Джеймс Эллрой - Widespread Panic

Bass sax, flügelhorn, drums. A crash-out crescendo. Then the silken sound of coins slid down a slot. Then her voice: “Hey, Nat — what’s shakin’, baby?”

Nasty Nat said, “Miss Blind Item, her own self. Man, it has been way too long!”

My heart thudded and thumped and threatened to blow on the spot. Lois said, “Over two years, sweetie.”

“ Sooooo, are you back to finalize your beef against Confidential ? Is that what brings you to town?”

“What’s to finalize, Nat? That trial last summer pretty much emasculated it.”

Nasty Nat said, “Yeah, Confidential ’s been declawed and devenomed, that’s for sure. Hhhmmmmm. Let’s see now. Could the purpose of your visit be the fact that Caryl Chessman will be coming here for a court appearance later this month, and because there’s a big protest rally scheduled at the Hall of Justice tomorrow, with Marlon Brando and numerous other celebs slated to appear?”

Lois laffed. “You’ve lost me there, Nat.”

“Hey, baby. You’re an actress, I hear tell, and I know you’ve done some things in New York. You ever cross paths with the Mumble Man?”

Lois said “ Weeelll, I’d be remiss if I didn’t say we shared a history.”

My heart shook, sheared, and shuddered — and almost shut down on the spot.

Nasty Nat said, “Here’s a question, Miss Item. Chessman’s court appearance hasn’t been announced in the press, but it certainly has been a persistent rumor. How did you hear about it?”

Lois laffed. I saw her bleached-blue eyes bounce and almost cross craaaazy.

“Well, Nat. I flew out for a fund-raiser for your attorney general, Pat Brown — who’s running for governor next year. Mr. Brown mentioned the appeal, and also the fact that Vice President Nixon will be touring South America next spring, where Communist-backed protests against Chessman’s death sentence and American foreign policy in general have already been announced, which poses the question, ‘How can one evil man command such attention, and what can we do about it? ’ ”

Well now, baby. Here’s where it gets really gooooooooood.

Downtown L.A.

10/17/57

Oooga-boooga. There’s the protest. That’s two hundred college kids. Note the Party putzes passing out ten-spots. They’re buying a Commie cacophony. The kids are chugging out chants: “Chess-Man is Inn-O-Cent!!! Stop the Death Machine!!!”

There’s Brando. He’s in with the kids. He’s signing autographs and popping a placard high in the sky. He’s the solo celebrity. He’s top-lining this gig. He’s wrapped in a fulsome phalanx of fans. He’s a hog for their loooooooove.

The Spring Street sidewalk shook with their shouts. I curb-crawled and slid my sled inch-by-inch slow. I looked for Lois. I saw her not. I circled Spring to Temple and drove around the block. I saw counterpickets congregate. Their signs said Burn Chessman Now!!! They were weary working stiffs. The college kids packed more panache.

I full-circled the shit show and shot back to Spring. I saw a solo college boy by the bus stop. He looked bored.

Heh, heh. I had the antidote for that.

I pulled up. He saw me. I waved him up to the car. He ambled on over. Man — this kid’s entrenched in ennui.

I said, “Hey, junior. How’d you like to make a C-note for a half hour’s work?”

He said, “Doing what?”

I held up a stack of my Marlon Brando fotos. They’re a cool cultural touchstone and define our time and place. It’s Mr. Mumbles, gobbling schvantz.

Junior perused the pix. Junior’s jaw jerked and dropped to his drawers. He filched the fotos. I laid out the loot.

He said, “Gee, thanks.”

I said, “Distribute these to your pals. What’s a protest without some smut? Maybe he’ll autograph them.”

I went back to work. I had four more listening posts to dismantle and disencumber. The microbe moved within me. Lois lived within me. Janey Blaine bloomed off by herself. Justice for Caryl Chessman? Fuck that shit. Justice for Janey and Shirley Tutler.

Left brain/right brain. My paid work boded boring. That protest prodded me proactive. I felt radicalized and detectivized. My brain quadrants melded and merged. I realized this:

The Sweetzer listening post. It’s Bug-and-Tap Central. We kept the master bug-and-tap logs for all the posts there. That meant all the typed transcripts. Going aaaaalll the way back to Confidential ’s first issue. It’s got aaaalll the callers’ and callees’ names and fone numbers. It’s nothing but names, names, and names. It’s the ripe repository of L.A. vice.

It’s still a long long shot. But confluence causes coincidence. It’s who you know and who you blow. L.A. vice. That wicked world. Everybody knows everybody. Everybody talks. And Confidential had that wicked world wired.

I drove over and let myself in. It was midday musty. I kicked on the air-conditioning and cooled the place off. The master logs ran to eighty-eight volumes. Twelve for ’52/seventeen for ’53/eleven for ’54/eighteen for ’55/twenty-one for ’56/nine for ’57. My confluence was Chessman/Blaine/the Rebel Without a Cause connection.

The convergence culminated in ’55. The Rebel shoot ran from March to May. Nick’s Knights escalated in May. The loose Chessman chatter escalated in May. Janey was murdered in May. I knew of no bug-and-tap mounts at the Marmont. That might or might not mean they weren’t there. Bernie Spindel installed independent of me. The Marmont was a mother lode of L.A. vice. Certain units had to have been bugged and tapped.

I didn’t need to hear voices. I needed typed transcripts and named names. I pulled Log #9/May — June ’55. I noted a Marmont bug-and-tap listed. I finger-walked to page 483.

I noticed the names first. “Voices ID’d as actors Nick Adams and Dennis Hopper.” I noted the listed location: “Bungalow 21 D/Chateau Marmont.” I knew who lived there in May ’55. It was Nabob Nick Ray. I’m a bug-and-tap pro. I know the work. This talk reads like a living room conversation.

I get it. Nick and Dennis Hopper. They’re alone in Big Nick’s boss bungalow suite. It’s 5/14/55. Something Robbie Molette said tweaked me.

Nick Ray’s “alternative movie.” It refracts Rebel and then some.

The bug’s laid in a lamp or wired to a wall. The transcriber typed out bursts of static, dead air, and this:

Adams: “The boss has got some more escalation shit he’s concocting. He’s calling it the ‘final filmic thrust.’ ”

Hopper: “I think he’s a fucking psycho. That’s why I’ve kept my distance with him.”

Adams: “All geniuses are psycho. Look at Bird and Lucretia Borgia. You don’t get one without the other.”

Hopper: “Nick’s out of his gourd. He keeps hopping around the set, asking everyone from the camera guys to the grips, ‘Can you spell the word rape? ’ ”

That was it. The conversation coughed to static and dead air. I found the work order and the transcriber’s signature at the bottom. Bernie Spindel ran the gig.

We met at Googie’s. I’d read the rest of the May transcripts. Nothing else slammed me. “Final filmic thrust.” “Can you spell the word rape?” The conversation occurred 5/14/55. Janey Blaine was raped and killed 5/18. Confluence abets consequence. I grokked a cause and effect.

We sipped coffee. Bernie said, “I remember the job, but it wasn’t for the magazine. Whatever you’re looking at, this conversation plays sideways to.”