Джеймс Эллрой - Widespread Panic

I slid out of my sled and hunkered low on my haunches. I ran reconnaissance. I noted a line of lockers by a walk-in freezer. I had Salacious Sanchez alone.

He mambo-minced to his locker and primped. A mirror magnified his mug and tossed it back at me. I squinted and claimed a close-up. Aaaaaaaah — the top locker shelf. There’s a stack of photo sheaths.

He picked his teeth. He squeezed blackheads. He dewaxed his ears. I walked in and crept up behind him. I pulled my beavertail sap. His neck hairs bristled. He wheeled and pulled a shiv.

Flick — the blade sliced my Sy Devore blazer. He shrieked shit en español. It ran the your-mama gamut.

He pirouetted and parried. We were in knife-fight tight. I risked a ripe stab wound and roundhoused him to the head. My sap socked him, full force.

The seams ripped his face. The business end tore an eyebrow loose and gnashed in his nose. He dropped the knife. I kicked it away. I grabbed his neck and squelched a scream. The deep-fry dipper was four feet away. It was spitting hot grease off spuds lyonnaise.

I dragged him over. I stuck his knife hand in the grease and frog-fried it. He screamed. I held his hand in the grease and burned it to the bone. Spatters spotted up my London Shop shirt.

I dropped his hand. I walked to the locker and grabbed the photo sheaths. I flipped through them.

Ooohhh, Daddy. It’s Liberace Goes Greek — Kodacolor prints and negatives.

Sanchez screamed and careened through the kitchen. He dumped a dish rack and spasm-smacked the walls. His hand was charbroiled and crackle crisp. Flayed flesh flew off.

—

The night was young. I was up five thou and blasphemously blasted on blood and aggression. Revelation ripped me. I knew I could mix my own fruit shakes. I pocketed two Liberace negatives.

I called R&I. They delivered the dish on the smut-film troika. The boys shared a pad in Silver Lake. Plus a bent for the sex-soiled and seditious. Semper fi — they met in the Marine Corps and ran rackets out of a bondage bar down in Dago. They sold forged green cards. They peddled Spanish fly. They led Rotary groups to T.J. for the mule act. They sold dildo dupes of Donkey Don’s sixteen-inch whanger.

They fell in the shit in ’50. They sold Spanish fly to a nervous nympho and pledged a date with Donkey Don. The Donkster reneged. The nympho impaled herself on the gearshift of a ’46 Buick. San Diego PD filed Felonious Assault. The judge tossed the case. Here’s a ripe rumor: he was Race Rockwell’s regular trick.

I popped out to their pad. It was a wizened wood-frame job, buried in bougainvillea. I rang the bell at 11:00 p.m. and got no answer. I picked the door lock and let myself in. I crept flashlight-first and inventoried their shit.

The boys possessed Nazi armbands/Mickey Spillane novels/combat-pinned Marine blues. Plus mucho moviemaking equipment. Plus cheesecake mags going back to ’36. Plus souvenir snapshots from the Klub Satan, Tijuana, New Year’s ’48. El Burro sports spiffy red devil ears.

I walked out to the porch. I chain-smoked and sucked on my flask. I recognized the ribbons on their uniforms. The boys savaged Saipan and stormed Guadalcanal.

I sipped bonded bourbon. I got a light load on. A jalopy jammed up at 1:00 a.m. The boys bounced out and made for the door.

I whipped out my badge and flashlight-lit it. It was deep dark out. I couldn’t catch their capitulation. Call it a cool coup d’état. The dominant dog now rules their pack.

“My name’s Otash. You’re going into business with me.”

Extortionist. Entrepreneur. Enterprising Enforcer. I ran that roundelay as I licked my lips for Liz.

I got half looped with the lads and laid down the law. I’m taking 20 percent of your smut biz. You get police protection. You’re now the naughty nucleus of Freddy O.’s stud farm. Get ready to bring the brisket to some housewives in heat.

Donkey Don laid a ladle of bennies on me. I buzzed through my day-watch duty downtown. I broke up a fistfight at the Jesus Saves Mission. I chased a raft of Red agitators out of Pershing Square. I popped a whipout man at the Mayan Theater. I busted a psycho kid blowtorching two lovebirds in a ’49 Ford.

My tour of duty tapped down. I went by the Criminal Courts Building and read up on divorce law. I reserved a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel and scrounged refreshments off local merchants. Lou’s Liquor Locker supplied champagne. Hank’s Hofbrau coughed up cold cuts. Fast delivery was assured.

I swooped by my pad. I traded my cop suit for a choice chalk-stripe ensemble. Oh yeah — it’s your ardent arriviste poised to pounce!!!!

The bungalow was big, boss, flouncy, and flamboyant. The bellman harrumphed at my ham and cheese hors d’oeuvres. He rolled his eyes and split. I paced and smoked myself hoarse. The bell rang at 8:00 p.m. sharp.

There she is — Elizabeth Taylor at twenty-one.

She stood in the doorway. I fumbled for chitchat. She wore a tight white dress. It caressed her curves and clambered up to her cleavage. She said, “If I move too fast, I’ll split a seam. Help me over to that couch.”

I grabbed an elbow and steered her. My hand trembled, my heart trilled. I sat her down and poured two jolts of ’53 domestic. We perched on the couch and offered up toasts.

Liz raised her arm. A dress seam split down to her hemline. She said, “Shit. I didn’t have to wear this. You’re just the bird dog for my divorce.”

I yukked. Liz said, “Don’t marry me, okay? I can’t keep doing this for the rest of my life.”

“Have I got a chance?”

“More than you think. Hotel heirs and queer actors haven’t worked out, so who’s to say a cop wouldn’t?”

I smiled. I sipped champagne. Liz snagged a slice of ham and snarfed it. Her wicked white dress constricted her. She looked plaintive, plain, and pure.

I unzipped the back. I slid in some slack and brought breathing room. Liz sighed — Aaaaah, that’s good.

The shoulder straps slid slack and fell down her arms. Liz deadpanned it. Our knees brushed. Liz retained the contact.

“How do I cut loose of Michael? I can’t cite mental cruelty, because he’s a sweetheart, and I don’t want to hurt him. I know you have to show just cause in order to sue.”

I refilled her glass. “I’ll bug your house. You get Wilding looped and get him to admit he digs boys. I levy the threat in a civilized manner, and he consents to an uncontested divorce.”

Liz beamed. “It’s that easy? ”

“We’re all civilized folks. You probably earn more money than him, but he’s older, and has substantial holdings. You broker the property split and the alimony along those lines.”

“And how are you compensated?”

“I get ten percent of your alimony payments, in perpetuity. You keep me in mind and refer me to people who might require my services.”

Liz lounged on the couch cushions. Her dress collapsed past her brassiere. Our eyes found a fit. The rest of the room vaporized.

“And how will I keep you in mind? There’s lots of people vying for my attention.”

“I’ll do my best to make this a memorable evening.”

It started out clumsy and sweet. My punch line cued the first kiss. Liz was victimized and vanquished by too-tight attire. She shrugged her dress off. It wiggled down to her waist.

I carried her into the bedroom. The hoist popped buttons off my shirt. They shot across the room. We laffed. I heard the radio a bungalow over. Rosemary Clooney sang, “Hey, there — you with the stars in your eyes.”

We got naked. We were built boss, stratosphere stacked, and hung home wrecker heavy. We were the boffo best of L.A. ’53.