarette. “Nick’s got his head goon on all his pictures. On this one, it’s this mean little shit, Nick Adams. He’s also got his ‘Love Boy’ and ‘Love Girl’ on all his pictures, and this time it’s your chum Jimmy Dean and Natalie Wood. He’s always trying to push these kids into all kinds of scary stuff, and he’s got it all justified and sugarcoated to the nth degree. There’s an actor on the shoot named Dennis Hopper. He’s a customer here, and he’s got common sense enough to give Nick a wide berth. Now, Dennis told me that Nick’s got Jimmy all hopped-up to play Caryl Chessman, and Jimmy’s drooling for the part.”

Click, click, click. That’s a three-cherry jackpot. Yeah, but it’s turgidly topical, it’s new news, Chessman’s a headline humper, but still —

“Freddy, are you even listening to me?”

I said, “Keep going. What else have you got on Chessman?”

“Nothing. Except who wants to see a vital young stud like Jimmy Dean play Caryl—”

“Whoa, Babs. Hold on. Where’d you get that ‘vital young stud’ line? It’s something I’ve heard before.”

Babs scoffed. “I got it from a would-be criminal mastermind named Robbie Molette. He’s a regular here, and he’s always referring to himself as a ‘vital young stud.’ I used to shtup his daddy when I was a contract kid at Metro. He also works as a busboy, at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and—”

I cut in. “Babs, what? What’s with that lightning-bolt look?”

“Nothing. Except you’re looking for a bait girl, and Robbie was in last night, and damned if he hasn’t put together a stable, and damned if he didn’t show me a merchandise book with some very fresh faces.”

West Holly weird

5/15/55

Stakeout. Eine kleine Nachtwerk. The mad march to 1:00 a.m. and Miss Blind Item. I’d run my radio looooooooooow. I’d hear coins slip-slide down that slot. Nasty Nat would try for a trace. I’d hear Her voice.

Nutty Nick Adams. There’s his chump-change chalet. I’m parked across the street and two doors down. It’s a murky moon-mist nite. I’m cunningly camouflaged. Shade-tree shadows shield the shape of my sled.

It’s peeper peekaboo. I see Nick’s pad. Nick can’t see shit. There’s window lights. Big beams bounce my way. I possess Peepervision. No one else does.

There’s a scurrilous script read. Nick Ray pontificates. Nick A. and Jimmy Dean declaim dialogue.

I hexed the house. I made mental mincemeat of the punks and mocked their motivation. Leave now, feckless fools. I’ve got work to do inside.

I brought my evidence kit. It contained print gear and Ray Pinker’s stop-frame camera. I dunned the DMV. They fed me photostats of three drivers-license applications. I had right thumbprints for Jimmy Dean, Nick Ray, Nick Adams. Pinker’s camera light lit latent prints and magnified tents, whorls, and arches. My game was confirmation and/or elimination. If they touched the B and E swag that Rock described, I’d know.

I turned on the radio. Synagogue Sid serenaded me. Sid’s bass sax sallied forth. The flügelhorn flew with it. The drums drilled a cool counterpoint. Then that cacophonous coin cough cut in.

Adios, Sid. Nasty Nat’s nudged you aside for Miss Blind Item. I ran the radio looooooooow. I listened for tone above text. Talk to me, love. Say something, say anything. Give me your voice.

Miss Blind Item riffed and rang rapport with Nasty Nat. I listened for tone above text. I nite-dreamed as she talked.

Caryl Chessman would be in L.A. As in soonsville. He had a court appeal downtown. Nick Ray wants Jimmy Dean to play the Red Light Bandit. It surged as subtext and nudged me nonplussed. It couldn’t compete with Her Voice. Her vowels suggest the urban Midwest. It’s a seen-it-all city voice.

A door slammed. I orbed the chalet. Mark it: 1:23 a.m. The punks pop from the pad. They bag Nick Adams’ rental ragtop and roll northbound.

I rolled. It’s late, time is tight, you need an hour inside. I ran to the door and laid into the lock.

Lock picks and penlight. It’s up-close, in-tight work. I jammed a #4 pick in the keyhole and massaged the main spring. Two tumblers tipped. I pulled out the #4 and jammed in a #2. The door jerked from the jamb. I shoulder-shoved it and inched inside.

I locked myself in. I penlight-flashed the main room and dug on the details. Bullfight posters, bongo drums, a TV tuned to a test pattern. Natalie Wood nudie pix tacked to one wall.

It’s cheesecake chiaroscuro. Natalie’s backlit by flickering flames and feral faces peering out. It’s the Afrika Korps, the B-boys, the Nick’s Knights Kar Klub. The Führer ’s face peers out above them. Nick Ray’s wearing devil horns and torquing a ten-inch forked tongue.

I cut down the hall. I flashed a bare-mattressed bedroom and a bathroom in bad disarray. My light speared the spare bedroom. My beam swung over the swag.

The hip hi-fis. The cumbersome consoles. The fetchingly fenceable TV sets and camera cascade. They were hurled haphazard and carelessly covered the floor.

I left the room lights off. I got out my gear. I made for the mountain of merchandise and went to work.

My penlight put me in close. I went contraband item to item. I marked manufacturers’ ID numbers on my scratch pad. It was all B and E stash. I knew that. It might be traceable to specific burglary lots.

Prints next. That’s the tuff part. Dust touch-and-grab surfaces. Daub contrasting-color powder. Put the stop-frame camera up to liftable latents. Expand the images and look for thumbprint configurations. Count tents, whorls, and arches. Compare them to the DMV photostats.

I went at it. I had at it, wholesale. I kept the lights off. I penlight-parsed and brushed purple powder over every touch-and-grab surface in sure sight. Finger oil brought up smudges, smears, paltry partial and full fingerprints. I went item to item. I dusted hi-fis/consoles/cameras/TV sets. Smudges, smears, and partials popped up. No glaring glove prints stood out. That was gooooood.

I caught two full finger spreads. They popped off a pinewood console. That meant bupkes/zero/zilch. I needed right thumbprints X-clusive.

I worked myself weary. I wound my way down to two portable TV sets.

They had hard-to-hold planes and no handles. They were cumbersome and unwieldy. They were hoist every which way items.

I dusted Set #1. I hit hard surfaces, crevices, cracks. I brought up a right thumbprint. I raised my camera. I zoomed close. I let fly.

The camera magnified. The camera impaled images and brought them up, white-on-black. I counted comparison points. I’d memorized the photostat points. I’d broiled them into my brain. I knew every tent, whorl, and arch.

I counted One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten—

Nick Adams, it’s you. You’re fucked for 459 PC.

I dusted Set #2. It’s hard to hold and pry off the premises. There’s that hard-to-hold tube housing.

I dusted it. I pulled Right Thumbprint #2.

I put the camera up to the print. I magnified it. I counted common points. Six points saddened and sickened me. Nine points nullified me. Ten points pounded James Dean, courtroom conclusive.

Bait girls. Babs Payton shtups Robbie Molette’s dad, circa ’47. Rodent Robbie. He’s running call girls now. No shit, Sherlock. Robbie’s got a merchandise book. Babs reveals fresh faces. It’s a nutty non sequitur. It indicates the brute breadth of my craaaaaaazy crowded life.