Джеймс Эллрой - Widespread Panic

I said, “Let’s head into the city. I’ll get us a suite at the Fairmont, and we’ll lay low for a while.”

Lois blew smoke rings. “I’m getting married, Freddy. I thought you should know.”

I slumped into my sled. “Well, shit. Who is he?”

“He’s a playwright, and he has his own radio show. Before you ask, I’ll admit it. I took to calling in, and one thing led to another.”

I laffed. “Okay. L.A., then. We’ll hit Trader Vic’s or Ollie Hammond’s. I’ll drop you at the airport tomorrow.”

Lois said, “Marlon’s driving me back. Don’t look so glum, and don’t pretend you don’t know. It was always about the three of us, and with What’s His Name gone, we’d just be fishing for compliments, and making conversation.”

An evil rape-o burns. I lose the girl. My confession ends right here, right now.

The bridge traffic was brutal. News trucks traipsed to and from Quentin. Outbound cars carted slogan slammers and protest pros out to hatch havoc. Placards plumed out their windows. Stop The Death Machine and Kennedy in ’60. Hey, kids — I used to pimp and cop dope for that guy!!!

I dipped downbeat and bopped with the blues. Dig my big boo-hoo. Lost Lois and a dizzy decade out to castigate and confound me. I’m shivering under my shroud. I’m a rogue cop and strongarm goon with too much past and no future to lose.

The traffic thinned. I hit the bridge and goosed the gas. It propelled me past a caravan of Kennedy kids. Sheer movement gored my gonads. L.A. was four hundred miles south. Opportunity is love. I’m gonesville, Daddy-O.