Джеймс Эллрой - Widespread Panic

Lois twirled her ashtray. “Barbara will never let herself get sick. It’s one reason why I scheduled the trip when I did. And you shouldn’t be shy about saying his name. It’s Caryl Whittier Chessman.”

I twirled my ashtray. “What’s another reason?”

“He has a court appearance coming up. I thought I might stand outside the Hall of Justice and hex the son of a bitch.”

I stretched and plopped my feet close to Lois. She scooched close and bumped her feet up against mine. She wore ungainly lace oxfords. I dug that.

“There’s a weird confluence going on, with that hump Chessman in the middle. First, you show up and start tweaking the magazine, and yours truly. Second, I get embroiled with some cop pals of mine and the magazine, as they pertain to this movie that my ex — boon companion, James Dean, is filming right now. I’ve been informed that Nick Ray has been urging Jimmy to play Chessman in some sort of biopic that he’s got his hat set on making.”

Lois lit a cigarette. “Jimmy’s a shit. I knew him in New York, and I didn’t like him. If he plays Chessman and portrays him as anything other than the evil bastard he is, I’ll hex him with Aunt Lois’ you-will-die-young hex, and he’ll go tits up in some sort of embarrassing leather-bar altercation.”

I laffed loud and lewd. Lois laffed loud and lewd and laced up our fingers.

“I might have a shot at interviewing Chessman, while he’s in L.A. My pals the DA and police chief have okayed it, provisionally. Would you like to be there?”

Lois crossed herself. “As God is my witness.”

I crossed myself. “Then you shall be.”

Music meandered and wafted over Wilshire. The Ambassador Hotel and the Coconut Grove were close by. I heard “How High the Moon” and looked up. Moonbeams stirred stars, all across the sky.

“Freddy, the mystic. Penny for your thoughts.”

“I’m wondering how you’d summarize this whole Chessman deal of yours.”

“I’d call it the central moment of my life, even though I wasn’t there for the outrage.”

I looked at Lois. “I’ll buy that. I’m also wondering if you’ll let me kiss you good night.”

Lois said, “I haven’t decided yet.”

West Holly weird

5/18/55

Fone rings raked me and drilled through a dream. I was the Giant Ant, once again. I wrangled the receiver and scoped the nitestand clock. It read 8:12 a.m.

I said, “This is Otash.”

A man said, “It’s Jack, Freddy. Don’t ask questions, just get out here, immediately.”

It was Jack. He came off panic-pounced and scream-screechy. I said, “I’ll roll now.”

I rolled, rapidamente. I hit the Beverly Hills Hotel in one hard heartbeat. I ran through the lobby and out to Jack’s bungalow. I banged the door. Jack opened up.

And stood stunned-o. In his tattered tartan skivvies. Note his dumb-dunce demeanor. Dig his dilated eyes. He’s on some pillhead pilgrimage. He’s Mongo Lloyd, late of the loony bin. He’s broiled off brain cells by the billions. He’s holding a wet washcloth.

“What are you doing, Jack?”

“I’m wiping fingerprints off the walls. That way, they’ll think she hasn’t been here. I sprinkled cornflakes all over the bedroom floor, so if they come in the back way, I’ll hear them.”

I stepped inside and shut the door. I double-bolted it. A table radio rumbled. I switched it off.

“Who’s ‘she’ and who’s ‘they,’ Jack? Lay it out slow.”

Jack said, “I stripped the bed and sent the sheets to the laundry. I pulled two of her hairs off my hairbrush and flushed the butts she smoked down the toilet. Nobody saw her enter or leave. She hid in the bedroom when room service came. I’m a pro at this kind of thing, so—”

I slapped him, hard. Once, twice, three times. I raised red welts and blood dots. I grabbed his pencil neck and pinned him to the wall.

“Tell me what this is. Tell me who ‘she’ and ‘they’ are.”

Jack trembled and trickled tears. I hankie-wiped his face and put my hand over his heart. His pulse popped to two hundred plus. His skivvies drooped, sweat-wet.

“This call girl. Janey something. She spent the night before last here. They found her body this morning. It was on the early news. She was dumped, off of Mulholland and Beverly Glen.”

Shattering shit fuck. Jack the K., off to Shaft City. Robbie Molette’s cold-complicit. He pimped Janey to Jack. Adieu, Janey. No bait-girl gig for you.

I pulled pills from my pockets. Jack gob-gobbled them. He’d pass out, pacified. He’d wake up goosed out of his gourd.

“Clean up the cornflakes, and stop wiping the walls. Call Jerry Geisler and tell him the truth. Tell Jerry to call Ernie Roll, and I’ll call Bill Parker. We’ll hang a shroud on this deal and make sure you don’t get hurt.”

Jack said, “You’re a pal, Freddy. I knew you’d come through.”

Nothing’s free, rich boy. The ticket’s fifty g’s at the get. The PD’s payoff goes up from there. Parker’s got his eye on the FBI. It’s common drift. Gay Edgar Hoover hates you. This could be goooooooood.

Jack weaved to the bedroom. Cornflakes crunched underfoot. He collapsed on the bed and burrowed under the covers. Muffled snores drifted up.

Fifty g’s. Lois and me. A madcap month in Montego Bay, Jamaica. Last nite’s kiss multiplied mucho million times. I’ll slip some bad bacillus in Barb Bel Geddes’ coffee. Lois will revise and reprise her role and bring Broadway to its knees. We’ll jump to Jamaica on Cat ’s closing nite. And, in the meantime, we’ve got Manhattan.

I popped to the porte cochere. I’d conked Jack comatose. I should call Parker and Ernie Roll and jump-start this. The valet saw me. I saw my Packard pimpmobile. Four big men lounged upside it.

Ever yours — the Hat Squad.

I walked up, slooooooow. The Giant Ant ankles, acquiescent.

Max Herman said, “Hi, Freddy.”

Red Stromwall said, “How’s Senator Jack, Freddy?”

Harry Crowder said, “Too bad about Miss Blaine, Freddy.”

Eddie Benson said, “We found your prints on Miss Blaine’s purse, Freddy. The Chief would like to discuss that with you.”

City Hall. The Demon DB. Sweatbox #3. The Hats held me hostage in the hot seat. We’ve been here before.

The bolted-down table. The bolted-down chair. The ashtray. The fat phone book. It’s the you-will-confess confessional.

The Hats straddled chairs. I kicked my chair back. Max passed out cigarettes. Red revealed his flask. It made the rounds. We took two pops each.

Red went aaahhh. “Breakfast of champions.”

Max said, “Explain your prints on Miss Blaine’s purse.”

“I had drinks with her last night, but I left early. I moved her purse out of the way.”

Harry said, “Where, when, and who else was there?”

I said, “Frascati, in Beverly Hills. It was a ten p.m. wingding. The other guests were Rock Hudson and his fiancée, Phyllis Gates.”

Eddie said, “Rock’s a fag. Don’t tell me — you were cooking up some ruse for the magazine.”

“That’s right. I brought the Blaine girl in as the bait.”

Max said, “Why’d you leave early?”

“I had a date.”

Harry said, “Where, when, and who with?”

“About eleven-thirty. The Chapman Park Hotel. A woman named Lois Nettleton.”

“How long were you with Miss Nettleton?”

“Until two a.m.”

Harry sighed. “If the alibi is kosher, it clears you.”

Max sighed. “We should bring Freddy up to date.”

Red sighed. “Freddy deserves to be updated.”