Джеймс Эллрой - Widespread Panic

Jack, Ernie Roll, Bill Parker. There’s a backseat bar and Baccarat decanters. Jack served drinks.

Fluorescent tubes ghoul-glared and lit the whole basement. I slid behind my sled and peeped the confab.

Jack sucked up to Bill and Ernie. Bill and Ernie sucked up to Jack. They all sucked scotch and nailed that noon glow. Jack said he’d cadge a case of Cointreau and send it to Coroner Curphey. His postmortem postulations pulled them out of the shit.

Parker said, “Especially you, Senator.”

Jack said, “Call me Jack.”

Ernie said, “We’re white men, Jack. Don’t expect us to start calling chits in the second you land in Washington.”

Jack said, “Ouch.”

Parker said, “You feel bad about the girl, don’t you?”

Jack lit a cigar. “I do. And, frankly, I’d like to see each and every conceivable loose end tied up, as well as see her avenged in some sort of clandestine and never-to-be-revealed manner.”

Ernie said, “You won’t be disappointed, Jack.”

Parker said, “The Hats are good at that sort of thing. Freddy Otash isn’t bad, either.”

Jack said, “I rue the day I met Freddy. I don’t think a case of booze will express the proper thank-yous for the Dutch uncle talk he had with me, as well as kick that cocksucker out of my life forever.”

Parker lit a cigar. He blew smoke rings. The aroma dispersed and sweet-swacked me. Aaahhh, Cuba. It’s a puppet regime. We’ve got our mob mascots making mad money. They grease Democrats and Republicans, fifty-fifty. Jack and half the House heels take tastes.

Jack said, “Batista’s got a pet shark named Himmler. He lives in a big swimming pool, behind the presidential palace. Himmler eats Commie dissidents. Batista’s goons toss them in the pool, and Himmler goes to town. Lyndon Johnson told me it’s a show you don’t want to miss.”

Ernie said, “Forget about this whole damn boondoggle, Jack. We’ll take care of it.”

Parker said, “We’ve got resources, and we’re not afraid to break a few rules.”

Jack said, “Bury it. I don’t want to know the whos, whats, and whys. She was just another girl, right? Maybe I’ll run into her again someday.”

Dusk. A meandering moon cleared away clouds and starlit chez Lois. We swung on the swing and held hands. Lois wore a cord skirt and a blouse like Shirley wore that night.

“I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking how deep it goes with me, and that I’m a nutty actress who works out her motivation by assuming persona, because her persona is a drag, and that’s what convinced her to become an actress in the first place.”

I went nix. Lois laid a hand on my leg.

“You were kid roommates. You shared a cheap pad down in the West Twenties. It was just after the war, and things were exciting. Kid friendships are powerful. You can’t let go of Shirley, and there’s no reason why you should.”

Lois burrowed into me. “You’re right about that. And you know just what to say to defuse me. I hardly know you, but I know you’ve been looking wan, because Chessman’s appeal has been postponed, and you know I’ll be going back to New York soon, so what happens next?”

I tilted her chin up. I kissed her hair and caught almond shampoo.

“I’m not letting this go.”

“Yes, but what will you do about it?”

I prickled. “Is this the part where you reveal that you contrived to meet me, because you knew Chessman would be out here, and I spent five minutes with Shirley, and you like to create drama, and you sure like to chase men while you’re at it.”

Lois slapped me. I let her. She slapped me again. I caught her hand and kissed her fingers as the slap hit. She cried a little. I kissed her neck and brushed tears back.

She said, “I need you to do things that I can’t do. I don’t know exactly what they are, but I need you to do something.”

I said, “I’m putting together a smear piece on Nick Ray, Jimmy Dean, and Rebel. I’ve got special deputy status on a cop job that ties in, and I stiffed a call to the mail-room boss up at Quentin. Nicholas Ray and James Dean are approved correspondents of Chessman’s, so I think the rumor that Jimmy and Nick want to make the movie about him are probably true.”

Lois tugged my hair. We bumped foreheads. Our eyes locked too close in. We pulled back and found the fit.

“Let me explain something to you. I suck up to certain men and lean on certain men, and it’s how I cull favors. I’ll put the two of us in a room with Chessman, if I can keep culling favors with the guys who can make it happen, which will sure as shit serve to make it happen.”

Lois said, “If James Dean plays Caryl Chessman, it will result in a publicity blitz that will serve to guarantee his exoneration. I don’t want that to happen, and I want you to do something bold and brave and more than a little bit stupid, because that’s the type of man I throw myself at.”

A light rain kicked on. Lois pulled the serape spread around us. I ran my hand under her blouse and touched her bare back.

“Don’t leave me, because you can’t see beyond this Chessman deal. It’s a drama, so it’s half-assed unreal at the gate. Don’t leave me, period, because I don’t want to lose you.”

Lois threw herself at me. I convinced her I was bold, brave, and stupid. We stretched out and gassed on the storm.

Rain.

Torrents tidal-waved the terrace. Puddles popped and soaked the serape. We swung off the swing and collided inside to bed.

We shivered and shucked our duds. We didn’t do it. We got nuke-bomb nude and dove under the duvet. Wide windows gave us Wilshire by nite. Buses stirred and streaked water high-high. Rain racked the roof. We posed on pillows and whispered under the racket. We kissed and touched each other top to bottom and went back to words.

I spilled. I savagely self-defamed. I confessed. I laid out Bill Parker’s crusade to crush Confidential. Lois called me a crazed crusader. It impelled me to impolitic discourse. I laid myself out as one servile serf. I dodged overseas duty. Men I pounded to perfection at Parris Island got Jap-juked on Saipan. I described the Johnnie Ray debacle as the nightmare nadir of my life. I ran through my Rebel wrangles and deliriously delivered everything that they did and I did. I ran down the Janey Blaine/Robbie Molette/Jack the K. conundrum and the official hoax to obfuscate Janey’s cause of death. We played to Jack’s vile vanity. He wanted the killer killed. Who killed Janey Blaine? Five of us were determined to traffic the truth, even as we assailed it as the penance pose of a hotshot politician too hot to touch. Say we catch the killer? It’s devil take the hindmost, then.

And, per Caryl Chessman? What will I do about it? I’ll think of something. What will it cost me? I don’t know — but the price will be high.

Lois told me stories. Bond drives and beauty pageants in Chicago. New York and acting gigs. This scurvy schizophrenia, the Too Many Bedrooms Blues. Too many weak men with shaky psyches. All of them actors. All too-too temperamental and so-so sadistic, all of it aimed straight at You.

Freddy, I could tell you stories. Darling, you already have. I knew you’d have stories like the ones you told me. I think it’s why I set out to find you. You’re a dear heart, Lois. No, I’m just your midnight caller. Lucky for me you picked up the phone.

We fell asleep about then. The last thing I recall is the rain.

Jane Margaret Blaine (White Female American)

DOB: 4-19-29/Visalia, California