Widespread Panic

by James Ellroy

  Joi smiled. “You’re malleable, Freddy. You’ve always been easy to manipulate. It’s the only thing that attracted me to you.”

  * * *

  —

  I rolled to the Ranch Market. A radio broadcast broiled, up in my office. Dig: sodden Senator Joe McCarthy rips Reds and socks out southland subpoenas. Dig, ditto: Jolting Joe and Bondage Bob are jungled up—larcenous land deals and sleazoid slum holdings. Heh, heh—Fractious Freddy knows all and holds all trump cards tight.

  I turned off the radio and checked my in-box. Harry Fremont delivered, quicksville. Bingo!—a background brief on Joan Hubbard Horvath.

  Joan, the big brain and undulating underachiever. She matriculates at UCLA, circa ’39–’45. She logs advanced degrees in Eastern European languages. She speaks fluent Italian, Polish, and Russian. She works as an interpreter for the California State Senate, circa ’46–’47. She marries riotous Ralphie Horvath, circa ’48. She hatches his second-rate seed. She’s got no visible means of support, then to now. But—this bodes BIG—Red Stromwall finds a Bank of America passbook tucked in Joan’s undie drawer. AND—the current balance exceeds fourteen grand.

  That’s a brain broiler. That’s prongingly provocative.

  I recalled that cop car parked at the crime scene. I recalled that rear plate number I wrote down. I buzzed Central Burglary and braced Harry Fremont. Who’s this cop cad working for? The plate number ain’t LAPD. Harry said the suffix denoted a Fed sled. Maybe FBI or Treasury.

  I downed two Dexedrine and gargled Old Crow. Aaahhh—my bloodstream blossomed and swelled. I called my answering service and checked my messages. Aaahhh—the wide world wants Freewheeling Freddy!!!

  Joi called. Her koffee klatch with Steve the Stud was set for 7:00 p.m. Stretch called. She said she’d pop by my pad later. Bondage Bob called. Update me, sweetheart—what’s with heavy-hung Steve? Jimmy called. It’s official—Claire Klein’s in for the Marry Rock gig. Midnite at Googie’s—be there for the meet and greet. I called Bernie Spindel. Six-fifteen at Havenhurst. Joi’s jamming up Steve the C.

  Wow—Frantic Freddy’s in demonic demand!!! He’s THE man to see!!!

  * * *

  —

  Joi kvetched. She emphatically emasculated my last stirring statement. We wire-whipped her in the back of Bernie’s bug van. Freddy, the mike-mount’s too tight. Freddy, the lead wire’s bunched up in my brassiere. Bernie, quit honking me—get your fat paws off my tits.

  The wire job ate up fifteen minutes. We shooed Joi out and reparked on Steve Cochran’s side of the street. Joi broadcast static and high heels hitting pavement. Our earmuffs caught every rustle and riff. Bernie worked the transceiver. The live feed fed furtively in. Knock, knock—Joi’s at Studly Steve’s door. Creak/gnash—door-lock noise—Studly Steve’s letting her in.

  Static/voice burble/sound overlap. Bernie ditzed dials and recalibrated the rustles and riffs. We got settle-in sounds. Glasses clink/Steve serves drinks/cigarette lighters click.

  Joi sighs. That’s her “We’re seated” signal. It’s laying in, loud and clear. Incriminate yourself, shitbird. Smut’s a felony bounce. Confidential gonna get yo ass. San Quentin’s surging yo way.

  Joi said, “Who decorated this place, Hermann Goering?”

  Steve said, “It’s set decoration for the movie. I’m deep into the immersion aspect of it all. There’s this subplot I’m working on. The guy who’s out to repopulate the world is a former Nazi sympathizer, and he renounces Nazism and moves into a one-world mind-set. Apostasy is a major theme of this movie. It’s not all fun and games, and hide the salami.”

  Joi hooted. “Baby, you’re avant-garde.”

  “I’m beyond it, you mean.”

  Joi: “Yeah? Well, who else thinks so? By that I mean, how many name people have you signed up, other than yourself as the star?”

  Steve: “Anita O’Day and Barbara Payton have inked contracts, as they say in the trades. Lana Turner’s on the ropes and considering it.”

  Joi: “That’s week-old bread at half price, sweetie. Anita’s a junkie, and Babs is turning cheapie tricks out of Stan’s Drive-In. And, Lana—she’s just jerking your chain.”

  Steve: “Hang on to your hat. I’ve inked Gene Tierney. You’ve got to gas on that one. She scored in Laura and Leave Her to Heaven, and she was Jack Kennedy’s fiancée, back before he married that lockjawed stiff Jackie.”

  Ooooh—Jack the K. jumps in. Ooooh—his name in Studly Steve’s address book.

  Joi: “My ex, Freddy, sent some girls down to Acapulco, to spice up Jack’s honeymoon. I know from Jack, believe me.”

  Steve: “And I know from Freddy O. My pals in politics have been passing along rumors. The studios are putting together a slush fund to put the skids to Confidential. Freddy and his storm troopers have been ratting out all these fags, dykes, and politically enlightened people. The boom’s coming down on Freddy, mark my words.”

  Bernie made the jack-off sign and went Oy. The sweats swept over me. “Slush fund.” “Politically enlightened people.” That read RED in my book.

  Joi: “Name names, lover. Your pals in politics. Who’ve I got looking over me, to make sure that the you know what don’t hit the fan, if I appear in this movie of yours?”

  Steve: “Jack Kennedy, for starters. Joe McCarthy, even though he’s a fasco in the Confidential mode. Also, we’ve got Senator Bill Knowland, and Senator Hubert Humphrey. All these heavy guys are pals of mine, and these guys will put the squelch on any rumors that might seep out about the film, and you’ve got my word that it will only be screened for high-ticket people in politics and the industry—people who want to see—pardon my French—movie stars fucking and sucking and preaching the anti-A-bomb gospel as only I can write it. This is a high-ticket endeavor from jump street, lady—and you can get in on the ground floor.”

  Bernie went He craaaazy. Bernie grabbed his crotch and went Oy. Static broke through the broadcast. I doused dials and cleared the feed.

  Joi: “…and it’s not like I don’t need the coin. But I’ll tell you, though—the idea of screwing on film flips my switch. As long as the film doesn’t make the rounds, like that photo of Marlon Brando with his mouth full.”

  Steve: “Marlon wants to appear in the film. I have this on good authority.”

  Joi hooted. “You’re out of your gourd. As Bondage Bob Harrison says, ‘I’ve got your good authority swinging.’ ”

  Steve scoffed. “Mr. V. J. Jerome’s my good authority. How’s that for naming names? All the Group Theatre actors take their orders from him. And don’t give me that fasco smear that he’s in the employ of the Comintern. V.J. knows quality entertainment when he sees it.”

  Joi scoffed. “Okay, we’re naming names. Okay, name me one name that can do me some good if and when my movie and TV career goes in the tank.”

  Steve: “Harry Cohn. How big is that? He runs Columbia, and he’s bankrolling my film. He will personally see to it that nobody outside of a very elite circle of people see this movie. This is not a smut flick like you see at those Elks Club smokers.”

  The transceiver fritzed and glitched and broadcast stark static. It consumed the conversation. Bernie doused dials and replugged the console. I snared snippets of chat.

  Steve: “Come on. It’s not like you’ve never auditioned.”

  Joi: “Well…it’s…not like I’m in any kind of ordained situation.”

  Line buzz/fuzz/stuck static. Wire warp and burned bulbs—the console’s coughing smoke—

  I dumped my headphones and hauled out of the van. I ran across the courtyard, rapidamente. I circled Steve the Stud’s building and peeped ground-floor windows. I saw Steve’s noxious Nazi regalia and Joi’s skirt and shoes, shorn in a heap. I saw Jap flags and shadow-boxed shrunken heads, and heard gruff growls in bass-baritone. I tracked a trail of nylon stockings and men’s Jockey briefs.
I peeped one last Walpurgisnacht window—

  And saw Joi gobble Steve the Stud, tonsil-deep.

  * * *

  —

  Call me Cornuto. Call me shame-shattered and shit-shorn of power and agency. I made the midnite meet at Googie’s. I surged with self-pity. Stretch called my answering service. She dumped our date and cited early practice. The Pervdog of the Nite knows better. Stretch now roils recumbent in savage sapphic embrace.

  I sat alone. I nursed a numb-your-soul highball. Joi walked in the back door. She saw me and glimpsed my sick sorrow. I was l’étranger out of cool Camus—gallows-bound of my own device.

  Joi went oooh-la-la. She rolled her eyes and held her hands two feet apart. She shot me the finger and walked back out the door.

  I bebopped to a boo-hoo beat. Cuckold/Cornuto/jilted Johnny left in the lurch. Somebody save me. I’m sunk in this sink of self-hate.

  Jimmy Dean and Claire Klein walked in the back door. La Klein wore blue jeans, Bass Weejuns, and a baleful Beethoven sweatshirt. She was rangy, busty, dark-haired, and unadorned. She had that proud/New York Jew/don’t-fuck-with-me look.

  I stood up. I primped. I blew off the blues and bloomed in the glow of new love.

  They ambled over. This was biz on Bondage Bob’s timecard. I snapped my fingers. My funk went finito.

  A wetback waiter wafted into view. I ordered a pitcher of off-the-menu/high-test lemonade. 150-proof bourbon. Some ambiguous amphetamine. Pounded potions from Hop Ling’s Hormone Hutch.

  Jimmy played emcee. “Claire, this is Freddy. Freddy, this is Claire. I’m here as a full partner in this enterprise, and to ensure that Rock doesn’t get hurt.”

  Claire said, “I’m here to marry him, not skin him alive.”

  The waiter bopped back. I played host and poured drinks. I said, “Don’t smoke. This stuff tends to ignite.”

  We settled in. I studied Claire. I gassed on her crooked teeth and bold brown eyes. Here’s my first fitful impression:

  She’s an agent provocateur. She lives to make shit shimmy to her own beat and bounce to her terms.

  She said, “Jimmy’s been briefing me. Steve Cochran, and all that.”

  She lived to pry. I caught that. I rerouted a reply.

  “All that’s the Rock deal, for the moment. Now that I’ve seen you in person, Miss Klein, I’ve got some ideas.”

  Jimmy sipped laced lemonade. “We’re listening, boss.”

  I sipped lemonade. Claire sipped lemonade. Her pupils popped, instantaneous. Her brows broiled with sweat.

  “Here’s the drift. Six dates, covered in Confidential. Atypically wholesome by Confidential’s standards, but we’ll lay in some anti-Commie repob, to justify that. You play yourself. You’re the bohemian algebra teacher at Le Conte Junior High. You meet Rock at Scrivner’s Drive-In. You were sipping a pineapple malt, and some pachucos hassled you. This works an antipachuco message into the text. Rock walks into this fracas and beats up the pachucos. A flame sparks. He gives a pep talk to your algebra students. It’s heartwarming. You have six dates. Your separate worlds collide and merge. Rock takes you to Ciro’s and the Mocambo. You take him to culture caves and groove on le jazz hot. He proposes, you accept, the squarejohn press covers the wedding. You shack for the foreseeable future, and Jimmy watchdogs Rock and diverts him off boys. There’s some bylaws I’ll run by you when I know you better, and I’m not so afraid you’ll scratch my eyes out.”

  Jimmy hoot-hooted. He eye-strafed the room and pupil-popped a built boy with bleached-blond hair. He ducked off to cull contact. I had Claire Klein to myself.

  She said, “Let me guess the bylaws. Then I’ll tell you what’s acceptable, and what’s not.”

  “Shoot, baby.”

  Claire said, “No side deals with Rock, his boyfriends, or any men I meet through him. No obvious extramarital liaisons with men I want to work on my own, or men I just plain like. Quit my job at Le Conte, or turn it into some jive fable of me helping underprivileged kids. Fink out all the skeevy goings-on I see in my swanky new Hollywood life.”

  I sipped laced lemonade. I made This Gesture. It meant bravo/stalemate/your move, mama-san.

  Claire lit a cigarette. Bold girl. Brilliant girl. She understands chemical combustion. Her lemonade fails to ignite.

  “No deals. Your bylaws stink. And, before you ask, yeah—I did pull a knife on Burt Lancaster. And, before it comes up, I was at Ciro’s the other night, and caught your act with Joi Lansing, and if you think she’ll ever play bait for you after the Cochran gig, think again. I’m better at this line of work than she is, and I’m not letting you lay down restrictions, even if it means blowing this ‘Rock’s wife’ caper sky-high.”

  I took it in. I lit a cigarette. Freon Freddy. My lemonade fails to ignite.

  “Okay. Do what you want. And, before you ask, yeah—I’ll consider you for any bait gigs that might come up for the magazine.”

  Claire blew smoke rings. “It’s not all a one-way street, baby. I’ve got quite a bit of inside dirt, and I’ve got no qualms about sharing it, especially as it pertains to the Reds and their sort of filth. I’ve finked to HUAC, and I’ll fink to you—and at least you’ll properly compensate me.”

  I made This Gesture #2. It meant capital C capitulation and wrung-out relinquishment.

  Claire laughed. She flashed her crooked teeth. I went all woo-woo. Hey there, you with the stars in your eyes.

  “Freddy O.’s a pushover. It’s the last thing in the world I expected.”

  I said, “Let’s go someplace and fall down. Let’s crawl into a hole and not come out for a while.”

  Claire said, “Not tonight. I’ve got test papers to grade, and I can’t let those disadvantaged kids down.”

  OUTSIDE THE HORVATH DEATH PAD

  2/19/54

  Late nites become me. They obfuscate and overtake me. They send me where I’m supposed to be.

  I pulled up and parked on Camerford. LAPD yanked their crime-scene guard. The shit shack now stood dark. The clock marched toward midnite. I ran my radio and notched Nachtmusik.

  Stan Kenton’s “Machito.” Jimmie Lunceford’s “Uptown Blues.” Gonesville, Daddy-O. Mad music to B and E by.

  I ditzed the dial and extended the interlude. I got bop, by way of Bird and Deranged Dizzy. Bop bops me and sends me where I’m supposed to be.

  I brought my evidence kit. I brought my burglar’s tools. I was jazzed and jacked-up exhausted.

  I’d worked Operation Rock Wife all day. Sexville, Daddy-O. Close contact with Claire Klein had me gooooooone.

  Jimmy handled Rock and played director. Confidential supplied a foto man. I called Harry Fremont and brought him into the gig. Harry sprung three badass beaners from the Lincoln Heights drunk tank. They portrayed the pachucos who mob-menace Claire. We staged our stirring scene at Scrivner’s Hollywood. Claire sips a pineapple malt in her ’51 Ford. Rock lurks nearby. Swish carhops swarm him. He signs mucho autographs.

  Jimmy feeds the cholos their motivation. He stamps them Stanislavskiites at the gate. Dig it: you want white pussy baaaaaaad.

  They surround Claire’s car. They coochie-coo her and weenie-wag her. Claire shrieks. Rock rocks to the rescue. He pounds the three pachuco punks to the pavement. LAPD rolls up and rousts the beaners. Harry Fremont cued them in advance.

  It all worked, perfecto. Our fotog shot film and stills and got it all in four takes. Rock meets Claire. It’s love at first sight. Jimmy counseled reluctant Rock. Brother, you have to. Lew Wasserman decrees that you take a wife.

  I called Harry and pledged him five yards for his work. Harry shot me leads per the Horvath snuff.

  Lead #1: he ran the plate number on that cop car I saw at the crime scene. Bip—it’s a Fed sled/FBI/on loan to serpentine Senator Joe McCarthy and his L.A. Commie hunt. Lead #2: the Hats pulled in a shitbird pal of Geo
rge Collier Akin’s. He was a hump hot-prowl man himself. The Hats were hammering him haaaaaaaard.

  Bird bopped me. Dizzy dinged me. I pulled on rubber gloves. I grabbed my evidence kit and rolled.

  Shadows shrouded me. Streetlights were dim. I poured across the porch and braced the front door. I pulled a #4 pick and jammed the jamb upside the latch spring. The door popped open, faaaaast.

  I pulled my penlight. I locked myself in. I laid my evidence kit on a chair. Harry got me the PD’s print manifest. Joan’s prints and her kids’ prints were inked in.

  Smudge-and-smear locations were noted. No other known or verified prints were found and logged in. Here’s my job: roll overlooked touch-and-grab surfaces. Contrast and compare.

  Chez Joan. It’s all there for you to touch and taste. She’s there for you as your own. Go forth, Pervdog—contrast and compare.

  I roamed. I spread print powder on unlisted surfaces and pulled up dust and palm sweat. I worked back toward Joan’s bedroom and saved it for last. I hit the kids’ bedroom. It broke my hard heart. I pulled an unlogged little-kid print off a bed rail. I checked shelves and drawers for stashed booty and got zilch.

  The kitchen reeked of overripe food and dumped trash. I rolled it, regardless. I dusted the breakfast-nook table and pulled up a full-digit print. I checked the print manifest and compared tents, arches, and whorls. Eureka—it’s an unknown.

  I inked it on a fresh print card. My pad prowl was now two hours and ten minutes in. My heart hurtled on overdrive. I stepped into Joan’s bedroom and stood there.

  Stale perfume stung me. It was Tweed or Jungle Gardenia. The Pervdog’s a scent dog and knows whereof he speaks. I caught Joan’s underscent. It jazzed me and fucked me up, in caustic concurrence. I penlight-flashed the walls and saw something.

  A small borehole. Right there. The east-facing wall. Just above the floor. White Spackle paste caked at the edges. One frayed wire sticking out.