Widespread Panic

by James Ellroy

  You’re decorous. It’s a deft deception. You project a state of groovy grace as you sally forth in sin. There’s a halo around you now. It hides your cold hearts and your constant calls to conquest.

  Janey, it’s you.

  You were born to play bait gigs. I’m enchanted and appalled.

  I barged out of the bash. I bopped over to the porte cochere and read Robbie’s note.

  “Nick’s Knights are mobilizing. Tomorrow night, 9:00 p.m. at the Marmont.”

  * * *

  —

  I remade myself as Stage Door Freddy. I’m a sweaty swain swooning for my phone to ring. I know her name, she knows my name. Nasty Nat’s our conduit and cupid. The Actors Studio clerk laid out the lowdown on Lois.

  Born Oak Park, Illinois/’27. Miss Chicago, ’48. The Art Institute of Chicago. East to the Apple. The Actors Studio. Lois meets Shirley Tutler. Her connection to the Caryl Chessman case is calamitously forged.

  TV work. Film work. Stage work. Her zenith’s right now. She’s understudying Barbara Bel Geddes in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Here’s a punchy parenthetical:

  The play’s all Broadway bravos right now. If Barbara bails behind a bad bug or lays up with laryngitis, Lois plays Maggie the Cat.

  But she’s in L.A. She knew her cruel critique of Confidential would somehow summon me. She knows things about me. She wants something from me. My pay-phone trace will work at some point. Yeah, but I’m right here, right now.

  I caved on my couch. I’m Stage Door Freddy. I’m a cuckold, a cornuto, a juvie jerkoff, a chump. I hexed the phone. I brain-brewed an APB on Lois June Nettleton/white female American/DOB 8-16-27, Oak Park, Ill—

  The phone rang. I picked up and risked ridicule. I said, “Hello, Lois.”

  She said, “Hi, Freddy. I figured you’d find me before too long. So I jumped the gun a bit.”

  “I’m glad you did. And I’m not going to ask you what you want, because I know you’ll tell me pretty damn quick.”

  Lois said, “That’s true, but what I want is evolving, and I’m not quite sure what it is.”

  I said, “I saw a clip of you today. It was in black and white. I couldn’t tell what color your hair is.”

  “It’s strawberry blond. And I saw you on Paul Coates’ show, and you tried to tell the truth, but you faltered at it.”

  I said, “Meet me. Right now. It’s not that late.”

  Lois said, “Not tonight. Before too long, though.”

  I said, “You’ve got this haunted tomboy thing going. Like Julie Harris, but earthier and more pronounced.”

  “I like men who notice things like that, and make accurate comparisons like the one you just did.”

  “How long have you been pulling this anonymous telephone stuff?”

  “Since the war, when I was in high school. The telephone has always been my métier.”

  “I wish we could talk in person.”

  “We will, in time.”

  “Shall we talk about Chessman?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You’re right. It’s more of an in-person conversation.”

  Lois said, “Shirley speaks of you, when she’s capable of speaking. She’s never forgotten those few moments you spent together.”

  OUTSIDE THE CHATEAU MARMONT

  West Hollyweird

  5/16/55

  Rolling stakeout.

  It’s 8:55 p.m. I’m parked perpendicular, down from bungalow row. I borrowed Donkey Don’s ’53 Chevy. It’s innocuous compared to my Packard pimpmobile. I’m snout-out in a flat flower bed. I’m ready to roll.

  I’m still stage door–stuck and looped on Lois standard time. We talked until 2:00 last nite. We tippled at topics and nodded off into non sequiturs. We laffed, we flirted, we surged toward and circumnavigated a path past Shirley Tutler and Caryl Chessman. Lois refused to divulge her L.A. hideaway. I called Nasty Nat and Ray Pinker two hours back. They’d trace-tracked three Lois calls. They got cloyingly close. Ray tracked transformer stations and logiced out a loose location. He made it mid-Wilshire east.

  It’s a booth call. Here’s his best shot at a border-to-border bid. It’s Western to the west/Vermont to the east/Beverly to the north/Olympic to the south.

  I got it. I saw it. My mind churned and channeled straight to Chapman Park.

  The Ambassador Hotel’s there. Ditto, the Chapman Park Hotel and the Gaylord Apartments. The Brown Derby’s there. Dale’s Secret Harbor’s there. It’s a lively locale. Lois would light there—I knew it.

  The fone fungooed my whole day. Rodent Robbie called and ran me raw. He said, Jack loved Janey. I said, No shit, Shadrack—what’s not to love? Robbie goosed me: You giving her the bait gig? I said, Yeah—tell her to meet me tomorrow nite/Frascati/ten p.m. It’s a pithy party of four. She’ll meet the players then. Robbie hung up. Harry Fremont called. Caramba!!!—Sheriff’s Burglary called him.

  It’s a make. The Nick Adams swag matched the manifests for six 459’s. Six B and E’s—all within one mile of Nabob Nick’s rent-a-pad. That’s gooooooood. If Nick keeps the cache, he’s cooked. Here’s what’s baaaaad. The Sheriff’s lab dutifully dusted the B and E locations. They turned up no viable latents.

  I called Bill Parker and tattled the tidings. He said, Sit on it for now. I called Bondage Bob and told him. He said, This Rebel Without a Cause caper is a cause célèbre.

  I’m a snitch. I’m a rat fink. I’m an infernal informer. I beat both ends against some malignant middle. And the wide world knows.

  I checked my mailbox, midafternoon. I found one piece of paper. Dig this vivid valentine:

  Freddy,

  Quit bugging me, okay? It’s annoying. I’ve moved on to greener pastures. I’m a movie star now. I’m not the scuffling kid who used to jack around with you and your stupid band of thugs. Over’s over. Quit persisting. It’s undignified. Confidential’s a shitrag, and you’re a shitheel for working for it. Over’s over. You’re passé, bubi. You’re not a name I want on my résumé.

  Best wishes,

  Jimmy

  * * *

  —

  Jimmy, you shitbird cocksucker. I knew you when.

  I bug-eyed bungalow row. I watched my watch. 9:00 p.m. nudged by. Bungalow row remained snoresville. The action accelerated at 9:14.

  There’s the filthy phalanx. Farshtinkener Führer Nick Ray stridently strides ahead. His Untermenschen unfurl behind him. Jimmy Dean, Nick Adams, Chester Alan Voldrich. The two black-jacket Kameraden from the sorority soiree.

  Die Fahne hoch. Die Reihen fest geschlossen—

  They’re all Afrika Korps tonite. The jumpsuits, the big-billed caps, the Rommelesque regalia. Nick R.’s got his movie camera. We’re back at El Alamein, ’42. Rommel’s resolute. He’s readying his raid on the brave British forces.

  It’s a quivering quick-march. The Kiddie Korps follows their festering father—they goof some goose steps and hop in the Chevy van. Voldrich whips behind the wheel and peels out.

  They looped left on Sunset. I looped left and lagged back. I caught cover behind a big bus booming eastbound. I rode the back bumper and kept their back bumper surveilled.

  We headed into Hollywood. The bus barged due east. The van vizzed south on Wilton Place. A taco wagon wiggled between us. It was chopped and channeled. It surged, submarineesque. The sassy side panels read Los Intrusos.

  The van vipped ahead. I surfed behind the submarine. We’re headed southbound and down. Wilton arced into Arlington. We passed Mount Vernon Junior High/aka Mount Vermin. The van angled east at the Jefferson juncture. The tacomobile tooled on south.

  I lost my car cover. I dawdled three car lengths back and dug darktown by nite. Something Rodent Robbie Molette said sacked me.

  Escalation. Liquor-store 211’s. We’re at Jefferson and Normandie. It’s liquorland lit la
rge—right here, right now.

  Telepathy ticked—me to them. Don’t read my mind, Menschen—don’t cross this line.

  The van wriggled to the right lane and crept curbside. I saw the lit-up liquor store window, jarringly just ahead. I whipped wide and nudged up to the north-side curb. The van stopped in front of the store.

  Achtung!!!! Raus!!!! Mach schnell!!!!

  The six sickos pile out. Nazi Nick’s got the camera. Nabob Nick’s got a pump shotgun. Jimmy Dean’s got a bottle of T-Bird topped with a cotton-wick fuse. It’s a sure-as-shit Molotov cocktail.

  I froze, I watched, I peeped. I’m a peeper first and forever. Bill Parker told me to intercede and fuck up all felony actions. I didn’t. I disobeyed. I sought succor in savagery. I was coldly complicit. I’m all vile volition, and—

  They walked into the store. The counter clerk saw them and guuuuulped. Nick Ray rolled film. Chester Voldrich reached behind the counter and tapped the till. The clerk yelped. His mouth moved. I imagined a plaintive please. The two no-name Kameraden hopped the counter and taped his mouth shut.

  Voldrich shagged a shelf bottle. He uncorked it and passed it to his putrid pals. Some reflex ripped me. I kept going for a gun I didn’t have.

  Nick Ray rolled film. No-name Nazi #2 pulled out a Minox minicamera and snapped stills. Jimmy flicked his lighter and lit the Molotov. Nabob Nick pumped his shotgun and blasted the booze shelves.

  Glass shattered and sheared. Wino wine and rotgut rye and skunk scotch blew wide. Jimmy tossed the Molotov. It caught the cold cuts case and exploded. Fumes flared and flattened out at the ceiling. Electrical cords caught fire and sparked blue and white.

  Smoke smothered my Peepvision view. The clerk ran outside and ran straight out of my frame. Nick’s Knights walked out, en masse. They stood studly, six across. They rebel-yelled. They whipped out their whangs and pissed in the street.

  MY BOSS BACHELOR PAD

  West Hollyweird

  5/17/55

  I confessed. I crawled my crib, cruciform. I drank myself draconian and drip-dried my dearly soul. What soul? They could have clipped the clerk and popped some pedestrians. I had to peep it and imprint the images. I’m the Pervdog of the Nite—past all rancid rationale and jacked-up justification.

  I confessed to God and Chief William H. Parker. I wrote him a self-defaming memo and had it messengered, posthaste. I read my Bible and ripped right to Revelation:

  Anyone with ears to hear should listen and understand….Anyone destined to live by the sword will die by the sword.

  That’s Nick’s Knights, that’s me. That’s God’s conflagration called down on Confidential.

  I sat by the phone. I willed Lois to call. She didn’t call. I laid the phone in my lap. It rang. I picked up. It wasn’t Lois. It was Reptile Robbie Molette.

  He blathered. I listened, listless. I was shot to shit and half in the bag.

  “…and, Freddy, I figured I should tell you. Nick Ray’s over at Googie’s right now. He’s got a group of his kids in tow, and they’re all ragging on you pretty bad.”

  I hung up. I willed Lois to call. I voodooized the airwaves and tried to make the phone ring. It rang. It wasn’t Lois. It was Chief William H. Parker.

  He said, “You’re absolved, Freddy. We’ve got those humps on Arson, Assault 1, 211, and six related firearms charges. They’re sunk if Ernie Roll and I decide to sink them, and you’ve proved to me you won’t sell me out to Confidential. Get it? You’re not a coward or a quisling. You’re a shitbird who played it smart for the first time in his life.”

  I blathered. Parker said, “Shut up, and enjoy your absolution and the rather astonishing fact that I’m starting to like you. And, while I have you, here’s a suggestion. It might be nice if you let Nick Ray and his gang know that they should mind their p’s and q’s.”

  * * *

  —

  Absolution. Parker’s sassy sanction. Dexedrine and strong coffee. I hurtled out of my haze and fumbled out of my funk.

  Googie’s was jam-packed. I tamped on my tunnel vision and bebopped in the back door. I saw them, they saw me.

  Them:

  That giant-ant flick, last year. Giant ants attack L.A. They raise a ruckus and eat good-looking women. I giggled and goofed on it. Freddy O.’s a giant ant.

  Them:

  Nick Ray, Jimmy Dean, Chester Voldrich. Natalie Wood and Sal Mineo. They’re ensconced in a big booth. They’re slurping massive martinis. Natalie and Sal are underage. It’s a Beverage Control bust.

  I adjusted my antennae and ant-ambled over. Don’t fuck with Freddy O., the Giant Ant. The gang ignored me. I popped the olive out of Nick’s drink and noshed it. I went Yum-yum.

  Jimmy said, “Get lost. Can’t you read? My days as your sidekick are finito.”

  Nick started to stand up. I nabbed his necktie and yanked. It put him face-first in his antipasto. He glug-glugged and heaved. I twisted his tie and held his head there. He flap-flapped his arms.

  Natalie giggled. Sal swooned, swishlike. Jimmy played it kool-kat quiescent. The Giant Ant bored him. The shimmy-shimmy shakes gave him away.

  I dropped Nick’s necktie. He glug-glugged and blew his bloody nose on his napkin. Chester Voldrich pulled a push-button shiv and popped the blade my way.

  He was close. I ratched his wrist and sheared the shiv free. Voldrich yelped. I pinned his hand to the table and stabbed straight through it. Bones broke, blood blew, the blade cracked wood and tore through the tabletop. I put my weight behind it. Voldrich screamed. I pinioned and pyloned him. I crafted a cruciform seal.

  Voldrich screamed. I said, “Natalie, pour your drink on his hand.”

  Natalie said, “What’s my motivation?”

  I said, “You’re a juvenile delinquent.”

  Natalie said, “Okay.” Natalie poured her drink on his hand.

  Chester screamed. His purloined paw got freon-fried and scorchified. He screamed anew. He buckled the table and banged his back against the booth.

  Sal said, “I’m a juvenile delinquent.” Sal tossed his drink. It rescorchified Chester’s hand.

  Chester screamed. I shoved a napkin in his mouth and muzzled him. Jimmy’s still kool-kat quiescent. Now Nick’s putting on his pose.

  I’m Freddy O., the Giant Ant. Don’t fuck with me.

  * * *

  —

  Maiming mission to mortification. Giant Ant to peeper pariah.

  I walked into Frascati. The maître d’ moaned. He took me to my table. Dippy diners at adjoining tables moaned and moved away. Waiters whipped up. They plied plates and place settings and rescued the geeks. It’s Exodus—let my people go!!!

  There’s Rock and the girls. Hellllloooo, Janey Blaine.

  She’s bravura. She’s mucho magnifica in a madras shirtdress.

  She held out her hand. I bowed and took it. Rock winked. Phyllis rolled her eyes and registered resentment. Come on—it’s just a showbiz shuck and another mock marriage. It’s Hollywood. Rock’s Trippy Triangle!!! Let’s lay in for some laffs.

  I sat down. Rock motioned for more martinis. I smelled tossed gin on my coat cuffs. It made me moan.

  Janey kicked it off. She went for the whammo, straight in.

  “Forgive me for being precipitous, but exactly what do I do?”

  I lit a cigarette. “You act. You’re a Smith girl on the loose in L.A. You meet Rock at a dinner party. It’s the Some Enchanted Evening scenario that I know you’re acquainted with. Phyllis is with Rock. She’s his fiancée, and she doesn’t like what she’s seeing with you two. I’ll script a dinner-table dialogue for you and Phyllis. You’ll debate politics and some other things, but it’s all a smoke screen to cover the simmering feeling building between you and Rock. That’s how it starts. We’ll see how the kickoff goes, and we’ll take it from there.”

  Phyllis said
, “It’s demeaning. It can only go downhill from there, at least in my case.”

  Rock said, “No heavy petting, Janey. I don’t roll in that direction.”

  Janey laffed. Phyllis said, “Not yet you don’t—but we’re working on it.”

  The martinis materialized. We took a brief breather and boozed. I scoped Janey, sidelong. I came to cold conclusions.

  She’s peremptory. She’s petulant and short-tempered. She gored Phyllis’s goat at the get-go. Let’s define the Tricky Triad. Rock’s the passive putz—but now he’s strictly straight. Phyllis brings the brains and the royal rectitude. Janey is what she is—bait. She’s the torrid temptress who diverts Rock’s idling walk down the aisle.

  Janey sipped her martini. “What are you prepared to pay me, and how long will the gig last?”

  I said, “Ten thousand. Be prepared for a series of staged encounters, to transpire over a series of months. There’ll be a series of interviews with the celebrity press. Lew Wasserman has pledged a second-tier speaking part in Rock’s next picture. You’ll play the female lead’s bitchy kid sister.”

  Janey lit a cigarette. “I’ll upstage her, too. Won’t I, Rock? Or should I start calling you ‘sweetie’?”

  Rock said, “Janey’s a pisser. Isn’t she, Freddy?”

  I said, “She sure is.”

  Phyllis glowered and glared. Hell hath no fury like—

  “Just remember who gets him in the long run, dear. Only one of us has the ability to facilitate his conversion, and that’s me. So, in that sense, this tawdry charade of ours does reflect reality.”

  Rock said, “Keep referring to me in the third person. It sends me.”

  Janey crushed her cigarette. “I can tell you’re quite accomplished when it comes to losing men, Phyllis.”

  “Let’s just say I’m more practiced than you in general, dear. For instance, Freddy and I made out in a crowded coffee shop, not that long ago—and I would have slept with him, if he’d asked.”