Джеймс Эллрой - Widespread Panic

Natalie giggled. Sal swooned, swishlike. Jimmy played it kool-kat quiescent. The Giant Ant bored him. The shimmy-shimmy shakes gave him away.

I dropped Nick’s necktie. He glug-glugged and blew his bloody nose on his napkin. Chester Voldrich pulled a push-button shiv and popped the blade my way.

He was close. I ratched his wrist and sheared the shiv free. Voldrich yelped. I pinned his hand to the table and stabbed straight through it. Bones broke, blood blew, the blade cracked wood and tore through the tabletop. I put my weight behind it. Voldrich screamed. I pinioned and pyloned him. I crafted a cruciform seal.

Voldrich screamed. I said, “Natalie, pour your drink on his hand.”

Natalie said, “What’s my motivation?”

I said, “You’re a juvenile delinquent.”

Natalie said, “Okay.” Natalie poured her drink on his hand.

Chester screamed. His purloined paw got freon-fried and scorchified. He screamed anew. He buckled the table and banged his back against the booth.

Sal said, “I’m a juvenile delinquent.” Sal tossed his drink. It rescorchified Chester’s hand.

Chester screamed. I shoved a napkin in his mouth and muzzled him. Jimmy’s still kool-kat quiescent. Now Nick’s putting on his pose.

I’m Freddy O., the Giant Ant. Don’t fuck with me.

Maiming mission to mortification. Giant Ant to peeper pariah.

I walked into Frascati. The maître d’ moaned. He took me to my table. Dippy diners at adjoining tables moaned and moved away. Waiters whipped up. They plied plates and place settings and rescued the geeks. It’s Exodus — let my people go!!!

There’s Rock and the girls. Hellllloooo, Janey Blaine.

She’s bravura. She’s mucho magnifica in a madras shirtdress.

She held out her hand. I bowed and took it. Rock winked. Phyllis rolled her eyes and registered resentment. Come on — it’s just a showbiz shuck and another mock marriage. It’s Hollywood. Rock’s Trippy Triangle!!! Let’s lay in for some laffs.

I sat down. Rock motioned for more martinis. I smelled tossed gin on my coat cuffs. It made me moan.

Janey kicked it off. She went for the whammo, straight in.

“Forgive me for being precipitous, but exactly what do I do ?”

I lit a cigarette. “You act. You’re a Smith girl on the loose in L.A. You meet Rock at a dinner party. It’s the Some Enchanted Evening scenario that I know you’re acquainted with. Phyllis is with Rock. She’s his fiancée, and she doesn’t like what she’s seeing with you two. I’ll script a dinner-table dialogue for you and Phyllis. You’ll debate politics and some other things, but it’s all a smoke screen to cover the simmering feeling building between you and Rock. That’s how it starts. We’ll see how the kickoff goes, and we’ll take it from there.”

Phyllis said, “It’s demeaning. It can only go downhill from there, at least in my case.”

Rock said, “No heavy petting, Janey. I don’t roll in that direction.”

Janey laffed. Phyllis said, “Not yet you don’t — but we’re working on it.”

The martinis materialized. We took a brief breather and boozed. I scoped Janey, sidelong. I came to cold conclusions.

She’s peremptory. She’s petulant and short-tempered. She gored Phyllis’s goat at the get-go. Let’s define the Tricky Triad. Rock’s the passive putz — but now he’s strictly straight. Phyllis brings the brains and the royal rectitude. Janey is what she is — bait. She’s the torrid temptress who diverts Rock’s idling walk down the aisle.

Janey sipped her martini. “What are you prepared to pay me, and how long will the gig last?”

I said, “Ten thousand. Be prepared for a series of staged encounters, to transpire over a series of months. There’ll be a series of interviews with the celebrity press. Lew Wasserman has pledged a second-tier speaking part in Rock’s next picture. You’ll play the female lead’s bitchy kid sister.”

Janey lit a cigarette. “I’ll upstage her, too. Won’t I, Rock? Or should I start calling you ‘sweetie’?”

Rock said, “Janey’s a pisser. Isn’t she, Freddy?”

I said, “She sure is.”

Phyllis glowered and glared. Hell hath no fury like—

“Just remember who gets him in the long run, dear. Only one of us has the ability to facilitate his conversion, and that’s me. So, in that sense, this tawdry charade of ours does reflect reality.”

Rock said, “Keep referring to me in the third person. It sends me.”

Janey crushed her cigarette. “I can tell you’re quite accomplished when it comes to losing men, Phyllis.”

“Let’s just say I’m more practiced than you in general, dear. For instance, Freddy and I made out in a crowded coffee shop, not that long ago — and I would have slept with him, if he’d asked.”

Janey said, “Freddy, you’re a dog.”

I said, “Woof, woof.”

Rock high-signed me. I moved Janey’s purse out of the way and pulled my chair close. Rock chaired in close.

“I’m coming out of that haze I was in when you got me out of jail. I’m remembering some things that happened at Nick Adams’ place.”

“Such as?”

“Such as arc lights. And, you remember that guy who I said was there with Nick?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Well, now I remember him touching me — if you catch my drift. And he was babbling something about Jimmy Dean playing Caryl Chessman.”

It vibed blackmail/smut smear/cold-cocked Rock and some Nick’s Knights perv. Some filthy-film fandango. That equals Extortion 1. Bill Parker would dig it. Rebel Without a Cause. The derogatory profile expands. Plus — Caryl Chessman, again.

A waiter passed me a message slip. I unfolded it.

Freddy,

We traced the calls. She’s calling from a booth at Wilshire and Mariposa. It’s behind Dale’s Secret Harbor.

All best,

I stood up. I grabbed the flowers out of the centerpiece and wrapped my napkin around the stems.

Rock said, “Freddy’s leaving. I’ll bet he’s got a hot date.”

The girls ignored us. They chitchatted and heaped on the hate.

Lois Nettleton at twenty-seven. Here she is, the first time I saw her.

I parked in the lot behind Dale’s Secret Harbor. The booth stood by the back door. She talked to the phone. A booth bulb shined down and shimmered her. She’s boldly backlit by nite.

She’s lithe. Lissome, yeah — I figured that from her foto and film clip. She runs rangy but not tall. Her hair’s red running to blond. She’s unadorned. She goes to gaunt. It’s that timeless tomboy gestalt. She’s got bleached-blue eyes. They connote kulture-kooky and crazy. They confirm our fone-call contact. She works for effect, she shears short of contrived.

I walked up to the booth. Lois saw me. She cracked the door and smiled. She saw the flowers and stage-swooned. She said, “Nat, I have to go,” and hung up.

I handed her the flowers. She said, “Freddy, you shouldn’t have.” Her bleached-blue eyes bounced. They were set too close together. They marred her good looks and served up her soul.

She’d leased a cool casita at the Chapman Park Hotel. It was a white stucco job with a tiled terrace. A green-brown walkway wound down to Wilshire. Stray headlights strafed skyscrapers and smart storefronts.

We sat on a serape-print swing. Room service sent lobster salads and white wine by. Lois wore a shift dress and a sheer cardigan. We laid our feet on a long ottoman. Lois had knobby knees. I dug that.

I said, “What if Miss Bel Geddes gets pneumonia? You’ll be out here with me, brooding on you know who, and you’ll blow your big break.”