Джеймс Эллрой - Widespread Panic

He’s paroled in ’49. He returns to L.A. He’s Mr. Subtle till his fall ’51 flameout. He gots to have it/see it/fotograph it young now. He’s popped outside Le Conte Junior High, June ’52. He does eighteen months at Chino and pops out on parole — January ’54.

He’s escalated. He’s ready to collaborate. He seeks sick twists who twirl to his delirious delusions. He finds his way to Nick Ray and Rebel Without a Cause. He’s cringingly crossed the path of Freon Freddy Otash. That’s where Arvo erred.

Escalation. His and MINE.

I creeper-crawled Sunset and Vendome and stared at storefronts. Jandine Art Photography was two doors down from the Black Cat.

Noxious nitefall fell. I wound my way west to the Fox lot. Nick Ray was shooting his latest lox there.

Party Girl. Robert Taylor and Cyd Charisse. Costarring studly John Ireland. Jungle John’s Hollywood’s reigning tape topper. He measures in at a mighty 171/2.

I knew all the gate guards on the Fox lot. I knew I could bluff my way in.

I did. I cited a pokerfest at Pandro Berman’s office. The guard bought it. I slid him a C-note. I parked my Packard pimpmobile and noodled over to Nick Ray’s bungalow.

I burgled my way inside and paved paths by penlight. I planted a mini-mike and a battery pack under Neuter Nick’s desk. It was a flip-switch gizmo. I’d flip said switch on Judgment Day.

It was 11:14 p.m. I barged back to Silver Lake and orbed Jandine’s studio. It was deep dark and devoid of all movement. I circled the block and saw a back door off the alley. I stashed my sled and slid on rubber gloves.

I carried a camera case and a Leica loaded with infrared film. I loped up like I owned the place. Two pick pokes popped the door. I locked myself in. My penlight paved paths once more.

I got the gestalt. Arvo lived for his work. I flash-flared three storerooms laid with lights and camera gear. I slid by a sleeping cubicle. Arvo conked on a couch-bed combo and cooked on a hot plate. He hung his threadbare threads in a freestanding wardrobe. The sink, shower, and toilet stall stank of rat turds and sprayed piss.

Arvo the obsessive. Arvo the unkempt. He’ll keep malignant mementos. These sickniks save souvenirs.

The cubicle catty-cornered a corridor. My penlight lit a shut door. I nudged the knob. I got no give. I put picks in and pushed counterclockwise. The door gave and bent in.

It’s one room. Ten by ten, tops. It’s windowless and suction-sealed, tight. I tapped the walls and tipped a switch. Gooseneck floor lamps lit four walls of this:

The combined shoots. Rebel Without a Cause and Red Light Bandit. Glam glossies by Arvo Jandine.

Jimmy Dean in his red Rebel jacket. Nifty Natalie and Sassy Sal, costumed per the flick. Shots from the shoot. Shots from the Sorority Panty Raid. Shots from the Liquor Store Inferno. Natalie, nude. Sal, nude and nervously embarrassed. A nude Jimmy Dean, banging his bongos. Jimmy Dean, costumed as Caryl Chessman. The ’46 Ford rape car, replicated. Nite exteriors at Mulholland and Beverly Glen.

Janey Blaine done up as Shirley Tutler. Janey, with mock blood blotting her blouse. Janey and Jimmy, tussling in the Ford. Note Janey’s bare breasts.

Then we escalate. Note this wraparound wreath of shots:

See Janey, nude. See Janey and Jimmy, nude. See Janey and Jimmy coiled in coitus in the backseat of the Ford. See Janey in the clothes she wore to Frascati. See Janey body-dumped at the crime scene. She’s handspan-strangled and dead.

20th-Century Fox

10/20/57

I sat and tamped up some tension. I conjured Lois and moved money to new mountains on the moon. Nick notched his final take an hour back. His office slaves slid out early. I booby-trapped the doorway. I kept the lights off. I brought Exhibits A and B in my briefcase.

My pix of Jandine’s pix. My pix of his diary pages per Red Light Bandit. He kept his diary cached under his couch-bed. He kept his Junior High Hall of Fame pix close by.

Jandine recounted his revelatory fix on Janey Blaine. He met her at Robbie Molette’s place. Chrissy introduced them and called her a friend of her dad’s. Janey got him unit fotog work on The Last Days of the Black Dahlia and the Fatty Arbuckle flick.

His obsession per-per-percolated. He 459’d Janey’s pad and stole her diaries. He read them and got to the hard-hearted heart of her yen for men and money. He tried to seduce her with his own blackmail scheme. He enlisted Nick Adams. They Mickey Finn’d Rock Hudson and took nudie pix. He 459’d Robbie’s room and stole his list of powerfully perved clients. Janey laffed his blackmail scheme off. He fotographed Janey and Jack K. at the Beverly Hills Hotel. He had the unit fotog gig on Rebel, already. He ran up a rapport with Nick Ray and Jimmy Dean. They concocted Red Light Bandit. The shoot went swell. Janey jumped Jimmy’s bones for real, right out in the open. It made him mad. He said he’d drive her home after the wrap. It got out of hand. He didn’t mean to rape her and kill her. Shit like that happens. Thank goodness nobody blabbed.

The door opened. Nabob Nick hummed “Lisbon Antigua” and walked this way. My trip wire tripped him and proned him out flat on his face. His head hit the floor. He snagged his snout. He’s Nosebleed Nick now.

He groaned. I got up and stepped on his neck. It pinned him and muzzled his mouth. I penlight-flashed the pix and the diary pages. I ran them by his flattened face sidelong and slooooow. I gave him time to digest his dilemma and ponder Jandine’s every word.

“You’re going to pay me twenty-five percent of your net earnings, for the rest of your life. That means twenty-five percent of every dime you make. You’re going to cut me in for twenty-five percent of all your current bank balances, and you’re going to liquidate any stocks and bonds you might possess and pay me twenty-five percent of their value, now. You’re going to pay me twenty-five percent of the assessed values of any properties you might own, now. You will pay me my salary cuts on the first of each month, beginning on November 1, 1957. I called your bank in Beverly Hills this afternoon. I impersonated a Federal bank examiner and learned that your current balance is forty-four grand. We’re going to the bank together, tomorrow. I’ll take the first eleven grand in cash.”

Nick Ray squirmed and squinted back tears. Freon Freddy Otash. The Giant Ant ascends.

Low clouds unzipped and reigned rain. I broomed northeast to Sunset and Vendome. I parked on that same side street and sidled to the same back door.

The same two picks popped the lock. I stepped inside and eeeaaased the door shut. I heard his snores, straight off.

The sleep cubicle. Eight paces and flank sharp right.

I brought a .44 Magnum revolver. It blasted loud. The pro suppressor soaked up all attendant sound. I walked toward the snores and flashed my penlight. It haloed Arvo’s face on the pillow. I aimed and fired six shots.

He vaporized. I smelled dissipation and desiccation in the bone-and-blood mist. I snatched his diary and his wall-to-wall fotos. I jacked the wall heat up to ninety. Let the demon decompose.

Southside L.A.

10/21/57

Jolting jam session. Walloping world premiere. Live in-studio: the Synagogue Sid Trio.

The piece:

“Trippy Triptych: Dirge for Shirley Tutler and Janey Blaine & Caryl Chessman’s Gas Chamber Chaconne.”

It’s hastily composed. As in right now. Sid and his boys embody improvisation. There’s four kool kats here for the bash. As in Lois, Robbie Molette, Nasty Nat, and yours truly.