Widespread Panic

by James Ellroy

I knelt and flashed a close-up. I’m a bug-and-tap pro. I know bug-and-tap work when I see it. This was a bore-and-tap access point. The frayed wire was old. The bug-and-tap mounts had been removed. The Spackle paste was old and crumbled. The bug-and-tap removal man did a shit camouflage job.

  Stale perfume. Tweed or Jungle Gardenia, mixed with her—

  I went through the bedroom drawers. Joan’s underthings were stacked neatly. The stale perfume scent became her scent, all by itself.

  * * *

  —

  I racked out at the Ranch Market. Bondage Bob called early and drilled me out of a dream. Joi rolled her eyes and held her hands two feet apart. Joi flipped me off and walked out of my life.

  Bondage Bob reprised my dreary dreamscape. He demanded dish on the Steve Cochran gig. I laid out the lowdown on Joi’s bait job. Bondage Bob popped his perceived punch line:

  Luscious Lana Turner On Skids—Soon To Sign Smut Contract!!!

  We discussed Steve the Stud’s phone bills. He called Jack Kennedy and society scribe Connie Woodard. We discussed my address-book thefts at Jack’s hotel suite. Connie’s a Hearst hack. But—she’s got listings for the blustery blacklist boys of the Hollywood Ten. Plus V. J. Jerome and other Red rogues. Bob considered Commophile Connie the key to my perceived Something Big. Joi’s bait-and-bug job confirmed it.

  Steve the Stud blathers per his “political pals.” The address book/phone bill parlay. Connie Woodard calls Steve twenty-four times. Steve calls Connie twenty-one times. Jack Kennedy calls Steve nineteen times. Steve calls Jack fourteen times. Commophile Connie’s once removed from Jack the K. Bondage Bob called it all a “pinko porridge”—now running into Red.

  I told Bob I’d jump on Connie Woodard, and hung up. I omitted the time-consuming cost of my Horvath-snuff crusade. Time tumbled down on me. I reflex-popped two Dexedrine and turned time my way.

  I had a pile of pilfered paper from the L.A. DA’s Office. Writs and rejoinders, summonses and subpoenas—all signed, sealed, and loaded with legalese. I crafted a subpoena for Joan Horvath’s college transcripts. I stamped it and forged it under the seal of DA Ernie Roll. I filled in the blur of blank paper and laid in the lawyeresque. I figured the UCLA admin hacks would kick loose within one week.

  Rain and wild wind whipped me west on Wilshire. The run to Westwood Village took an hour and a half. My Packard pimpmobile carved a course westbound. Water-wilted pedestrians got out of my way.

  I parked and ran into the main admin building. I flashed my Special DA’s Investigator badge at a wowed desk lady. Ernie Roll shot me the shield. I’d pulled him out of the shit with two Jailbait Jills at a Jonathan Club soiree.

  The desk lady pledged quick compliance. I winked to seal the deal. L.A. was winter storm–struck. The haul back to Hollyweird would take two hours plus. I had time to kill. I schlepped over to the north campus library and ordered up microfiche.

  The Hearst-hack Herald. Constance Woodard’s column. Look for pro-Commie calumny cloaked in society slush. Look for Steve the Stud and Jack the K. puff pieces and mere mentions. See what jumps out.

  The microfiche ran from December ’53 back to August ’51. Connie’s column was called “Connie’s Column.” A small pic denoted all her one-page spreads. I recalled La Woodard from Jack K.’s A-bomb party. She was a knock-kneed redhead of the spinster-idealist ilk. She’d be richly ripe for Red recruitment.

  I moved microfiche through a machine. I read Connie’s columns. My hackles hopped at the start. Every Hancock Park hoedown, every debutante do and cutesy cotillion contained a rip on the Reds. It was tooooooooo much of a good thing. It was waaaaay out of print proportion. I scrolled back and hit May 16, ’53. Jack K. attends a lawn bash. It fetes limp-wristed loser Adlai Stevenson. Connie properly prongs Adlai and calls him “pink in more ways than one.” Ooohhy, Connie—you got dat right. But—she singles out Jack’s kid brother, Bobby the K. She suck-up cites his tight ties to Joe McCarthy. And, dig: McCarthy has already disgraced himself. He’s now anathema to astutely informed anti-Reds.

  Tooooo much of a good thing. Waaaaay out of print proportion.

  What’s going on here? Connie’s got Jack’s name in her address book. It’s right beside John Howard Lawson and V. J. Jerome. She calls Jack. She calls Steve Cochran. Steve’s anti-A-bomb. That’s suspect in itself. Steve’s making “celebrity smut.” He’s “leaning left these days.”

  I scrolled back through Connie’s columns. I skimmed for Jack and Steve worked into the word stew. ’53, ’52, ’51. There—August 18.

  Steve’s captivating kids at a Shriners wingding. Connie’s ever the muddled muckraker and gooey gadfly here.

  “B-movie heartthrob Steve Cochran broke hearts at the Shriners last night, and not the hearts of the willing women so often attributed to him. No, readers—and he didn’t brawl his way through the corridors of Children’s Hospital, nor did he hit any doctors or slap any nurses who got in his way. He simply showered affection on those less fortunate than he, and in the process he claimed the hearts of many, including myself. Isn’t it time the world looked at this very talented and humane young man as the gifted and sensitive artist that he is?”

  I was floored, flabbergasted, and flipped into a rage. It’s the Parthenon of Puff Pieces. It’s the deus ex machina of disingenuousness. Connections, deflections, lies unworthy of me. I sensed it was Something Big at the start. Now I knew it was Something Wrong.

  * * *

  —

  I levitated out of the library. Something Big/Something Wrong. I surfed the tsunami east on Sunset. It was some mad monsoon. A homing instinct homed me in on Havenhurst Avenue. I cut south and pulled up by Steve Cochran’s courtyard.

  Sit-still surveillance. Hard rain to hide me, couched curbside. Old Crow to kill the cold.

  I dialed down the defroster and kept the windows clear. I strafed eyeball paths to the rear carport and Studly Steve’s door. Time faltered and failed to trample my trance. Hours passed. Steve Cochran and Joi Lansing came out of the carport and headed for home.

  His home. Her home now. They lugged her luggage. The matched set I bought her. Monogrammed at Mark Cross.

  Some cute couple. A matched set. The Stacked and the Hung. Joi wobbled on too-high heels. A Band-Aid on Steve’s right cheek set off his jawline and failed to mar his good looks.

  Boo-hoo. Nobody knows de trouble ise seen, nobody knows my sorrow. Somebody, save me. Who said size doesn’t count? I’m sunk in this sink of self-hate.

  I bolted. I cut down to Fountain and came back up Crescent Heights. I parked in the rear lot and entered Googie’s. I saw her, straight off. She wore her culture-cave ensemble. Blue jeans, Bass Weejuns, baleful Beethoven sweatshirt.

  I primped. I popped two Sen-Sen for instant fresh breath. She was alone. She sat in a back booth. I feigned the nonchalance of the cool and the callous and walked straight up.

  She twirled her ashtray. She sipped absinthe on the rocks and nibbled french fries.

  “Joi’s shacking with Steve Cochran. Jimmy called and told me. He said he helped Joi pack the rest of her stuff.”

  I said, “The Teletype travels fast. I just found out myself.”

  “I hope this consoles you. Jimmy said there was a very big girl asleep in your bed. She’s about as tall as that colored guy from KU. Joi hexed her and poured liniment on her basketball shorts.”

  I laffed and took a jolt of Claire’s absinthe. It stung my too-taxed liver and looped to my head. Claire tossed french fries on my place mat.

  “Bondage Bob cut you a check for your wardrobe. He wants you dressed to the nines for your Mocambo date next week. You’re doubling with Rock and Jimmy. Jimmy’s bringing Liz Taylor. He’s inked for some big oater set in Texas, soon. Rock and Liz top-bill him. Jimmy and Liz are strictly platonic. They’ll make sure Rock doesn’t light out after some hunky chorus quiff.”

  Cl
aire lit a cigarette. “I’ll sell Liz some Israel bonds. She’s devoted to the cause now. She’s sub rosa with this wheeler-dealer, Mike Todd. She never stays unmarried for long. Mike’s a landsman of the old school. Liz is forbidden fruit to him.”

  I laffed. “Liz is low-hanging fruit of the new school. Confidential winks at divorces, and the magazine will always be kind to her.”

  Claire tossed a changeup. “I shivved that Mex who whipped his chorizo out on me. Jimmy got him lit up on the Method, but he whipped it too close to my face.”

  I tossed a changeup. “Harry Fremont saw a Fed intel file. He said you were in on the King David Hotel bombing, back in the British mandate.”

  “I planted the bomb. And then I played girl sabra and lovingly carried out dead Englishmen.”

  “The PD guys took the Mex to Georgia Street Receiving. You were kind. It was a superficial flesh wound. He got off easy.”

  Claire twirled her ashtray. “You’ve got a history with Georgia Street. Harry loves to dish. He said your guy didn’t get off so easy.”

  “Let’s not get into scalp counts. I couldn’t possibly compete with you.”

  Claire smiled. “You’ve got lineage. The Lebanese come to fight. You’re a Christian, so your people were surely considered elites.”

  I made the jack-off sign. “I fell off my camel and landed in L.A. My whole life’s nothing but a prelude to you.”

  Claire yukked. “I’ll never say yes, and I’ll never say no. At some point we’ll want to fall down together, and we’ll both know the moment when it comes.”

  I got chills. I chugged Claire’s absinthe. Wormwood whipped my wig and winged me back to Weimar Berlin. I joined a bevy of bohemians at the Hotel Adlon. We’re there to cull the cusp of the abyss.

  “What are you doing in L.A.? You didn’t come here to teach school and see what happens next, and you’re overqualified for studio gigs and bait jobs.”

  Claire said, “People here love to talk. Jimmy, Harry, Bob Harrison. I’ve come to understand that you’re interested in Connie Woodard, and I’m interested in her, too.”

  I said, “Don’t stop now.”

  Claire said, “I came to L.A. to kill a man. I don’t know his name, but I think Connie Woodard might. It’s all design and opportunity with me, as it is with you.”

  * * *

  —

  I drove home. I drove home jazzed and jacked to the gills and SCARED down to my shit-stained shorts.

  The pad was queerly quiescent. Stretch dropped her USC silks on the living room floor. She left a note propped by the phone.

  “Harry Fremont called. Meet him at the Central DB tomorrow. 10:00 a.m. Hat Squad. A 459 suspect. Mandatory.”

  I walked back to the bedroom. A bedside night-light was on. Stretch was crapped out on my bed. She was tucked in under the covers and dead asleep. Lance the Leopard was curled up on top of the duvet. Stretch was too tall for the bed. I covered her feet. Lance growled at me. Don’t mess with my woman, you hump.

  I know when I’m licked. I walked back to the living room and fell asleep on the couch with my clothes on.

  CENTRAL DIVISION DETECTIVE BUREAU

  Interrogation Room #3

  2/21/54

  The Hats had a hump in the hot seat. A claustrophobe closet/one table/six chairs. One fat phone book in vivid view.

  He’s Delbert Davis Haines/white male American/DOB 6-12-18. He’s tight with George Collier Akin. They met and compared notes at Quentin. Haines did a doomsday dime for 459 plus rape-sodomy.

  Harry Fremont dragged a dragnet and hauled him in. He was alibied up for the Joan Horvath homicide. He blew blues clarinet at a round-the-clock romp at the Riptide Room. Dexter Gordon, Chet Baker, and Art Pepper alibied him.

  Harry said he’d made pay-phone contact with Akin. Haines said Akin was casing cooze for a Red Devil Bandit comeback. He’s bidding Beverly Hills bye-bye. He’s back on L.A. city turf.

  The Hats hovered. They straddled chairs and loomed over Haines. I kicked my chair against a side wall and scoped it. Haines was a junkie. He skin-popped Big “H” and held off a habit. He was snaggletoothed and pustule-pocked. He wore a Sir Guy shirt and slit-bottom khakis. He was one mean motor scooter and bad actor.

  Max Herman said, “You could waltz, Delbert. We’ve got nothing on the books we can hold you on.”

  Red Stromwall said, “Or we could concoct something and hold you indefinitely.”

  Harry Crowder said, “Or we could get ugly.”

  Eddie Benson said, “You know what we want and who we want, and the sooner you give it to us, the less likely it is that we’ll lay on the grief.”

  Haines said, “Who’s that guy kicking his chair back? I think I’ve seen him before.”

  Max Herman said, “That’s Mr. Otash. He’s a former Los Angeles policeman, currently employed as a private investigator.”

  Haines said, “He’s a greaseball. I’m very much attuned to racial distinctions. I’m on the editorial board for the National States’ Rights Party, and I write for Thunderbolt Magazine.”

  Red Stromwall said, “Let’s stick to the topic at hand. George Collier Akin. You know what we want.”

  Haines picked his nose and ate the goober. He said, “I want your wife to suck my big dick.”

  Red phone-booked him. Wham!—a big roundhouse shot. His face hit the table. His nose cracked. Blood blew out.

  He tried to wipe his face. Harry Crowder grabbed his hands and cuffed them to his chair slats. The ratchets racked deep and drew blood.

  Haines giggled and licked blood off his lips. He wagged his well-hung tongue at the Hats.

  “I’m the Lizard of Love. Check my rap sheet. I’m a go-down man from way back.”

  Harry Crowder said, “We like Akin for a burglary-homicide two nights ago. Lower Hollywood. Camerford off Vine. The victim’s name was Joan Horvath. Does that ring a bell with you?”

  Haines said, “Your wife rings my bell, eight nights a week. She’s a go-down girl from way back.”

  Harry phone-booked him. He sidled a sidewinder shot. Haines’ head whiplashed. Nose blood and mouth blood blew wide. Two teeth hit the far wall.

  Eddie Benson said, “Joan Horvath. Camerford off Vine. The B and E snuff there. She wakes up and fights him. Does this sound like Akin? Has he mentioned the job to you?”

  Haines licked his lips and torqued his tongue. He said, “Your wife mentioned that you’re hung like an amoeba. That’s why she brings me all the woof-woof.”

  Eddie phone-booked him. He ripped a reverse sidewinder. It tore one eyebrow loose. Blood spattered the opposite wall.

  I said, “Joan Horvath was pushing forty. She had some gray hair, and she was on the stout side. I bet Akin likes it younger and firmer, and Harry Fremont told me the Red Devil Bandit doesn’t range that far north and west.”

  Haines licked blood off his lips. “Hey, the greaseball speaks, and he don’t speak with forked tongue.”

  Max Herman said, “Tell us what you mean by that.”

  Haines said, “I mean the greaseball speaks la verdad. The Red Devil Bandit likes young gash he can terrorize. He likes the pads off Washington and Jefferson, down near USC. I can get more specific if you give me that waltz and lay a big dinner-and-drinks chit for Kwan’s Chinese Pagoda on me.”

  Max Herman said, “You’re on.”

  Red Stromwall said, “We’ll throw in a shower and a run by Georgia Street. We know all the doctors there. They’ll fix you up.”

  Harry Crowder said, “Delbert’s a white man.”

  Eddie Benson said, “Let’s not go overboard.”

  Haines looked straight at me. “Severance Street, the first block south of Jefferson. The Bandit’s casing a pad there. He might hit tonight. The chick’s a predental student. She’s got short dark hair in a pixie cut.”

  Max u
ncuffed Haines and handed him his handkerchief. Haines wrung his wrists and grabbed the chair back. He staggered and struggled to stand up.

  I said, “You don’t make him for Joanie? There’s no way he’d go for that?”

  Haines haw-hawed. “ ‘Joanie?’ Do I detect something there?”

  The Hats haw-hawed. They shared wicked winks. Max said, “We make him for Joanie, and that’s all that counts.”

  * * *

  —

  Harry and Eddie took Haines to Georgia Street and ensconced him with the jail-ward doc. I went with them. Georgia Street, redux. I walked the wicked path I walked when I whacked Ralphie Horvath.

  Eddie ribbed me. “Must bring back some memories. Eh, Freddy?”

  Haines had no fixed address for George Collier Akin. The Hats preferred to hit hot-prowl men in the act. Max dug up a map of Severance south of Jefferson. Red stiffed cold calls to every house on the block. He pinned the pixie cut. She was one Louise Marie Vernell, age eighteen.

  Red laid out the sick situation. Louise gave in to gasps. She rented a room in a coed boardinghouse. Max decreed evacuation. Red dispatched three patrol sleds. Patrol cops took the tittering tenants and their landlady to the downtown Statler. The PD picked up the tab. The girls gassed on the service and posed for pix with the cops.

  We waited. The dead-of-winter day dipped to dusk. Max buzzed Bill Parker. I heard his side of the call. He said, “Yes, Chief” fourteen times and hung up.

  I packed my .45 automatic. The Hats packed Python Magnums. Harry made the booze run. He brought back six short dogs of bonded bourbon and boocoo potato chips.

  We rolled out in two K-cars. I rolled with Max and Red. Max laid in Ithaca pumps and a box of throwdown guns. We pulled ahead in the pole spot. Harry and Eddie bird-dogged behind. We hit South Severance at full dark.

  Louise left her lights on, upstairs. They beamed I’m-home-alone/come-and-find-me rape rays. The pole car took the back-alley slot. The follow car took the Severance slot.