by James Ellroy
“Joanie was never a Commie or a Comsymp. She was an FBI plant at the gate. We financed her radio show and gave her a stipend she could live on. She was always ours, and we planted her in Connie Woodard’s UCLA class, because Connie was lez and loved young-idealist cooze, and because Connie was the den mother of the L.A. Left. Joanie was bait from 1939 on. She was nothing but a promiscuous gang girl with hotshot college degrees, and she was on the Federal payroll up to the time of her death. I set Joanie up with Ralphie Horvath, and they got a 459 thing going. So fucking what? Burglary isn’t treason, the last time I checked.”
I sucked bonded bourbon. I passed the flask. Charlie sucked bonded bourbon. He was booze-bombed and hurtin’ for certain. He took on this weird white witch doctor look.
“So, the cell. There’s a joke for you. Sammy A., that hump Crawshaw, and Ellie Donnell. They were smart, though. They recanted before they got named, which left the den mother all by her lonesome. And she was a joke, but she knew everybody, and everybody confided in her. She’s the linchpin of this new thing Joe M.’s running, and we wired her place, but the bugs and taps went on the fritz. Joanie was set to testify, as a friendly witness. She was going to lay out the criminal misdeeds of Ahlendorf, Crawshaw, and Donnell, as sidebars to their recantings, to tell the whole world that onetime Commies never change. But, Joanie gets snuffed. So, there’s a hot-prowl hump on the loose. So, the LAPD keys on him as a suspect, and blows him up. You were there, you should know.”
I ran through the rat-out. One riff rang false.
“I can see Crawshaw and Donnell as criminals—sure. But Ahlendorf didn’t hit me as the criminal type.”
“Yeah, but Sammy’s bent. We knew that, at the start. He emigrated in ’36, but he kept going back to Russia, under false passports that the Party fixed him up with. He was embroiled in some shifty stuff over there, but we never figured out what.”
I said, “That long-range post you’re running. You didn’t set that whole deal up just to nail the den mother.”
Charlie said, “That’s correct. We’ve got nine other cells wired up, lockstep. The members are all Hollywood types, including some very large names, and most of them are linked to the den mother. Joe M. wants to squeeze her and get her to roll on them. She’s never rolled before, but we’ve got her for Murder One, up in Marin County. A lawyer went missing, and we know why. You know how we know? Because Joanie told us. This guy was putting the boots to her, and the den mother got jealous and snuffed him. We can get her full immunity, if she rolls. If she doesn’t roll, she’s got a hot date with the green room.”
I sighed. “Constance Linscott Woodard will never roll.”
Charlie said, “Freddy, you’re blushing.”
* * *
—
The post was spiffed, spangled, and space age. Joe McCarthy scrounged the latest and greatest new stuff.
Long-range broadband transceivers. All-weather bug mounts, suited for outdoor use. Camouflaged microphones. Long-play tape recorders. Automatic voice activators. Static-eliminating headsets.
Plus work desks. Plus twelve file cabinets. All of them unlocked. All stuffed with bug-and-tap transcripts. Nine Commie cells headed for Hell.
I stuffed 12-gauge shotgun shells in the file drawers and spread gunpowder on top. I placed paper bags full of fertilizer and ammonium nitrate under the desks. I splashed two-gallon gas cans full of Mobile Supreme on the floor. I left the front door open and blasted seven ACP rounds inside.
The post blew up mauve and pink. It harked me back to Hiroshima and that blistering blast at Jack K.’s bomb bash. There’s this magnificent mushroom cloud, all aglow.
THE GOOGIE’S PARKING LOT
4/7/54
Googie’s. Early-bird peeps from my Packard pimpmobile. A peremptory peep for Claire Klein, specific.
I popped dexies and chain-smoked. The a.m. Herald was due. Fullerton wouldn’t rat me. He was in deep with a putrid pol soon to implode. I had him for all his Joanie-Ralphie 459 shit. The listening-post blast would blare headlines. The Feds would stagnantly stonewall it. The words McCarthy/black-bag job/rogue action would not pry their way into print.
I peeped the back window. Four shadows whipped by my windshield. Sergeant Max Herman. Sergeant Red Stromwall. Sergeant Harry Crowder. Officer Eddie Benson.
The Hats. Pearl gray suits and white Panamas. Trouble treads my way.
I waved faux wolfsbane. They deadpanned it. Max and Red yanked me out of the car. Harry and Eddie cuffed me. They tossed me in the backseat of their K-car and sandwiched me in tight.
Max drove. Red whistled “Funeral March of a Marionette.” We ran Code 3 downtown. We hit City Hall and took the freight lift up to the DB. They dumped me in sweatbox #3 and cuffed me to a chair. Note the fat fone book on the table.
Max said, “You’re fucked, Freddy. Metro’s been spot-tailing you since February.”
Red said, “We know everyone that you’ve seen and everything that you’ve done.”
Harry said, “The moment of truth approaches, Freddy.”
Eddie said, “Your camel-fucking ass is grass.”
I said, “Maybe we can pin my grief on some random lowlifes. The Herald’s always willing to go that route for you guys.”
Max phone-booked me. He threw a top-of-the-head/leave-no-marks shot. He cracked my cranium gooood.
“We know every sleazy thing that you and your goons have pulled for Confidential. We saw you and Bernie Spindel hot-wire Steve Cochran’s place, and we saw you pull that red devil stunt with him the night of the film shoot. We know all about your wingding with the den mother, who seems a little long in the tooth for a young stud like you. We tailed you to your interviews with Samuel Ahlendorf, that geek Crawshaw, and Ellie Donnell. We boom-miked your assault on Agent Fullerton, and we saw you blow up the Fed post.”
Red phone-booked me. He threw a cause-great-pain/leave-no-marks shot.
“You’re fucked, Freddy. We know all of your shit, inside out.”
Harry phone-booked me. “You’re not our pal anymore, Freddy. You’re just some jamoke that’s outlived his usefulness.”
Eddie phone-booked me. “We’ve got you for Treason, Sedition, and boocoo Smith Act violations. You’ll burn, just like the Rosenbergs.”
Max phone-booked me. He employed his love-tap/this-ain’t-so-bad swing. “We’d appreciate it if you’d recount your interviews with Ahlendorf, Crawshaw, and Donnell. That would go a long way toward earning our favor.”
Red phone-booked me. He tossed a love-tap uppercut.
“We’ll let you think about it. We’ll put you up in a tidy cell, away from the riffraff. I know the Chief is looking forward to speaking with you.”
Harry phone-booked me. “Freddy O.’s wild ride has just ended.”
Eddie phone-booked me. “R.I.P., Freddy.”
* * *
—
They tossed me in a holding cell. My bunk was bare-bones. My hurt head hit a hard pillow. It caromed me into a coma.
I wasted Ralph Mitchell Horvath. Joi gobbled Steve the Stud’s schvantz. I beat up Johnnie Ray. I peeped ten thousand houses. I popped penance payments in Joanie Horvath’s mailbox.
I must have cried. I soaked my pillow down to the mattress. My head felt homogenized. My cerebellum sang sad songs. My cranium creaked.
William H. Parker racked the door and sat on my bunk. He wore his full four-star blues.
“The Los Angeles Police Department now owns you. As of this moment, Confidential has ceded its claim. We will let you skate for everything that you have done. You will skate for your assault on Agent Fullerton, and for blowing up the listening post. You will skate for your rogue actions on the Joan Horvath snuff. You will skate for any and all of your illegal actions while in the employ of Confidential. We will allow you to avenge Joan Horvath, however you deem fit. In recompense for the above s
tated mercies, you will enter my direct employ.”
Parker paused. His Bible gaze burned my soul. The Book of Revelation 3:17–18: And you don’t realize that you are wretched and miserable and poor and blind and naked. So, I advise you to buy gold from me—gold that has been purified by fire.
I said, “Yes.”
Parker said, “You will sign a detailed confession regarding your work for Confidential. You will serve as my personal informant and agent provocateur, and assist me in my efforts to destroy the magazine. We are going to bankrupt it, expose the breadth of its evil, and slay it dead in Federal court. As of now, you are my personal snitch, rat, stool pigeon, and squealer. Say ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ immediately. Your answer will dictate the course of the rest of your life.”
I said, “Yes.”
* * *
—
Tough tasks. Deep duties. My vows to first fulfill. WOMEN said it all.
Joan, Claire, Connie. Linked in cause and effect. Calamitous causation. Let’s extract the truth thereof.
I bopped to Beverly Hills and beat feet to my bungalow. I stood by my wall graph and linked lines in black ink. I linked Joan to Connie, straight up.
Connie knew every Commie in captivity. Joan’s killer lurked there. The ’30s and ’40s CP in L.A. Comintern cads coursing through. Fractious front groups established and unions usurped. How many dark-haired/heavy-bristled white men lurked and looted within?
On to Claire. Let’s craft a chronology. Let’s link lines. Let’s answer this quivering question: who’s the man that Claire wants to kill?
A nihilist notion nudged me. It was all circumstantial and based on thirdhand dish. Claire’s out to get Sammy Ahlendorf. Here’s my line links:
Lez Line #2. Stretch monitors it. Babs Payton dishes per her three-ways with Claire. Claire tricks with Russian consulate humps. She speaks Russian. Ahlendorf is Russian—but emigrated here in ’36. Claire pumps out the code name “Robin Redbreast.” V. J. Jerome says it’s a former Red named “Sammy.” Samuel Ahlendorf belonged to Connie Woodard’s cell. Claire carries a Makarov pistol. Claire hates Reds and has finked them to HUAC. Babs dishes this: Robin Redbreast was a crazy Commo in the ’30s and ’40s. He’s stale stuff in the ’50s. His expulsion from the Manhattan Project underlines this.
Then, there’s this:
Sammy digs Russian revolutionary art. He rankly revealed it to me. Ellie Donnell told me the tale of Meyerhold’s maiming and murder. Meyerhold was a fitful formalist. He renounced socialist realism and pissed off the punk Politburo. Meyerhold is snuffed, circa ’39–’40. His wife Zinaida Raikh is torture-stabbed and slain. A Wave officer braces Party Girl at an all-Party bash in L.A. It has to be Claire. She presses Party Girl per the whole Meyerhold deal. Claire’s armed with supple suppositions now. She’s got Sammy gun-sighted. That’s a probable certainty.
Harry Fremont was tight with a U.S. Customs cop. I called and asked him to run passport checks on Claire and Sammy A. Check for Russian excursions. Post-’36 for Sammy. He might be using forged Party passports. Look for variants on the Robin Redbreast code name. Do this per Claire: check birth certificates per her surname and DOB. Check her parents’ surnames. Check Claire’s passport travel: ’39 and ’40. She was of legal age then. Did she connect to Robin Redbreast in Russia? Meyerhold was a sweltering swordsman. Did he siphon his seed in ’20 and ’21 in New York? Did he somehow spawn spectacular Claire? I pledged Harry a grand and told him to get back to me faaaaast. He told me it was all far-fetched. Yeah, but you never know.
I ink-linked lives. Claire, Joan, Connie—shakedown shills, rabid Reds, knock-kneed succubi. I ran them all through the Book of Revelation and found that they fit right there.
The fone rang. I picked up. Harry said, “I’ll never doubt you again.”
“Tell me why.”
“Claire and Robin Redfield—that’s the name on Ahlendorf’s passport—crossed paths in Moscow in late ’39 and ’40, but they traveled separately.”
I said, “Don’t stop now.”
Harry said, “Who’s stopping? Customs ran the Klein skirt’s DOB in New York. The guy was smart, because he cross-checked ‘Claire Klein’ with birth-parent names, and got Meyerhold and Zinaida Raikh. The Meyerholds granted custody to Mendel Klein and his wife, Clara, who were both big Party and radical-theater people. They gave the baby their name, and it all fits, just like you said it would.”
The Book of Revelation 2:9–10: I know about your suffering and your poverty….I know the blasphemy of those opposing you.
* * *
—
I owed Sambo a warning. I sensed his malevolent move, back in Russia. He finked Meyerhold and his missus to the Politburo and the NKVD. He cited reconstructionism, recidivism, formalism. He kissed Commie ass as only Commies can. His motive was most likely envy. He didn’t want to be a bomb big shot. He wanted to be a radical-theater rajah. He wanted to mesmerize the masses, à la Meyerhold in his hoodwinked heyday.
Dusk hit. I looped Coldwater Canyon northbound and hit the Valley. The Valley Vista Villas loomed. I surveillance-circled the block and came back behind the buildings. I noticed a series of second-floor terraces with connecting walkways.
Let’s surprise Comrade Sambo. Pick the sliding-glass-door lock and enter his crib. Hey, Sambo—it’s dues time. Run while you can. Claire Klein is radical theater beyond your corrupt ken.
I parked and schlepped it up to the terrace walkway. Sambo’s pad was three glass doors down. I heard shuddering Shostakovich bursting from within. The muted message was Fuck the Soviet Beast. The doors were heavy glass and locked from inside. I thought I heard one single screech.
I was too late. Sambo ran toward the terrace—and me. He was naked. His pubic hair had been shaved. His eyes had been stabbed out. His chest and legs had been stabbed. Claire chased after him. She wore a wooden Kabuki mask. Kabuki masks were a Meyerhold trademark. Claire’s mask bore the face of Zinaida Raikh.
Comrade Sam couldn’t see me. Zinaida-Claire didn’t see me. Comrade Sam tripped and fell. Claire ran her shiv between his legs and eviscerated him.
* * *
—
Rush-hour traffic. It slowed my trek back. I stopped at a pay phone to kill time. I called Bill Parker and gave him a loose lowdown. He said, “Thanks, Freddy.” He said, “Better dead than Red,” and hung up.
I hung up and snail-trailed back to 6th and Dunsmuir. Charlie Fullerton lived above his garage. His garage enticed me.
Old police detectives and Feds. They saved their most fecund files and stored them in marked boxes. They piled said boxes in their garages—more often than not.
Charlie would be off at the Raincheck Room or Rick’s Riptide. It was 7:45. I had lock picks and a penlight. I had Whiskey Bill Parker’s home number if I fell in the shit.
It went as predicted. I picked the lock and picked through stuffed boxes. They were code-named and listed code-numbered rat-outs. I found the “Redbird” boxes and counted numbered snitches. Who killed you, baby? There’s just numbers—no names.
Fullerton inked occasional comments. Rat-out #114 stood out. This guy was Hard Red and Deep Red. Sammy Ahlendorf mentored him. He talked up the need to snuff Federal snitches. He did this incessantly. Joan ratted him in May ’49. He never joined the cell. Fullerton called him a fellow traveler. He was a closeted Party member. He drifted off for parts unknown, fall ’49.
I wrote “114” and Fullerton’s comments on my scratch pad. I wrote down numbers and comments for a dozen other snitches. I planned to pop the den mother with Pentothal. I believe in coerced confessions. How could I not? Bill Parker just made me his snitch.
* * *
—
I beat retreat feet to Googie’s. The Tattle Tyrant turns tail. He slinks in defeat.
Rock Hudson sat in my booth. He was anchored in anguish and locked in loss. He’s all worriso
me and woe is me.
I sat down. Rock said, “Ask me why I look like warmed-over shit. I’m a movie star. I can’t afford days like this.”
“Tell me—but it’s not like I can’t guess.”
Rock said, “Claire robbed me. She cracked the safe in my den, and stole twelve grand in cash and forty grand in gold Krugerrands. She’ll be long gone by now, and I know I’ll never see her again. I called Lew Wasserman, and, man, is he pissed.”
“You got off easy, brother. Some day I’ll tell you why.”
Rock slid me a slip of paper. “She left this in the safe. It’s for you. You get a good-bye, but I don’t.”
I read the note. It was bravura brief:
Freddy, love:
Rain check, okay? I’ll be thinking of you.
All best,
C.K.
THE DEN MOTHER’S RED BEDROOM
4/8/54
I said, “It’s for Joan.”
She said, “You know exactly what to say to get exactly what you want from me. Truth serum, really.”
Connie sat in the red chair. I sat on the red footstool. She held out her left arm. I swipe-swabbed it with alcohol and measured a mainline. I spike-speared her and jammed her the juice.
She sighed and went loosey-goosey. I said, “Count backward from one hundred and feel free to shut your eyes.”
She moved her lips. I barely heard it: 100, 99, 98, gonesville. I took a brief breather and consulted my control notes.
Joan rat-out #84. Code name: Lazy Maizie. She’s a San Marino socialite. She makes big donations to the Strikebusters’ International. It’s a known Commo front. Joan rat-out #204. Code name: John Henry. He’s a male Negro. He’s right tackle for the Detroit Lions. Charlie Fullerton’s comment: “All the mud-shark girls go nuts for him.”
I said, “How do you feel, Connie?”
