Джеймс Эллрой - Widespread Panic

I called Bill Parker and tattled the tidings. He said, Sit on it for now. I called Bondage Bob and told him. He said, This Rebel Without a Cause caper is a cause célèbre.

I’m a snitch. I’m a rat fink. I’m an infernal informer. I beat both ends against some malignant middle. And the wide world knows.

I checked my mailbox, midafternoon. I found one piece of paper. Dig this vivid valentine:

Freddy,

Quit bugging me, okay? It’s annoying. I’ve moved on to greener pastures. I’m a movie star now. I’m not the scuffling kid who used to jack around with you and your stupid band of thugs. Over’s over. Quit persisting. It’s undignified. Confidential’s a shitrag, and you’re a shitheel for working for it. Over’s over. You’re passé, bubi. You’re not a name I want on my résumé.

Best wishes,

Jimmy, you shitbird cocksucker. I knew you when.

I bug-eyed bungalow row. I watched my watch. 9:00 p.m. nudged by. Bungalow row remained snoresville. The action accelerated at 9:14.

There’s the filthy phalanx. Farshtinkener Führer Nick Ray stridently strides ahead. His Untermenschen unfurl behind him. Jimmy Dean, Nick Adams, Chester Alan Voldrich. The two black-jacket Kameraden from the sorority soiree.

Die Fahne hoch. Die Reihen fest geschlossen—

They’re all Afrika Korps tonite. The jumpsuits, the big-billed caps, the Rommelesque regalia. Nick R.’s got his movie camera. We’re back at El Alamein, ’42. Rommel’s resolute. He’s readying his raid on the brave British forces.

It’s a quivering quick-march. The Kiddie Korps follows their festering father — they goof some goose steps and hop in the Chevy van. Voldrich whips behind the wheel and peels out.

They looped left on Sunset. I looped left and lagged back. I caught cover behind a big bus booming eastbound. I rode the back bumper and kept their back bumper surveilled.

We headed into Hollywood. The bus barged due east. The van vizzed south on Wilton Place. A taco wagon wiggled between us. It was chopped and channeled. It surged, submarineesque. The sassy side panels read Los Intrusos.

The van vipped ahead. I surfed behind the submarine. We’re headed southbound and down. Wilton arced into Arlington. We passed Mount Vernon Junior High/aka Mount Vermin. The van angled east at the Jefferson juncture. The tacomobile tooled on south.

I lost my car cover. I dawdled three car lengths back and dug darktown by nite. Something Rodent Robbie Molette said sacked me.

Escalation. Liquor-store 211’s. We’re at Jefferson and Normandie. It’s liquorland lit large — right here, right now.

Telepathy ticked — me to them. Don’t read my mind, Menschen — don’t cross this line.

The van wriggled to the right lane and crept curbside. I saw the lit-up liquor store window, jarringly just ahead. I whipped wide and nudged up to the north-side curb. The van stopped in front of the store.

Achtung!!!! Raus!!!! Mach schnell!!!!

The six sickos pile out. Nazi Nick’s got the camera. Nabob Nick’s got a pump shotgun. Jimmy Dean’s got a bottle of T-Bird topped with a cotton-wick fuse. It’s a sure-as-shit Molotov cocktail.

I froze, I watched, I peeped. I’m a peeper first and forever. Bill Parker told me to intercede and fuck up all felony actions. I didn’t. I disobeyed. I sought succor in savagery. I was coldly complicit. I’m all vile volition, and—

They walked into the store. The counter clerk saw them and guuuuulped. Nick Ray rolled film. Chester Voldrich reached behind the counter and tapped the till. The clerk yelped. His mouth moved. I imagined a plaintive please. The two no-name Kameraden hopped the counter and taped his mouth shut.

Voldrich shagged a shelf bottle. He uncorked it and passed it to his putrid pals. Some reflex ripped me. I kept going for a gun I didn’t have.

Nick Ray rolled film. No-name Nazi #2 pulled out a Minox minicamera and snapped stills. Jimmy flicked his lighter and lit the Molotov. Nabob Nick pumped his shotgun and blasted the booze shelves.

Glass shattered and sheared. Wino wine and rotgut rye and skunk scotch blew wide. Jimmy tossed the Molotov. It caught the cold cuts case and exploded. Fumes flared and flattened out at the ceiling. Electrical cords caught fire and sparked blue and white.

Smoke smothered my Peepvision view. The clerk ran outside and ran straight out of my frame. Nick’s Knights walked out, en masse. They stood studly, six across. They rebel-yelled. They whipped out their whangs and pissed in the street.

West Holly weird

5/17/55

I confessed. I crawled my crib, cruciform. I drank myself draconian and drip-dried my dearly soul. What soul? They could have clipped the clerk and popped some pedestrians. I had to peep it and imprint the images. I’m the Pervdog of the Nite — past all rancid rationale and jacked-up justification.

I confessed to God and Chief William H. Parker. I wrote him a self-defaming memo and had it messengered, posthaste. I read my Bible and ripped right to Revelation:

Anyone with ears to hear should listen and understand... Anyone destined to live by the sword will die by the sword.

That’s Nick’s Knights, that’s me. That’s God’s conflagration called down on Confidential.

I sat by the phone. I willed Lois to call. She didn’t call. I laid the phone in my lap. It rang. I picked up. It wasn’t Lois. It was Reptile Robbie Molette.

He blathered. I listened, listless. I was shot to shit and half in the bag.

“...and, Freddy, I figured I should tell you. Nick Ray’s over at Googie’s right now. He’s got a group of his kids in tow, and they’re all ragging on you pretty bad.”

I hung up. I willed Lois to call. I voodooized the airwaves and tried to make the phone ring. It rang. It wasn’t Lois. It was Chief William H. Parker.

He said, “You’re absolved, Freddy. We’ve got those humps on Arson, Assault 1, 211, and six related firearms charges. They’re sunk if Ernie Roll and I decide to sink them, and you’ve proved to me you won’t sell me out to Confidential. Get it? You’re not a coward or a quisling. You’re a shitbird who played it smart for the first time in his life.”

I blathered. Parker said, “Shut up, and enjoy your absolution and the rather astonishing fact that I’m starting to like you. And, while I have you, here’s a suggestion. It might be nice if you let Nick Ray and his gang know that they should mind their p’s and q’s.”

Absolution. Parker’s sassy sanction. Dexedrine and strong coffee. I hurtled out of my haze and fumbled out of my funk.

Googie’s was jam-packed. I tamped on my tunnel vision and bebopped in the back door. I saw them, they saw me.

Them:

That giant-ant flick, last year. Giant ants attack L.A. They raise a ruckus and eat good-looking women. I giggled and goofed on it. Freddy O.’s a giant ant.

Them:

Nick Ray, Jimmy Dean, Chester Voldrich. Natalie Wood and Sal Mineo. They’re ensconced in a big booth. They’re slurping massive martinis. Natalie and Sal are underage. It’s a Beverage Control bust.

I adjusted my antennae and ant-ambled over. Don’t fuck with Freddy O., the Giant Ant. The gang ignored me. I popped the olive out of Nick’s drink and noshed it. I went Yum-yum.

Jimmy said, “Get lost. Can’t you read? My days as your sidekick are finito. ”

Nick started to stand up. I nabbed his necktie and yanked. It put him face-first in his antipasto. He glug-glugged and heaved. I twisted his tie and held his head there. He flap-flapped his arms.