Джеймс Эллрой - Widespread Panic

I broomed to the Beverly Hills Hotel. Robbie worked the noon-to-nine swing shift. I parked in the employees’ lot and lingered by the locker room door. Robbie rolled up at 11:40. His ’49 Ford fed fucked-up fumes to Beverly Hills and beyond. It laid out L.A. as a lung ward.

I coughed up to the car. Robbie popped the door. I scooched in. Robbie called in some cool.

“Hey, Freddy. What’s shakin’ today?”

I lit a cigarette. Robbie said, “Hey, watch it. Asthma runs in my family.”

“Let’s talk about your family. Like in your dad, who’s a grip at Metro. I see nepotism at work here. Babs Payton and your dad were some kind of an item. And Babs is impressed with your new stable. ‘Fresh faces’ was how she put it.”

Robbie reached under his seat. He pulled out a pink padded notebook. It was embarrassingly embossed “The Young Stud’s Stable.”

I riffled and ran through the pages. “Fresh faces” — yeah. Nepotism — yeah plus. They were Metro contract cooze. The innocent ingénue type. The Hollywood Heartache Class of ’55.

Dad strung strings around Robbie. He passed on his pimp patrimony. I knew the Metro method. The casting cads culled and curried a type. Bryn Mawr, Vassar, Mount Holyoke. This was Ivy League woof-woof deluxe.

“Your dad wants you to keep it localized. The hotel, and nowhere beyond. You suck up to the guests and take it from there. Your dad palms the desk guys and gets the rooms. You do a little matchmaking, and take home your cut.”

Robbie huff-huffed. His dentures dipped out. He’s twenty-two. He’s got dentures. He needs a dad.

I reriffled the girl book. A look lassoed me. She’s tall and lioness lithe. She’s chestnut-haired. She’s heaven-sent in heathered tweeds. She’s Bryn Mawr brought to life.

Robbie said, “That’s Janey Blaine. She went to Smith. She’s gigging with Jack tonight.”

‘Jack’? You mean Senator John F. Kennedy?”

“Well, I call him Jack, and I’m the one who set him up with Janey. He’s meeting her at a Democratic fund-raiser here tonight. It’s my patented ‘Some Enchanted Evening’ scenario, you dig? Janey’s an out-of-town Party functionary, you dig? She sees Jack at the wingding, their eyes meet across a crowded room, and she goes back to his bungalow with him, and stays all night. There’ll be movie big shots at the wingding, and they’ll scope Janey and check out her pedigree at Metro. She’ll get legitimate work out of this gig, you dig?”

I chained cigarettes. “I dig. And I’ll be crashing the gig, by the way. And if I like the way Janey carries herself, I’ll have a long-term gig she won’t be able to resist.”

Robbie sniff-sniffled. His eyes went wet. He trembled. His dentures clack-clacked.

“She resisted me, that’s for damn sure.”

I resisted the riposte. You’ll always have your sister, kid. Chrissy’s a hot sketch. She’s yours as you live and breathe.

Ernie Roll sipped scotch. “Your Rebel Without a Cause summary is boffo. Don’t you think so, Bill?”

Parker sipped scotch. The DA’s sanctum sanctorum featured fishing trophies tricked up on wood-paneled walls. Monster marlin and ossified octopi.

Ernie crapped out at his desk. Parker and I sat in soft leather chairs. The seasick green leather went with the walls.

“It is. We’ll get some indictments out of it, and we’ll get Freddy to improperly vet the magazine’s story, which will give us the double whammy when we put Confidential in the shit.”

“Get us some good dirt on this James Dean kid, Freddy. He’s a big movie star now.”

“Freddy’s tight with the kid, Ernie. We have to assume he’s a source for a lot of this information.”

I sipped scotch. “The Chief’s right about that, Ernie. That said, I should add that I tossed Nick Adams’ pad and took his prints off some hot TV sets. Harry Fremont’s got the ID numbers off the merchandise. If the burglaries were reported, he’ll nail that punk for a whole flotilla of 459’s.”

One more misdirection. One more mercy missive for Jimmy the D.

Parker said, “Freddy Otash. Accept no substitutes.”

Ernie said, “Lay out some story vettings you were remiss or criminally culpable on, Freddy. And, remember, I’m voluntarily offering up that no-file sheet on you when all this goes to court, so you’ll be in the clear on any and all criminal charges.”

I cracked my knuckles. “The two Eartha Kitt jobs were dirty. I slapped Orson Welles around. We paid off Eartha on both of them, all off-the-books cash. The pieces were all lies. Race mixing was a hot topic, so we went nuts with it.”

Ernie went Hubba-hubba. Parker said, “Freddy’s prebriefed me. It gets better than that.”

I scoured my scotch rocks. “Christine Jorgensen and I shook down the Vanderbilt kid for twenty grand. The piece we published was expurgated during the editorial process. I kicked the door down and took pictures. They’ll make good courtroom exhibits or place mats at your next Elks Club smoker.”

Ernie slapped his knees. “Like your stellar photos of Marlon Brando with a dick in his mouth.”

Parker rolled his eyes. “A legendary item.”

Ernie said, “Your legendary tiff with Johnnie Ray. That’s a good courtroom vignette.”

I cringed. “As tiffs go, it wasn’t much. And it’s not like I’m proud of it.”

Parker held one finger up. Ernie ticked that topic off.

“We’re working a two-way street here, Freddy. That means you’ve got a fat credit slip in Banker Roll’s vault.”

I said, “Caryl Chessman’s got an appeal in superior court. He’ll be here soon. I’d like a jail visit with him.”

Parker said, “That evil cocksucker.”

Ernie crossed himself. “Those poor girls. That girl in Camarillo.”

Parker crossed himself. “Consider the request, Ernie.”

I crossed myself. “I promise I’ll behave, and I promise that anything Confidential puts up will atone for that boo-hoo piece we published in ’52.”

Parker beady-eyed me. “Here’s a reminder to go with that request. The next time you witness Nick’s Knights, or the Afrika Korps, or whatever you’re calling them, committing first-degree felonies, you are to intercede with all due and vigilant force.”

Match the voice. Make a voice print. KKXZ to the 1946–47 yearbook. She’s not the noted Kim Hunter or Barbara Bel Geddes. She’s not Shirley Tutler/aka Miss Third Victim. She’s probably Unknown Actress #1 or #2. She might be the lissome Lois Nettleton. Her picture might not have popped on that page.

Babs bought me in. She called ahead and relayed my request. She artfully audited Actors Studio West classes and muff-munched member Mercedes McCambridge on occasion. She explained my kooky conundrum. A clearheaded clerk caught it quick. She snagged her yearbook copy. She found the faces. She rigged a TV clip/film clip/scroll-the-screen machine.

Unknown Actress #1 was Marjorie McConville. Unknown Actress #2 was Lana Linscott. Shirley was Shirley. Lois was Lois. The machine socked sound out of side vents.

The clerk cozied me up in a cubicle and cut the lights. I scrolled the screen. Miss McConville mangled Major Barbara. She stormed a stage in Belfast or Ballymora. She shoved Shaw at me in a brutal brogue. I rescrolled the screen.

Lana Linscott laid it on light. She played some doofus Doris in a dithering Dinner at Eight. Her voice wasn’t The Voice. She was a salt-lick soprano. She came off as a comedienne.

I knew what was next. I scrolled the screen and got to it. There’s Shirley Tutler, pre-Chessman.

She looked L.A. She talked L.A. She had the flat vowels and the vibrato drawl. She essayed Stella in Streetcar. She simpered and saw how it played. She started over and notched up her native dignity.