by James Ellroy
They discarded their 94 pages. They ridiculed them as hogwash. The monstrous facts were too ugly to believe.
The author? He's out there among the night blooming fiends in the City of the Fallen Angels.
The upshot? You decide. Decry this fascistic censorship. Write to us. Write to the LAPD. Express your rage. Send one up for a rogue cop whose mea culpa read too explosive to print.
BANNERS:
L.A. _Times_, 12/14/58:
GRAND JURY CONVENED; "NARCO" COPS TESTIFY
L.A. _Mirror_, 12/15/58:
HUSH-HUSH "CENSORSHIP" BLAST
MEETS DEAF EARS
L.A. _Herald-Express_, 12/16/58:
LAPD DERIDES HUSH-HUSH INVECTIVE
L.A. _Times_, 12/19/58:
NARCOTICS OFFICERS INDICTED
L.A. _Mirror_, 12/21/58:
EXLEY: HUSH-HUSH ACCUSATIONS "NONSENSE"
L.A. _Mirror_, 12/22/58:
REPUTED DOPE KINGPINS FACE GRAND JURY
L.A. _Herald-Express_, 12/23/58:
GRAND JURY SHOCKER: NO
KAFESJIAN INDICTMENTS--ACTING
DA SAYS NARCO TESTIMONY COMPROMISED
L.A. _Examiner_, 12/26/58:
GALLAUDET STILL MISSING; SEARCH CONTINUES
L.A. _Mirror_, 12/27/58:
MAYOR POULSON: HUSH-HUSH
ACCUSATIONS LAUGHABLE
L.A. _Mirror_, 12/28/58:
FEDERAL RACKETS PROBE DISBANDS
L.A. _Herald-Express_, 1/3/59:
TOASTMASTER POLICEMAN VOTED SPECIAL PENSION
The scene was sad, touching, antithetical to recent police headlines: Narcotics officers indicted on graft charges. That scene: a grossly injured Los Angeles policeman fighting for his life in a hospital bed.
Dudley L. Smith, Captain, LAPD. Dublin born, Los Angeles raised, a World War II OSS spymaster. 53 years old, thirty years a policeman. A wife, five daughters. Numerous commendations for bravery, LAPD toastmaster, lay chaplain. Dudley L. Smith: stabbed in an altercation with a robber five weeks ago--now fighting for his life.
He's winning that fight so far: he lost an eye, he's paralyzed, he's sustained brain damage, he'll probably never walk again. When he's lucid he charms nurses with his brogue and jokes that he'll do advertisements like the eye patch man who hucksters Hathaway Shirts. He's not lucid most of the time, and that's a heartbreaker.
The LAPD will not release details on the altercation that earned Dudley Smith his wounds; they know he would prefer to spare the family of the robber he killed the ignominy of public recognition. That's a heartbreaker, as is the fact that Dudley Smith will require intensive sanitarium care for the rest of his life.
His police pension and savings won't cover it. He's too proud to accept police charity contributions. He's a legendary policeman, much beloved, a cop who has killed eight men in the line of duty. Knowing these things, LAPD Chief of Detectives Edmund Exley asked the Los Angeles City Council to exercise a rarely used option and vote him a special pension: an amount to sustain his care in a comprehensively equipped sanitarium indefinitely.
The City Council agreed and voted in Dudley Smith's pension unanimously. Chief Exley told reporters: "It's important that Captam Smith remains contained and receives the care he deserves. He'll be safe and secure, and he'll be able to live out his days free of the taxing problems of police work."
Dudley L. Smith, hero. May those days stretch long and peacefully.
PART FIVE
HUSHABYE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Take-out cartons, newspaper stacks--Pete's hole-up a month in.
A tract house outside San Diego. Safe--his ex-wife was touring Europe for six weeks. Rent pirate Pete: two grand a week.
Newspapers--the story dispersed:
My confession quashed by legal injunction.
Dudley half-dead.
The Fed probe blitzed.
Narco destroyed--Exley triumphant.
Time to think.
Phone time--outside conduit Pete reporting in:
Warrants out on me--State and Fed--nine indictments total. "They've got you on Miciak, tax charges, two State and three Federal conspiracy statutes. There's national APBs out on you, plus Fed bulletins up the wazoo. You can keep the house until January 27th, but that's it."
Pete--January 13:
"Glenda's still in Fresno. The Feds have got her under surveillance, but I think I can sneak her down for a visit before you take off."
January 14:
"I called Jack Woods. He said Meg's okay, and I checked with a Fed guy I know. He said Noonan's not going to file tax charges on her--he's too busy cooking up some new probe gig to give a shit."
January 15.
January 16.
January 17.
Tired, sludgy--chink take-out five weeks straight.
January 18:
"Dave, I can't get you a passport. I've got no legit contacts, and I heard the mob fronts aren't selling them, 'cause they figure you're buying."
January 19--blind run fever.
Nightmares--EVERYTHING swirling.
January 20:
"Glenda thinks they lifted the surveillance on her. She's going to bring your money down in a couple of days."
January 21--Pete, fucking scared:
"Mr. Hughes found out I've been hiding you. He's pissed that Glenda skated on Miciak and. . . shit, you know, you and her. He wants some personal payback, and he said he won't turn you in if you cooperate. Dave, I'll try to go easy."
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
On my knees--woozy. Shock waves up my spine--one punch in.
The backyard--Howard Hughes watching.
I stood up groggy--loose teeth, split lips. Left-right/left-right/leftright--my nose somewhere down my throat. Propped up--eyebrow flaps shredded loose, shading my eyes.
Howard Hughes in a business suit and wing tips.
Kicked prone--"No, use your fists."
Jerked upright--left hook/left hook--spitting gums, no nose, hard to breathe. Left hook/left hook--bones cracking.
No legs, no face--signet ring rips jaw to hairline.
"A few more."
"He can't take any more."
"Don't contradict me."
No legs, no face. Eyes to the sun--burning red--please don't blind me. Left-right/left-right--"Leave him for the doctor."
Fading somewhere--don't take my eyes.
_______________________________________
Spinning, falling
Music.
Darkness/light/pain-arm jabs, crazy bliss. Light = sight--don't take my eyes.
Spinning, falling--EVERYTHING synced to bop. Champ Dineen riffs-- Lucille and Richie waved down from heaven.
Sweating--cold swipes at my face. Somebody's face--an old man.
Needle jabs eating up pain.
Arm pops = craaaazy bliss.
EVERYTHING--spinning, falling
Cheek rubs half blissed--thick beard stubble.
Time--light into dark, light into dark, light into dark.
A man wearing glasses--maybe a dream. Voices--dreamy, half real.
Music.
_______________________________________
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Four days sedated.
The doctor, walking out: "I left you some morphine Syrettes. You're healing up nicely, but you'll need to get some bones set within a month or so. Oh, and a friend of yours left you a package."
Numb throbs chin to forehead. Fresh newspapers-check the dates-- January 22 to 25.
Mirror check:
My nose--smashed flat.
My jaw--bent sideways.
No eyebrows--scar tissue instead.
A raised hairline--scalp cuts ripped me balding.
Two new ears.
One eye squinty, one eye normal.
Dark brown hair gone pure gray inside a week.
Call it:
A new face.
Healing--bruises fading, sutures out.
I checked the pack
age:
One blank passport.
One .38 revolver, silencer fitted.
A note, unsigned:
Klein--
IA found you, and I've decided to let you go. You served me very well and you deserve the chance I'm giving you.
Keep the money you took. I'm not optimistic, but I hope the passport helps. I won't apologize for the way I used you, since I believe the Smith situation justified it. He's neutralized now, but if you consider the justice you meted out less than absolute, you have my permission to follow it up more thoroughly. Frankly, I'm through with him. He's cost me enough as it is.
Indirect order: kill him.
Not HIM--THEM.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
"We used to be a great-looking pair."
"That part's all on you now"--Ioose teeth, painful.
"You're different, David."
"Sure, look at me."
"No, it's that we've been together for five minutes and you haven't asked me to tell you things."
Glenda: carhop suntan, close to gaunt. "I just want to look at you."
"I've looked better."
"No, you haven't."
She touched my face. "Was I worth it?"
"Whatever it cost, whatever it took."
"Just like that?"
"Yeah, just like that."
"You should have grabbed that movie contract way back when."
Money bags by the door--time closing in.
Glenda said, "Tell _me_ things."
o o o
Back to then, up to always--I told her EVERYTHING.
I faltered sometimes--pure horror jolted me silent. That silence, implicit: _you_--tell _me_.
Light kisses said no.
I told her all of it. Glenda listened, short of spellbound--like she knew.
The story hung between us. Kissing her hurt--her hands said let me.
She undressed me.
She slid out of her clothes just past my reach.
I roused slow--just let me look. Persistent Glenda, soft hands--inside her half-crazy just from looking.
She moved above me--propped up off my bruises. Just watching her felt wrong--I pulled her down.
Her weight on me hurt--I kissed her hard to rip through the pain. She started peaking--my hurt ebbed--I came blending into her spasms.
I opened my eyes. Glenda framed my face with her hands--just looking.
o o o
Sleep--day into night. Up startled--a clock by the bed--1:14.
January 26.
A camera on the dresser--Pete's ex-wife's. I checked the film--six exposures remaining.
Glenda stirred.
I walked into the bathroom. Morphine Syrettes in a dish--I popped one and mixed it with water.
I got dressed.
I stuffed two hundred grand in Glenda's purse.
The bedroom--
Glenda yawning, hands out, thirsty--I gave her the glass.
She gulped the water down. Stretches, little tucks--back to sleep.
Look:
A half-smile brushing her pillow. One shoulder outside the covers, old scars going tan.
I snapped pictures:
Her face--eyes closed-dreams she'd never tell me. Lamp light, flashbulb light: blond hair on white linen.
I sealed the film.
I picked up the money bags--heavy, obscene.
I walked out the door bracing back sobs.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Easy:
I took a bus to L.A. and got a hotel room. I had a typewriter sent up--one blank passport rendered valid.
My new name: Edmund L. Smith.
Picture valid: photo-booth snapshots, glue.
My ticket out: Pan Am, L.A. to Rio.
My wounds were healing up.
My new face was holding: no handsome Dave Klein showing through.
Morphine pops kept me calm and crazy exultant. This crazy notion: you walked.
Not yet.
CHAPTER SIXTY
I bought a new clunker--two hundred dollars cash. I took a detour airport-bound: 1684 South Tremaine.
8:00 A.M.--quiet, peaceful.
Voices inside-bellicose male.
I walked back, tried the rear door--unlocked. Laundry room, kitchen door--yank it.
J.C. and Tommy at the table, guzzling beer.
Say what?
What the--
J.C. first--silencer THWAP--brains out his ears. Tommy, beer bottle raised--THWAP--glass in his eyes.
He screamed: "DADDY!"
EYEBALL MAN! EYEBALL MAN!--I shot them both faceless blind.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Airport heat: Feds, Sheriff's men, mob lookouts. Right through them--no blinks-- up to the counter.
Friendly service, a glance at my passport. I checked my money bags through--"Have a pleasant flight, Mr. Smith."
Gone--just like that.
_______________________________________
The will to remember.
Fever dreams--that time burning
Old now-a grin go exile rich off real estate. My confession complete-- but still not enough.
Postscripts:
Will Shipstad--private practice from '59 up.
Reuben Ruiz--Bantam champ, '61--'62.
Chick Vecchio--shot and killed robbing a liquor store.
Touch V.--managing drag-queen acts in Vegas.
Fred Turentine--dead--cirrhosis. Lester Lake-dead-cancer.
The place lost/the time burning/close to them somehow.
Madge Kafesjian--alone--that house, those ghosts.
Welles Noonan--convicted of jury tampering--1974. Sentenced to three to five Fed-a Seconal OD suicide en route to Leavenworth.
Meg--old, a widow--my conduit there to here. Wealthy-our slum pads traded up for condos.
Spinning, falling-afraid I'll forget:
Mickey Cohen--perpetual scuffler--two prison jolts. Dead--heart attack, '76.
Jack Woods, Pete B--old, in failing health.
Dick Carlisle:
Retired from the LAPD--never charged as a Dudley Smith accomplice. "Dick the Fur Kin g"--the Hurwitz stash expanded legit. Dry-cleaning mogul--the E-Z Kleen chain purchased from Madge.
Dudley Smith--still half-lucid, still a charmer: Gaelic songs for the girls who wet-nurse him.
Edmund Exley:
Chief of Detectives, Chief of Police. Congressman, Lieutenant Governor, current gubernatorial candidate.
Acknowledged Dudley Smith admirer--politically expedient, smart
Dudley--rakish in his eye patch. Pundit when sane: snappy quotes on "containment," always good for a news retrospective. A reminder: men were men then.
Glenda:
Movie star, TV star Sixtyish--the matriarch on a long-running series.
Glenda:
Thirty-odd years famous. Always with me--those pictures held close. Ageless--every movie, every printed photo shunned.
In my dreams--spinning, falling.
Like Exley and Dudley and Carlisle.
Exiled from me, things to tell me--prosaic horrors that define their long survival. Words to update this confession to free me.
Dreams: spinning, falling--
I'm going back. I'm going to make Exley confess every monstrous deal he ever cut with the same candor I have. I'm going to kill Carlisle, and make Dudley fill in every moment of his life--to eclipse my guilt with the sheer weight of his evil. I'm going to kill him in the name of our victims, find Glenda and say:
Tell me anything.
Tell me everything.
Revoke our time apart.
Love me fierce in danger.
_______________________________________
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
James Ellroy was born in Los Angeles in 1948. His last three novels, _The Black Dahlia_, _The Big Nowhere_, and _L.A. Confidential_, were international best-sellers. He lives in Connecticut.
