Джеймс Эллрой - Widespread Panic

Phone calls. Letters. Codes of communiqué. Caryl Chessman writes to Jimmy Dean. Jimmy probably writes back. It’s Nick Ray’s repugnant replication film. Wouldn’t Neuter Nick want to talk to Caryl Chessman — at least once?

I whipped west. The concept coursed through me. I ran by the Ranch Market. I kept my Rebel cast and crew records check paper there. I ran through the address index. Nein and nyet. Nobody lived near Sunset and Vendome/the Black Cat.

Nick Ray called Chessman. I sensed it. Death row cons caught calls at the attorney room. The Quentin switchboard put them through. Nick Ray called Chessman in May ’55. His hotel bungalow was bugged and tapped. He might have sensed it. I was hurling heat at him then. What would he do? He’d place a switchboard call.

I moseyed over to the Marmont. I badged a dippy desk clerk and played special deputy. I laid it out. Nicholas Ray/the Rebel shoot/May ’55. Did Mr. Ray make any switchboard calls, here in the flesh?

The clerk said he seemed to recall it. He was on the desk that month. He checked his call records and went all aglow.

Here it is. Now, I remember. He called San Quentin Penitentiary. He spoke for fourteen minutes, and he used that phone right here at the desk.

I slid him a C-note. He palmed it, perfecto. I went all dippy disingenuous.

I would never accuse you of eavesdropping, but—

Well, I recall one thing that Mr. Ray said. He said, “Jimmy and I consider you our technical adviser.”

I checked the call list. The call went through at 3:16 p.m., 5/17/55. Janey Blaine was murdered the next morning.

Downtown L.A.

10/19/57

Picket punks. Slogan slammers. College kids and movie morons moved to outrage. Their main martyr’s up in the DB. He’s hard-wired to a hot seat. We’re heading that way.

“Chessman Is Inn-O-Cent!!!” “Stop The Death Machine!!!”

I ran interference. Lois lugged a prop steno machine. Picket punks posed and paraded. They were packed tight and pissed off. They bristled with bromides and placard-plumed the air.

I stiff-armed us through them. We maneuvered by Marlon Brando. Lois said, “Hi, Marlon!” Brando said, “Lois, what are you doing with that putz?” I flipped his necktie in his face.

There’s the steps. We tumbled over, up, and inside. Max Herman and Red Stromwall played escort. They doffed their Hat Squad fedoras. Max ogled Lois. Red went Woo-woo!!!

We made the freight lift and the DB. We walked to sweatbox row. The Fiend’s in #2. I looked at Lois. She looked at me. I winked. We held the Holy Shit moment close and linked hands. I pushed the door in.

There he is.

Beelzebub. 666. The Biblical Beast. The red-horned/trident-tailed/cloven-hoofed apparition. He emits dust and sparks. Serpents coil through his hair. He’s assumed human form today. He’s thirty-six and pale. He’s got that bumpy nose. He’s skinny, he’s prissy, he wears jail denims. He vibes World’s Smartest Convict.

He sat cross-legged. I pulled a chair up. Lois perched her steno machine on the table. I brought my briefcase.

Chessman said, “You were at Hollywood Station. I recall you at the squadroom there.”

The Beast speaks. He’s a brazen braggart. I know that about him. He’s brought his so-soft voice today. He’s surgically circumspect and silky self-effacing. He’s the watchful world’s Victim of This Time and Place. He’s Sacco and Vanzetti, and Timothy Evans, framed for Reg Christie’s grief.

I said, “Yes, I was there. I saw Colin Forbes and Al Goossen interview you, and I was there when Shirley Tutler came in.”

Chessman said, “Who’s Shirley Tutler?”

“She’s the woman you assaulted between your assaults on Regina Johnson and Mary Alice Meza. I state that knowing full well that you’ve denied those crimes, and will certainly deny assaulting Miss Tutler.”

I let the moment meander and metamorphose. He’ll deny it. He’ll say there’s no proof. Lois futzed with her machine. Dear Lord, her eyes. Such righteous hate.

“I don’t have to talk to you. The court will invalidate the stenographer’s transcription, and I surely will not confess to yet another crime I did not commit.”

I popped my briefcase. I pulled out the forty-three-page depiction of Shirley Tutler’s bite wounds. I put the pages before the Beast’s eyes.

He looked down. He saw, he recognized, he willed himself nonreactive. His hands palsied, his neck veins pulsed.

“It’s not my handwriting. And even if it was, I’ve attributed those crimes to someone else.”

I lit a cigarette. “You only looked at the top page. You don’t know it’s crimes plural you’ve described here. I didn’t mention the attribution, and the only way you could have known that was if you’d written this document yourself.”

Chessman pushed the pages back to me. He’s Camus’ l’étranger. He’s beset by bourgeois burghers who just don’t understand. He’s implacably withstood their stupidity and indifference. He’s read Gandhi and Sartre. He knows how to trenchantly transcend.

He said, “No.” That one word. Existentialism 101. To refuse is your right of redress.

I passed him a pen. “You will write the following on that top page. ‘These are my crimes, as told to the late actor James Dean, and attributed to an unnamed rapist. Thus, they are my crimes, and these documents in the aggregate stand as my confession.’ ”

Chessman said, “No.” The Beast’s beset by Bourgeois Burgher Freddy. It’s his lot in life. Who’s that red-haired wraith? She’s rape bait, for sure.

Chessman said, “No.” I backhanded him and banged him to the floor. He went sullen silent and nonreactive. Bourgeois Burgher Freddy kicked him in the balls.

“You have two choices here, Caryl. Sign the confession or get kicked to death. The latter option leaves you no option. The former option permits you to survive, cultivate yet more public acclaim, and further dissemble in court.”

Chessman shape-shifted. He went maladroit Mahatma, coming off the railroad tracks. He couldn’t call up a costume change. He couldn’t shave his head and don his granny specs.

He stood up. He winced from my nut shot. He wrote out my confession text and signed his name below.

Lois said, “Jimmy Dean wanted to play you. That must have appealed to your vanity.”

Chessman said, “Hi, Red. I knew you’d have a kicky voice.”

I locked his confession in my briefcase. Chessman kicked back in his chair.

“I’m beyond vanity, Red. I’ve seen too much and had too much done to me. You’re a woman, so I’m sure you’ll understand.”

I said, “Too bad Jimmy crapped out. I would’ve dug on the movie.”

Chessman said, “There’s always Nick Ray’s alternative movie, not that it will ever surface. I was the technical adviser on it, so I’m sure it’s got some verisimilitude.”

Lois said, “Things went awry there, didn’t they? It seems that always happens with you.”

Chessman shrugged and grinned. Ring-a-ding. The Mahatma meets the Rat Pack.

“The game’s rigged, Red. That’s why I always take what I want, and take it where I can find it. And I always find it, because I’m not choosy. Johnson, Meza, and Tutler surely attest to that.”

That’s it, then. It took eight minutes and sixteen seconds.

I hustled Lois out to the hallway. The wall speaker spritzed and sparked static. Bill Parker and the Hats hooted, howled, and clapped.

I had no name/no at-the-scene proof/no certified murder suspect. I had the infernal inspiration for the crime itself and the cancerous contexts that had caused it. Lois and I laid siege to the Bacillus chessmanitis. At some point of prickly protraction, the strain would strangle by gas. That was the unforeseen then. Janey Blaine revenged ran me resolute now.