Widespread Panic

by James Ellroy

  * * *

  —

  The Jolly Jinx Motel. A desert dump. Off a deep-rut road between Indio and Palm Springs. It’s sandwiched by sand dunes and next door to nowhere. It’s a baleful bank foreclosure, circa ’31.

  It’s a film set tonite. Thirteen Women and Only One Man in Town. Steve “L’Auteur” Cochran mans the megaphone. The Jinx is a horseshoe-shaped hellhole. There’s twelve beat-to-shit bungalows, sans doors. Note the parked cars. Note the arc lights outside bungalows 8,9, and 10. Note the camera up on casters and the boom mike. There’s a cameraman and a soundman. I’ve seen them at Googie’s. They’re headed-for-hell hopheads and rancid racetrack touts.

  Dig: it’s finito. The A-bomb wipes out the world. It’s Steve the Stud’s delicious duty to repopulate it. He’s got titillating talent to siphon his seed and assist. Joi Lansing, Anita O’Day, and Babs Payton. Plus ten call girls headed for Hollyweird stardom and felony smut raps.

  I hid hip-deep in a high sand dune. I brought binoculars and Bernie Spindel’s sound-receiver. It was battery-juiced and sent sound to headphones-cum-earmuffs. The set was forty yards down. I had open-door and smashed-window sight lines. The arc lights and malignant moonglow made me Johnny-on-the-spot.

  The courtyard was Cochran’s command post. Steve mingled with the thirteen lucky ladies. They wore crocheted bikinis cut hairpie looooooow. The girls scrolled script copies and learned their lines. They moved their lips and traded quips.

  “How can we live with such devastation?” and “I don’t want our kids growing up with Strontium-90 in their bones.” Joi said, “First, we’ve got to have the kids. Do you think Big Steve’s up to the task? The motel is the Garden of Eden. Big Steve is our Adam, and all thirteen of us are his Eves.” Babs said, “I heard he’s hung like a barracuda.” Anita said, “People blame the Communists and the Soviet Union for everything bad in the world. But I say, ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’ ” And, dig: “It’s the good old USA who A-bombed the Japs.”

  Ooohhh—Studly Steve’s script toes the repugnant Red line. Shuddering shades of Red Connie Woodard!!!

  Steve walked actress to actress. He pulled down their bikini tops and looooooow-leveled the bottoms. The arc lights lit hairpie glow. Steve lined up the cast. They stood thirteen strong. The nite was cold. Goose bumps popped pandemic. Steve microphone-mauled his talent pool.

  “Achtung, meine Kinder. Comrade Steve speaks, and your job as my Fertility Guard is to listen. We’re shooting scene one now. Bungalow nine has been decorated with some Nazi gear I’ve collected. Babs portrays Hilda, She-Wolf of the SS. My job is to impregnate and reindoctrinate her. Chop, chop, comrades. Babs and crew to bungalow nine. The rest of you huddle up in your cars and stay warm.”

  Twelve girls beat feet out of the courtyard. Steve and Babs as Hilda hit Bungalow 9. The camera guy and sound guy followed them. The setup took six seconds. I had live sound and a smashed-window view. Roll it, Big Steve.

  Lights, camera, action. Big Steve rolls it. The camera caught the swastika wall banners and the rising-sun bedspread. Steve as Adam and Babs as Hilda squared off.

  Steve/Adam: “Look, you fascist bitch, you’ve got to atone for your sins and submit to reeducation, like Comrade Stalin did with the Moscow trials in the ’30s.”

  Babs/Hilda: “Don’t sound me, muchacho. The Moscow trials were a shuck—and I know it because I subscribe to Klansman magazine. I’m hip to geeks like you. If you think you’re going to repopulate the world with me, you’d better stow the lecture and show me what I’m getting into.”

  Steve/Adam whips it out. Man, what a schvantz!!!

  Babs/Hilda says, “I’m impressed, but der Führer was bigger. Eva Braun told me he packed a hard yard. But I guess twelve inches is better than nothing, especially if the fate of the world is at stake.”

  Steve/Adam says, “I’m radioactive, baby!!! You know what I want!!!”

  Babs goes woo-woo and shucks her bikini. Big Steve dumps his duds. They forgo foreplay. They hop on the Jap bedspread and instigate insertion. Steve’s a two-minute man. It’s over that quixotically quick. Steve climbs to a climax and wails in rapturous Russian. Say what? Babs/Hilda chortles and lights a cigarette.

  The whole night went listlessly likewise. Up to the pustulating point that it changed.

  Babs/Hilda does it with Steve. Ditto Anita as Nuke-Bomb Nellie. Joi plays Evil Eve. She does it with Steve—and fails to jolt me jealous. The collective call girls strip and dog-pile Big Steve. Half the sizzle sex fizzles. Steve can’t get it up. He’s a wilted wonder boy. His beast is bushed. He’s auf Wiedersehen, adios, sadly sayonara. His priapus is proschai.

  I watched for hours. My vulturous voyeurism nudged toward its nadir. It bid me to boredom. Man, what a drip-dry drag.

  The camera guy and sound guy packed up their shit. Steve moped around the courtyard and mumbled to his muse. I bent my binoculars to Bungalow #7. I saw Anita O’Day and Babs Payton prep jolts of Big “H.”

  They cooked it. They fed a spike. They tied off tourniquets. They geezed and went smack-back. They hit Cloud 9 as Steve entered the room.

  He backhanded Babs. She hit the floor. Anita backed up to the bed. Steve stood over her. Anita brandished the spike. Steve grabbed it and stabbed her in the leg.

  Anita screamed and sobbed. I heard it high up on my dune. Steve stormed out of the bungalow. He glowed radioactive red. The red was Strontium-90. It’s got a half-life of ten thousand years. I glowed rage-red myself.

  * * *

  —

  Stretch was asleep. Lance the Leopard cleaved close to her and snarled at me. They ordered room service. Lance left paw prints on the white tablecloth.

  I changed clothes. I put on black gloves, black slacks, and a black turtleneck. I stopped at an all-nite novelty store on my way over. I bought a rubber red devil mask.

  I tried it on. I posed in front of the bathroom mirror. I’m George Collier Akin, reborn. I capered and preened.

  Havenhurst was a short shot up Sunset. I got my sled and slid there in the slow lane. I cut south and parked. It was 3:00 a.m. His lair lights still glowed.

  I put the mask back on. The Red Devil Bandit resurrects. I beelined to his door and rang the bell.

  He opened up. He screeched and backed away. Size isn’t everything. I pulled my beavertail sap and bitch-backhanded him.

  It tore him a high harelip and took out some teeth. The reverse shot ripped him a new widow’s peak. He hit the floor like Babs Payton did.

  I picked up a Russian-helmet ashtray and dumped butts on his head. I hurtled high and drop-kicked him. I heard ribs crack. Rib bones sheared out of his shirt.

  He screeched. His eyes rolled back. I forced open the lids and put my red devil face upside his. He sputtered and coughed up Camels and Kool Kings. I wiped ash off my red devil face.

  ROGUE FBI FIELD FACILITY

  Office Building at Wilshire and Mariposa

  3/22/54

  Harry said, “This is pricey. I’ve got palms to grease. Bondage Bob’ll have to dig deep on this one.”

  Some office. One confined cubicle. Thoroughly threadbare. Bare-bones and strictly cut-rate. It’s twenty feet by twenty feet. There’s three desks/three chairs. There’s one file cabinet, no fone, no Teletype.

  “These guys are black bag, all the way. McCarthy’s kaput. He can’t call old man Hoover and say, ‘Hey, Johnny—I need some men to hunt Reds.’ ”

  Harry shrugged. “They’ve got some Federal motor pool vehicles. At least three, by the looks of this place. Remember that plate number I ran for you? That car was checked out to these guys.”

  I said, “See if you can put a name to it, okay? The car might have been specifically assigned.”

  “Sure, kid. You and Bondage Bob say, ‘Jump,’ and I say, ‘How high?’ ”

  I thought it through. The word Holl
ywood hit me. I prowl Casa Connie. Her current diary drivel drills me. She fears jumped-up Joe McCarthy’s last gasp and fears for her cell. Joe’s working a Hollywood angle. It’s in tight and spicy specific. He thinks he’ll bag big names somewhere down the line. It’s his loopy last hurrah. It’s a Hollywood headline hunt. Here’s a hunch. He doesn’t quite know where it all is or what he’s got.

  Harry harumphed. “Freddy, get to it. We’ve got three hours, not three weeks.”

  I popped the top file drawer. It was Bug City. Bug mounts, bug mikes, bug transceivers and cords. Plus loooooong-range broadcast shit. I popped the middle file drawer. It was Hurt City. Brass knucks, rubber truncheons, ball-bearing saps.

  I popped the bottom file drawer. It was Rat City. A file sticker spelled it out: “Security 1-A: Coded Informant Index.”

  Four thin files. Thin gruel. Thin carbon sheets couched within.

  File #1. Code name: “Big Duke.” These notes: “No remuneration. Subject has said his motive is ‘love of country.’ Has numerous contacts within the entertainment industry.”

  I’ll say. It has to be John Wayne. He’s ratted Reds since the ice age. It doesn’t say he’s a cross-dresser. He’s strictly straight—but still. My Marines foto-fucked him at the Big Girls Boutique in Balboa. He bought his way out of a biiiiiiiig exposé.

  File #2. Code name: “Mama Zee.” These notes: “Noted writer (Negro) turned anti-Communist zealot. Has numerous contacts within the Negro community in Los Angeles.”

  I’ll say. It has to be Zora Neale Hurston. She rats Reds to Bondage Bob. She’s fetchingly featured in Confidential’s “Darktown Strutters’ Ball” clips.

  File #3. Code name: “Mr. Webfoot.” These notes: “Subject hosts local L.A. kiddie show. In hock to bookmakers. Always needs $ & knows people within the CP.”

  I’ll say. It has to be Jimmy Weldon. He’s a venal ventriloquist. Webster Webfoot’s a downscale Donald Duck. Jimmy’s a Googie’s geek. He peddles piles of the Carole Landis nude morgue pix.

  File #4. Code name: “Redbird.” No summary notes. One bank-deposit summary.

  The deposits ran from March ’47 up to last month. $150 per week. ’47 to ’54. Almost seven full years. Account #8309. The bank branch: the B of A at Melrose and Cahuenga.

  I’LL SAY. Melrose and Cahuenga. It’s four blocks from the Horvath House of Death. Red Stromwall found a B of A passbook in Joan’s undie drawer. The balance: fourteen g’s. The weekly snitch pay stopped last month. Joan Horvath esta muerto.

  I’ll say. What would you say? How does this sound to you?

  My Joan. Communist Party infiltrator/FBI snitch.

  * * *

  —

  I’m a Pervdog. We’re nativistically nocturnal. Our genus genuflects at moon fall and comes alive at nite. We seek succor in the scent of secret lives, half hidden. We peep, prowl, break, enter, SEEK.

  Day dimmed to dusk. I parked across the street from Connie Woodard’s house. I was half gone on high-test lemonade. The Pervdog percolates.

  I holed up at the Larchmont listening post, all afternoon. I called the B of A branch at Melrose and Cahuenga. I impersonated Joe Fed. I demanded the name attached to account #8309. The timid teller gave it up: Joan Hubbard Horvath.

  It felt right. It felt wrong. I reacted, reflexive. I sought Connie Woodard’s scent.

  I hooked on headphones. I caught calls. Connie called her cleaner’s and a Chevy dealership. I heard backup bips on my line. My hackles heaved.

  The looooong-range transceiver. It’s packed at the pathetic pocket office. It’s expensive equipment. It hints of a centralized eavesdrop apparatus. Jolting Joe McCarthy. Not as pointedly pathetic as one might think? Communist Connie—quite possibly bugged and tapped?

  Rain clouds eclipsed the moon I came to howl at. The sky unzipped and ripped rain. I ran my heater and warmed my canine coat. Connie Woodard walked out her front door.

  She wore a formal kilt ensemble. A tartan sash was cinched across her embroidered black crepe blouse. Tartan pleats ran down to her knock-knees. White kneesocks and black brogues filled the ensemble out.

  She shagged her ’52 Chevy and cut southbound. It felt right. It felt wrong. I felt summoned suddenly. Take note of what you are seeking, for it is seeking you. Some sweaty swami said that. I get it now, Daddy-O.

  I walked across the street and picked the back-door lock. Connie left the kitchen lights on. She left lurid leads out in plain sight.

  The broken milk-bottle glass and milk mulch in the sink.

  The Milk of Magnesia bottle on the counter. Milk of Magnesia absorbs ingested barbiturates.

  Connie’s coldly outraged. She’s been vilely violated. She’s left those leads out to address me. You contemptible coward—will you fling your hands high and flee?

  I wimp-wavered. I almost flipped out and fled. Her summons seduced me. I ran upstairs instead.

  Connie left the bedroom lights on. I went straight to her clothes closet and her scent. I opened her file drawers. She left her 1949 diary out and bookmarked for me. 9/10/49. Connie carves her pen across the initials JH and scrawls “Traitor” boldface.

  I sat in a red leather chair. The red walls closed in on me. I pulled my roscoe and jammed it under the seat cushion. I looked over at the bed. She’d left those lezbo love letters out for me to read.

  Take note of what you are seek—

  I read at them and through them. I looked for the name Joan and/or the initials JH. They weren’t there. There were no torrid texts. It was all kiss and swerve and breath and scent. I failed to determine gender or genus—male/female/moon-mad beast.

  I shut my eyes. I summoned seconds of safety and solace and slid into sleep. It was kiss and swerve and breath and scent and scent on wool and black crepe. Take note of—

  I stirred and stretched and saw her. She stood by the bed. She held a Makarov automatic. The kilt ensemble caught me and held me. She was fifty-two. We’re May and September. She dressed this way to meet me. It’s some furtive first or one-and-only blind date.

  I said, “Redbird. You must know that this is about her.”

  She said, “There’s some high points here. She betrayed the Party, and you killed her husband. I saw your photograph in the paper. I thought, He is certainly a young man who intends to go places, and you certainly have. ‘Tattle Tyrant’ suits you, but ‘Peeping Tom’ and ‘Slander Merchant’ might be more apt.”

  I sprawled. She stood. Her bed stood between us. I felt underdressed and outmaneuvered and called out in calm contempt. She’s verging on rude rebuke, and I still want to touch her.

  “You’re wearing battle kit. I saw you at Jack Kennedy’s bomb party, and you didn’t evince this sort of flair. I’ve found some things out about you, and you know me by reputation. That stands as the basis of some sort of discussion. I’m a peeper, and you want me to see you. You left your diary and your letters out for me to read. You’re begging a stranger who’s assaulted your home and your person for intimate comprehension, and I want to know why.”

  She messed with her Makarov. She had fast hands. She racked out the round in the chamber and popped out the clip. She tossed it on the red leather chair. My piece was stuffed under the cushion.

  “ ‘Intimate comprehension.’ It works both ways, you know. Perhaps I should tell you what I know about you, so that we might turn this into an opportunity.”

  I said, “Tell me.”

  She said, “I was in love with Joan Horvath. You weren’t the only one inclined to park outside her house and moon. I’ve counted the money you left in her mailbox on more than one occasion, and I’m convinced that you intend to kill the person who killed her, since the man that you’ve already killed certainly didn’t do it. You have my consent for this, and my word that I won’t report the act, or any act that might have transpired between us up to this point.”

 
; I said, “I’ve read your diaries. Comrade, your whole life’s a deception. Your word’s about as good as mine is, and that’s hardly an indictment.”

  She put one knee on the bed. Tartan battle kit. The pleats/the wool/the scent. One long leg exposed.

  “It’s all about Joan, you see. It’s your willingness to act, and my willingness to suborn your intention. I would never betray anyone who possessed the grit to do what you intend to do, despite my shoddy track record with veracity for its own sake.”

  I stood up. Connie stood still. I reached under the seat cushion and grabbed my piece. I have fast hands. I racked out the chamber round, popped the clip, and tossed it all on the bed.

  Connie said, “Say her name.”

  I said, “Joan.”

  She said, “Well, then.”

  I said, “I intend to see you again.”

  She said, “Yes, of course.”

  I made for the door and brushed by her. I touched her back and nuzzled her hair. She leaned into me one mad moment.

  INFERNAL INTERMEZZO:

  My Furtively Fucked-up Life

  3/23–4/4/54

  It started like that. We were joined in Joan and forged in forgiveness. Sex saturated us. I’ve decided to dim the details by dint of decorum. “Freddy & Connie.” Initials cutely carved on a tree. I’m thirty-two, she’s fifty-two. You know what I am. Connie Woodard defies cloying classification. Commie, lezbo, sweltering switch-hitter. Take your punk pick. She’s all of it, some of it, none of it.

  I’m being dizzy disingenuous. Connie’s a righteous Red. She’s a treasonous true believer with her hooks hitched into me. I’m foiled and fucked five thousand ways. Perdition, catch my soul. And she won’t let me all-the-way SEE her.

  I needed names to know her and to know who killed Joan. Known associates, rancid Reds, fractured front-group front men. Fellow travelers, pusillanimous pinks, lily-livered leftists. Give me names/no, I won’t/Connie takes the farshtinkener Fifth Amendment. Tell me the names of your Commie cell mates. I’ve already memorized their initials. Who’s SA? Who’s RJC? Who’s EPD? I’ve scurvily skimmed your diaries—and I’m tweaked. I told you I killed the Red Devil Bandit in cold blood. You must reciprocate in kind.