by James Ellroy
“Chrissy picked up a tail at the York Avenue on-ramp. It’s a ’49 Ford ragtop, tan over blue. I got the plate number and buzzed the DMV. It’s her brother Robbie’s ride. Robbie’s got a green sheet. One fall for pandering, one for 459.”
I said, “Shit, this is grief.” I brain-broiled a cool countermeasure.
“The Vice guys at the Lodge have a walkie. They’re tapped in at 69, D-for-Dog. Buzz them and tell them to grab Robbie, plant some dope on him, and hold him. He’s out to mess the gig up, and we need Chrissy and Pepper in the sack and at it for this deal to work for the magazine and Bill Parker.”
Don tittered and tee-heed. He giggled, guffawed, and laffed lewd.
“Yeah, plus full bush, insertion, Pepper’s sax and groovy dope paraphernalia in view.”
Wire warp froze the frequency and cut the call off. I knew Don would field a follow-thru and buzz 69-Charlie. He’d rig the rendezvous. We’d converge and collide at the Lodge. Chrissy knocks on Door #9. Pepper opens up. He might be noxiously nude. We’ll airbrush in a two-foot schlong and redact it, down to his knees. Our randy readers will get the gestalt. Ward and Race will roll film from high cover. I get the kick-the-door-in shot. The Vice cops pile in behind me.
Oooooooh—it’s Stat Rape/1st Degree for Bill Parker. Ooooooooh—it stacks my status as LAPD Rat #1 and brings me brownie points with the pervy puritan I hocked my soul to!!!!
I hit the hill by Belmont High. Beverly bywayed to 1st Street. I goosed the gas eastbound. I cut north on Broadway and east on Alpine. There’s the Leechee Nut Lodge, up ah—
There’s a car cavalcade, curbside. Chrissy’s ’48 Merc. Robbie’s ’49 Ford ragger. Donkey Don’s ’53 Chev. The Lodge is horseshoe-shaped, one floor only. Chrissy’s cutting through the courtyard. She’s anxiously angling toward Door #9. Robbie’s skulking by the door of the Lily Pad Lounge. He’s peeping the courtyard. He’s insidiously intent. There’s Donkey Don and the Vice cops. They’re crapped out in deck chairs outside the office. They’re sharing a short dog of Old Crow.
I parked behind Don’s Chevy. The surveillance van parked behind me. I grabbed my righteous Rolleiflex. Ward and Race wrangled out their movie-camera shit. The whoooole scene sizzled in SIN-emascope and slid into a slithery sloooooow motion.
I signaled Don and the Vice cops and pointed to Robbie. They booze-barged over and braced him. He went Who, me? Don went Yeah, you—cocksucker. Robbie resisted and refuseniked. He put up his paws in a punk fighter’s pose and bop-de-bop danced on his toes. Vice Cop #1 nabbed his neck and whacked his head against the wall. Vice Cop #2 kicked him in the balls and cuffed his hands behind his back.
Robbie baby-bawled and bitch-squealed. Don grabbed his greasy hair and pulled him inside the Lily Pad Lounge. I scoped Door #9. I saw craaaazy Chrissy crash in and crotch-dive Art Pepper. Man—it’s a deep-focus door shot, delicioso!!!!!
The door slammed shut. I signaled Ward and Race and pointed to my wristwatch. The second hand tick-tocked toward fuckus interruptus. Tick, tick, tick—it tapped the two-minute mark. Donkey Don said, “Banzai.”
We ran to Door #9. Ward and Race rolled film. Donkey Don worked the sound gizmo. The Vice cops ran up and stood behind us. They put on palm-weighted sap gloves and got het up to hurl some hurt.
Ward counted down. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one—zero.”
I flat-foot kicked the door-doorjamb juncture. It juked the door hard off its hinges. The door flew back and in. It dumped a nightstand and pulped Pepper’s sax.
Man—it’s suckus interruptus.
Chrissy gobbled Ardent Art. Ardent Art geezed Big “H” in caustic concurrence. I got my shot. My boys rolled fuckee film. Chrissy went eeeek. Art Pepper said, “Oh shit.” The Vice cops charged the bed.
* * *
—
The Hats hard-nosed Robbie Molette. I observed. The City Hall DB/sweatbox row/two-way-mirrored walls and outside-corridor speakers.
I perv-peeped the action. Sweatbox #3 snap, crackled, popped. I goosed the wall volume dial and caught every nasty nuance.
Robbie sat in a bolted-down chair. Note the bolted-down table and fat phone book. The Hats hovered. Max Herman waved Robbie’s green sheet. Red Stromwall riffled Robbie’s wallet. Harry Crowder crowded Robbie and caused a case of the sweltering sweats. Eddie Benson tapped the table and looked meeeaaan.
Max said, “Pandering. Pleaded down at arraignment, March ’52. You’re the most raggedy-ass-looking pimp I’ve ever seen, Robbie. Successful pimps take considerable care with their appearance.”
Es la verdad. Robbie dressed pure pachuco. He wore a see-thru Sir Guy shirt and slit-bottom khakis. Pointy-toe fruit boots cinched the enchanting ensemble. Robbie evinced bad hygiene. Dandruff debris dusted the table. Robbie picked his nose and noshed the nuggets.
Red said, “459 PC. Three counts. Tossed at prelim, January ’53.”
Robbie said, “I quit pimping, and I quit burglarizizing. Actually, I don’t know what the beef here is. You boys and those magazine shitheels kicked my ass, when all I was doing was lounging in the vicinity of a room where my underage sister was about to get devirginizized by a notorious junkie and degenerate.”
Harry laffed. “Your sister’s three weeks and one day under the age of consent. The DA will never file Stat Rape on Pepper.”
Eddie laffed. “He’ll file for possession of narcotics, and leave it at that. And your sister lost her virginity back in the Coolidge administration.”
Robbie laffed. “Yeah—just like your mama.”
Eddie phone-booked him. Whap—a real noggin-knocker. It scoured his scalp and raised blood blisters. His dentures dipped to the floor.
Robbie reached down and replaced them. Bill Parker walked up to me. He weaved a tad. I knew the signs. El Jefe was half in the bag.
I said, “Hola, Chief.”
Parker passed me his flask. I gargled Old Overholt and popped two Dexedrine on the sly.
“The kid’s dirty. I’ve got a theory. I think he wanted to catch Pepper in the kip with his sister, and extort him with it.”
Parker yukked. “Never let it be said that Freddy Otash doesn’t know from shakedowns.”
I passed the flask back. Parker yodeled Old Overholt. I rescoped the sweatbox hullabaloo.
Max said, “There’s a few items we’d like to discuss with you, Robbie.”
Robbie shrugged. Robbie said, “Okay.”
Red said, “Here’s the first item. There’s a note from the Boys Vice Principal at Hollywood High attached to your green sheet. He states that you were seen at last year’s Hollywood-Fairfax football game, attempting to pass yourself off as a ‘talent scout’ and recruit high school girls for your stable of underage prosties.”
Robbie stut-stuttered. He blanched and blew spit bubbles. They pop-pop-popped.
“That’s a humbug accusation. I’ve gone straight. I’m gigging as a busboy at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Talk to the desk manager. He’ll tell you I’m revered by both my fellow employees and all the guests.”
Max said, “Here’s the second item. An hour ago, we sent two plainclothesmen from the Highland Park Station to the house where you live with your mom and dad, and your sister. They tossed your room and found a stack of forty-two beaver photos of Chrissy, all of which were marked ‘$1.00’ on the back. Robbie, you would spare yourself a lot of grief, in this room and beyond, if you admitted that you were peddling those photographs, and that you and Chrissy were engaged in an attempt to extort Art Pepper, based on his somewhat specious relationship with Chrissy herself.”
Robbie sputtered and stuttered. His dentures popped out. He crammed them back in.
“That is a no-good, goddamn lie. The cops planted those pix, and—”
Harry phone-booked him. Whap—a real cranium-crunch. Robbie’s head bounced on the table. Ashtrays hopped, ciga
rette butts flew.
Parker said, “You called it on the extortion.”
I said, “The Hat Squad. Accept no substitutes.”
Robbie quivered and quaked. He shook, shimmied, and mewed for his mama. Max pulled his pocket flask and whipped it on him. Robbie suckled and siphoned it. His Adam’s apple bob-bobbed.
He drained the flask dry. Max tossed him a pack of cigarettes and a matchbook. Robbie lit up and surged with a sudden savoir faire.
“I’ll concede that I’m quite the racketeer, and that you’d do well to utilizize me as your personal secret informant. I’ve been known to provide young stuff to the guests at the hotel, so they might utilizize this young gash for what you might call ‘casting-couch sessions,’ which ain’t illegal the last time my high-priced Jew lawyer checked. Also, ‘Rapid Robbie,’ as I’m known in the trade, has been known to supply maryjane to the geeks working at film locations, throughout the southland. I’ll be candid here. I utilizize the inside scoop on the locations off of tips the guests feed me.”
Max said, “You’re a criminal mastermind.”
Red said, “I’ve never doubted it.”
Harry said, “People dismiss you as a dipshit kid, in over his head. They fail to see the real, dynamic you that lurks beneath the façade.”
Eddie said, “Keep going, hotshot. You’ve got us utilizized.”
Robbie blew smoke rings. “Right now, I’m moving maryjane to the gang on Rebel Without a Cause. That’s this juvenile delinquency lox being shot all over L.A. This jamoke Nick Ray’s directing it. He’s got the hots for all these rough-trade boys he’s hired to stand around and look tough in crowd scenes. I’m doing high-volume biz here. Nick the Dick’s signed up an all-hophead cast, and—”
Parker hit the speaker switch. Rapid Robbie ran his mouth and made mute-mime gestures. Nick the Dick. That shitbird. He holds swishy sway over Jimmy. I should look into—
“I’m working up a brainstorm, Freddy.”
“I’m listening, boss.”
“I want you to build a derogatory profile on the filming of Rebel Without a Cause. Deploy your pal James Dean and your usual gang of thugs, and sell Bob Harrison on the notion of a big spread in the magazine. You see where this is going? The piece is written. You improperly vet it. That leaves your shit rag that much more open to slander and libel charges, and in the meantime, you’ll be passing whatever hard criminal dirt accrues on to me through the Hats.”
I orbed the two-way mirror. Rapid Robbie mute-motormouthed. The Hats har-har’d and haw-hawed. Max Herman mugged at the mirror. He rolled his eyes and made the jack-off sign.
Parker passed the flask. I doused my dexie dose. Yeah!—a blistering blast of straight rye.
I said, “This gig packs potential. Cut dipshit loose, and I’ll see what I can do.”
* * *
—
Max made the meet. 6:00 p.m. at Ollie Hammond’s. He’ll be there, Freddy. It’s an ass kicking, otherwise.
I arrived early. I worked the pay phones for two hours flat. I called Bondage Bob Harrison first.
Bondage Bob bemoaned the Art Pepper fiasco. All that shakedown shit for one dope bounce? Bob bitched: The demonizing–dope fiends craze has crapped out. It’s muerto, you dig? I said, Au contraire, Daddy. It’s seditiously segued into the jejune juvenile delinquency craze. To withering wit: the filming of teen turkey Rebel Without a Cause.
I laid it aaalll out. Jimmy Dean’s my “in” on the shoot. Nick Ray’s a carcinogenic Comsymp. There’s sure to be horny hijinx with all the hot hunks and honeys on the set. Dig, Daddy: I’ll dive for the dirt, you’ll deliver the dish. Ten thousand words in the nuke-bomb November ’55 issue.
Bob bought it, big. We seamlessly segued to the Rock Hudson–Phyllis Gates mock-marriage mishegas. Universal instigated it. Rock was one gallivanting gay caballero, and Lew Wasserman wanted all ripe rumors quashed. He hired me to find Rock a wife. My first candidate ran rogue and ransacked Rock’s pad for cash and Krugerrands. Phyllis Gates seemed like a safe and sedate second bet. She was Rock’s agent’s secretary. She seemed to catch a secret scent of Rock’s man-lust modus operandi—but would most likely keep her mouth shut. Confidential planned to publish a dizzy-disingenuous piece. How’s this fly? “Rock’s Trippy Triangle—With Two Women!!!!!” How’s that for yuks and fucks/lies and sighs?
Bob said, You’ve got to find the other woman first. I said, Yeah—and I’m meeting Phyllis and Jimmy Dean at Googie’s tonite to discuss it. Bob signed off, per usual: L’chaim, boychik.
I called Jimmy’s pad and got no answer. I called his answering service and left a message: Nine tonite/Googie’s. I called Phyllis and told her to make the meet. She gassed on the tricky triad scenario. She said it should culminate in a catfight at the Mocambo.
I hung up and scoped the barside crowd. Shit—there’s Robbie Molette. He’s hard-hustling a high-toned blonde and causing an undulating upscut.
Shit—
I fast-walked over and grabbed him. Rodent Robbie squirmed and squeaked. I frog-marched him to a back booth and shoved him in. I said, “Behave.” Robbie sulked submissive. The barside babe blew me a kiss.
A waiter waltzed up. I ordered two double Old Crows, quicksville. Robbie smirked smug. The waiter dropped our drinks off and vamoosed.
Robbie said, “I know about you. My dad’s a grip at Metro. He called you ‘Mr. Fear.’ He said you’re the king of the shakedown.”
I lit a cigarette. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“That we’re two peas in a pod. That you should consider taking me on as a protégé. You could teach me the tricks of the trade and make me the new you. You could retire and ride off into the sunset then, knowing that you’ve got a vital young stud to fulfill your legacy.”
I cringed. “Let’s change the subject.”
“How about boxing? Ray Robinson versus Bobo Olson. I think Ray’s stale bread. Bobo’s a vital young stud, and it won’t go four rounds.”
“How about Rebel Without a Cause? Lay the full dish on me. If I like what I hear, I’ll let you run loose for a while. If I don’t, I’ll send you back to the Hats. You can play the role of the vital young stud in the queens’ tank at Mira Loma.”
Robbie cringed. “What’s to tell? Nick Ray’s a switcheroo man. He likes it young and hung, and ripe and saucy. The word is he stakes out one quiff of each gender on all his flicks. On Rebel, he’s got Jimmy Dean for the brown eye, and Natalie Wood on the distaff side. Natalie’s sixteen, in case you were curious. She’s also a nympho with lezbo tendencies, for what that’s worth.”
Rodent Robbie. Reptile Robbie. He delivers the dish. He’s cruel-credible so far.
“Keep going.”
Robbie chugalugged his drink. “So, I drop off the maryjane and toke with the actors. I observe the gestalt, and to my way of thinking, this actor Nick Adams is Nick Ray’s head honcho on the set. He’s the court jester and the instigator, the boss pimp and the guy who drops the hammer and fulfills Nick Ray’s skeevy hopes and dreams.”
I killed my drink. “What hopes and dreams?”
Robbie went tee-hee. “Getting all these punk, fruitcake, hophead actor kids to ‘fly without a parachute,’ ‘work without a net,’ and all that other movie horseshit, when all he really wants is limitless young woof-woof, and to manipulate people in the guise of his jive, so-called art.”
I clapped. I went Ole!!! I wolf-whistled and went Woo-woo!!!
“You’re not stupid, Robbie. That’s the only attaboy you’re ever likely to get from me, so enjoy it while you can.”
Robbie beamed biiiiiiiiiiig. “Nick Ray’s got all these hood-type extras under his thumb. He says he’s testing their ‘motivation.’ He’s sending them out on ‘chickie runs,’ like in the flick. Nick Adams is straw-bossing these deals, and Jimmy Dean’s along for the ride. I don’t know what’s actually hap
pening, but Jimmy calls them ‘panty raids.’ ”
I chained cigarettes. “Where do you drop the dope off?”
“The set, the location, or Nick Ray’s bungalow at the Chateau Marmont.”
I peeled off five C-notes and slid them across the table. Reptile Robbie rolled his eyes and went Oooh-la-la.
“I’m in the White Pages. Call me at home or page me at Googie’s the next time you’ve got a delivery.”
Robbie scooped up the cash. “Two for the road? A couple of aperitifs to keep your whistle wet?”
I sighed. “All right.”
“Hey, he’s acting bored and vexed already.”
“Robbie…”
“Okay, okay. Here’s aperitif number one, straight from Nick Ray’s mouth. Jimmy goes to leather bars and has guys put out their cigarettes on him. He is therefore known as the ‘Human Ashtray.’ Aperitif number two’s more predictable. Jimmy’s putting the moves on this kid actor, Sal Mineo. Pretty good, huh? Especially from a guy you only met a few hours ago.”
I flashed back. Jimmy at Googie’s. Little Band-Aids on his arms and neck. A solvent scent wafting my way.
Robbie stood up. I grabbed his waistband and slammed him back down to the table. He yelped and flailed. I held the table candle up to his face. Flame flutters scorched his pachuco pompadour and fried it to frazzled split ends.
“Jimmy and I go back. I’ll concede my soft spot. Watch what you say about him.”
GOOGIE’S ALL-NITE COFFEE SHOP
West Hollyweird
5/11/55
The 8:00 p.m. rush. Prosaic-predictable. Folks tumbled tables, noshed and shot the shit. Niteclub action accelerated around 9:30. Ditto, late-show movies. The Strip/the Boulevard. Ciro’s, the Mocambo, the Crescendo. Grauman’s Chink and the Egyptian. Googie’s bopped close to all.
I took my table. Tipsters tagged the Tattle Tyrant as fair game. They salaamed and sucked up. They delivered the dubious dish.
Orson Welles sliced the Black Dahlia. That choice chestnut. Here’s five scoots—please go away.
