by James Ellroy
“Concludingly, I want you to compile a derogatory profile on Senator Kennedy himself. I may direct you to publish your findings in Confidential. There’s been talk that the senator may be tapped as Governor Stevenson’s running mate next year. It might be just the right time for an in-depth smear.”
William H. Parker. Accept no substitutes.
* * *
—
I parked my Packard pimpmobile in the City Hall basement. Back stairs bopped me down there. I saw Jack the K.’s Lincoln limo by the cop-car slots. The back doors were whipped wide. Roof lights lit the ripe rendezvous.
Jack, Ernie Roll, Bill Parker. There’s a backseat bar and Baccarat decanters. Jack served drinks.
Fluorescent tubes ghoul-glared and lit the whole basement. I slid behind my sled and peeped the confab.
Jack sucked up to Bill and Ernie. Bill and Ernie sucked up to Jack. They all sucked scotch and nailed that noon glow. Jack said he’d cadge a case of Cointreau and send it to Coroner Curphey. His postmortem postulations pulled them out of the shit.
Parker said, “Especially you, Senator.”
Jack said, “Call me Jack.”
Ernie said, “We’re white men, Jack. Don’t expect us to start calling chits in the second you land in Washington.”
Jack said, “Ouch.”
Parker said, “You feel bad about the girl, don’t you?”
Jack lit a cigar. “I do. And, frankly, I’d like to see each and every conceivable loose end tied up, as well as see her avenged in some sort of clandestine and never-to-be-revealed manner.”
Ernie said, “You won’t be disappointed, Jack.”
Parker said, “The Hats are good at that sort of thing. Freddy Otash isn’t bad, either.”
Jack said, “I rue the day I met Freddy. I don’t think a case of booze will express the proper thank-yous for the Dutch uncle talk he had with me, as well as kick that cocksucker out of my life forever.”
Parker lit a cigar. He blew smoke rings. The aroma dispersed and sweet-swacked me. Aaahhh, Cuba. It’s a puppet regime. We’ve got our mob mascots making mad money. They grease Democrats and Republicans, fifty-fifty. Jack and half the House heels take tastes.
Jack said, “Batista’s got a pet shark named Himmler. He lives in a big swimming pool, behind the presidential palace. Himmler eats Commie dissidents. Batista’s goons toss them in the pool, and Himmler goes to town. Lyndon Johnson told me it’s a show you don’t want to miss.”
Ernie said, “Forget about this whole damn boondoggle, Jack. We’ll take care of it.”
Parker said, “We’ve got resources, and we’re not afraid to break a few rules.”
Jack said, “Bury it. I don’t want to know the whos, whats, and whys. She was just another girl, right? Maybe I’ll run into her again someday.”
* * *
—
Dusk. A meandering moon cleared away clouds and starlit chez Lois. We swung on the swing and held hands. Lois wore a cord skirt and a blouse like Shirley wore that night.
“I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking how deep it goes with me, and that I’m a nutty actress who works out her motivation by assuming persona, because her persona is a drag, and that’s what convinced her to become an actress in the first place.”
I went nix. Lois laid a hand on my leg.
“You were kid roommates. You shared a cheap pad down in the West Twenties. It was just after the war, and things were exciting. Kid friendships are powerful. You can’t let go of Shirley, and there’s no reason why you should.”
Lois burrowed into me. “You’re right about that. And you know just what to say to defuse me. I hardly know you, but I know you’ve been looking wan, because Chessman’s appeal has been postponed, and you know I’ll be going back to New York soon, so what happens next?”
I tilted her chin up. I kissed her hair and caught almond shampoo.
“I’m not letting this go.”
“Yes, but what will you do about it?”
I prickled. “Is this the part where you reveal that you contrived to meet me, because you knew Chessman would be out here, and I spent five minutes with Shirley, and you like to create drama, and you sure like to chase men while you’re at it.”
Lois slapped me. I let her. She slapped me again. I caught her hand and kissed her fingers as the slap hit. She cried a little. I kissed her neck and brushed tears back.
She said, “I need you to do things that I can’t do. I don’t know exactly what they are, but I need you to do something.”
I said, “I’m putting together a smear piece on Nick Ray, Jimmy Dean, and Rebel. I’ve got special deputy status on a cop job that ties in, and I stiffed a call to the mail-room boss up at Quentin. Nicholas Ray and James Dean are approved correspondents of Chessman’s, so I think the rumor that Jimmy and Nick want to make the movie about him are probably true.”
Lois tugged my hair. We bumped foreheads. Our eyes locked too close in. We pulled back and found the fit.
“Let me explain something to you. I suck up to certain men and lean on certain men, and it’s how I cull favors. I’ll put the two of us in a room with Chessman, if I can keep culling favors with the guys who can make it happen, which will sure as shit serve to make it happen.”
Lois said, “If James Dean plays Caryl Chessman, it will result in a publicity blitz that will serve to guarantee his exoneration. I don’t want that to happen, and I want you to do something bold and brave and more than a little bit stupid, because that’s the type of man I throw myself at.”
A light rain kicked on. Lois pulled the serape spread around us. I ran my hand under her blouse and touched her bare back.
“Don’t leave me, because you can’t see beyond this Chessman deal. It’s a drama, so it’s half-assed unreal at the gate. Don’t leave me, period, because I don’t want to lose you.”
Lois threw herself at me. I convinced her I was bold, brave, and stupid. We stretched out and gassed on the storm.
* * *
—
Rain.
Torrents tidal-waved the terrace. Puddles popped and soaked the serape. We swung off the swing and collided inside to bed.
We shivered and shucked our duds. We didn’t do it. We got nuke-bomb nude and dove under the duvet. Wide windows gave us Wilshire by nite. Buses stirred and streaked water high-high. Rain racked the roof. We posed on pillows and whispered under the racket. We kissed and touched each other top to bottom and went back to words.
I spilled. I savagely self-defamed. I confessed. I laid out Bill Parker’s crusade to crush Confidential. Lois called me a crazed crusader. It impelled me to impolitic discourse. I laid myself out as one servile serf. I dodged overseas duty. Men I pounded to perfection at Parris Island got Jap-juked on Saipan. I described the Johnnie Ray debacle as the nightmare nadir of my life. I ran through my Rebel wrangles and deliriously delivered everything that they did and I did. I ran down the Janey Blaine/Robbie Molette/Jack the K. conundrum and the official hoax to obfuscate Janey’s cause of death. We played to Jack’s vile vanity. He wanted the killer killed. Who killed Janey Blaine? Five of us were determined to traffic the truth, even as we assailed it as the penance pose of a hotshot politician too hot to touch. Say we catch the killer? It’s devil take the hindmost, then.
And, per Caryl Chessman? What will I do about it? I’ll think of something. What will it cost me? I don’t know—but the price will be high.
Lois told me stories. Bond drives and beauty pageants in Chicago. New York and acting gigs. This scurvy schizophrenia, the Too Many Bedrooms Blues. Too many weak men with shaky psyches. All of them actors. All too-too temperamental and so-so sadistic, all of it aimed straight at You.
Freddy, I could tell you stories. Darling, you already have. I knew you’d have stories like the ones you told me. I think it’s why I set out to find you.
You’re a dear heart, Lois. No, I’m just your midnight caller. Lucky for me you picked up the phone.
We fell asleep about then. The last thing I recall is the rain.
SUB ROSA INVESTIGATION (187 PC)
Jane Margaret Blaine (White Female American)
DOB: 4-19-29/Visalia, California
Personnel assigned: Sgt. M. Herman, Sgt. R. Stromwall, Sgt. H. Crowder, Det. E. Benson, Spec. Dep. F. Otash
5/18–5/21/55
The Hats and me. Full-fledged partners. One rich run at the roses. We reckoned we could race three full days. Max had a cousin in Bremerhaven, Germany. He worked at a pharmaceutical facility. They manufactured Pervitrol. It was a loopy lozenge that maximized merriment and once drove the Wehrmacht Tank Korps to pound Poland to pulp in record time. Anschluss!!! Blitzkreig!!! We rendezvoused at Stan’s Drive-In. Comely carhops hopped us pineapple malts laced with 151 rum. We popped Pervitrol and particularized our werkload.
We ran through our records checks to date. Dig: Janey Blaine dropped out of Visalia J.C. Her Smith–Bryn Mawr credentials were shucksville. She looked it, she didn’t earn it. Dig: her phone records came through threadbare. She buzzed mom and dad in Visalia and Robbie Molette. That’s it—sadly solamente.
We ran Robbie’s records. He had his own line listed at mom and dad’s Highland Park hutch. Dig: Robbie called Janey and the fourteen other call girls listed in his merchandise book. Harry braced the security boss at Metro. The boss vouched the names. He roundly ratted out Rodent Robert J. Molette, Sr. He’d been instigating ingénues into the call girl arts since ’49. He told Harry he’d have a damning dossier for them soon. We returned to Robbie’s records. Re-dig: Robbie called Nick Ray, Nick Adams, Jimmy Dean, Chester Voldrich, and Nick Knight Arvo Jandine. Arvo was the so-called unit fotog at the liquor-store job.
We discussed the Robbie senior and junior jihad. We agreed: senior would seize a lizardesque lawyer, faaaast. We agreed: we’ll hardnose Robbie and get him to give daddy up. I reported on my records checks. I lamentedly left Lois for a 3:00 a.m. to 8:00 a.m. fone stint. I ran the Rebel rascals and supply supplanted my existing records checks. Now, hear this:
Nick Ray’s under subpoena from State and Fed HUAC. He ran Comintern-financed front groups, ’42–’43. Among them: the Hollywood Committee for Artistic Freedom, the People’s Party to Resist Censorship, and the Hands-Off Comrade Stalin Committee. Max interjected: he talked to a Sheriff’s Burglary bull this a.m. Bingo, baby: the noxious numbers on Nick Adams’ swag matched two recent 459 lots. We agreed: we’ll haul him in and bat him around till he bitch-squeals.
I returned to my Rebel checks. It was all junk juvie shit—Arvo Jandine’s excepted.
He was a whipout man. He tossed his tool during daring girls’ locker room gambols. He hit Pasteur Jr. High, Nightingale Jr. High, Le Conte Jr. High, Foshay Jr. High, and Audubon Jr. High. We all agreed: this cocksucker mandates consideration.
Eddie reported per the crime-lab crucible. Dig: the rape-o/presumed killer was a savage secretor. Ray Pinker typed his blood, off his putrid payload. It’s AB negative. Jammed upside Janey’s body: plasticene and foam fabrics. Car seat-cover shit. Bad news here: said shit was indigenous to Mercs, Buicks, and Pontiacs, produced between ’51 and ’54. We all groooaned. That meant mucho millions of cars. It came down to this: we had to check all indigenous makes and models per our suspect pool.
Cars. This banged our bells per a big issue. How did Janey get up to Mulholland and Beverly Glen? She had no car. She called no cab. Rock and Phyllis didn’t drop her. She didn’t wait outside Frascati. Ergo: somebody picked her up near the restaurant.
It’s in Beverly Hills. It’s a short hill hop up Beverly Glen to Mulholland. It all came down to Janey’s tricks, past and present. It all came down to Robbie Molette and whether or not Janey worked freelance.
Eddie riffed on the crime-scene canvass. It boded bupkes—nobody saw shit. Ray Pinker noted drag marks at the foot of Beverly Glen and the embankment. This indicated one suspect, pulling upward. A West L.A. squadroom dick disagreed. He studied a bunch of crushed leaves. They indicated two suspects, dragging Janey down that embankment. Per toxicology: Janey had a big booze load in her system. No shit: she sheared down martinis and most likely wine at Frascati. Yeah, and she gobbled or was force-fed four Seconol. Ray called her comatose at her TOD.
Max said, “I’m bored. Let’s go get Robbie. Freddy and Eddie, you come with me.”
Harry said, “We’ve got leads on Fat Boy I’d like to check out.”
Red said, “Nix. You and I will go pick up Adams. The Sheriff’s bull said we could have first dibs.”
I guuuullped. Jimmy was Nick A.’s 459 accomplice. I failed to mention that—
* * *
—
We strode in strong. Max, Eddie, and me. We’re overzealous. It’s overkill. We’re raiding the Beverly Hills Hotel kitchen.
We went in the employees’ entrance. We staged a stir. We eyeball-orbed for Reptile Robbie. It’s no sale, papacito.
Max braced the crew chief. El Jefe said Robbie was up by the bungalows. He had four breakfasts to clear.
We bopped back there. We saw Robbie’s pushcart. Max and Eddie snarfed left-behind bacon and home fries. Robbie bopped out of a bungalow. He lugged leftovers off lox plates and dirty dishes. He saw us and went Oh shit.
He dumped his dish debris and went all punk passive. He shuddered and moved meek and mild. We tossed him in our K-car and drove him straight downtown.
Max and Eddie sat up front. Robbie and I hogged the backseat.
Robbie said, “It’s about Janey, right?”
Max said, “Robbie’s wising up.”
Robbie said, “I’m just letting you know in advance that I plan to cooperate. I’m looking to avoid a thumping like the one you put on me last time.”
Eddie said, “Tell him, Freddy.”
I said, “You’ve got two choices here, junior. You give up your dad’s girl biz, or I put the hurt on you myself.”
Robbie’s dentures dipped out. I dipped them back in. Max said, “He gets the picture. His family life as he knows it has just gone pffft.”
We drove downtown. We hauled him up to the DB and sweatbox row. Red radioed in. He said he and Harry just nabbed Nick Adams. Nick got bad-boy belligerent. They kicked his ass and sapped some sense into him.
We ensconced Robbie in Sweatbox #2. Max bought him a candy bar and a Coke. Box 3 was reserved for Nick Adams.
Eddie said, “I turned the hall speakers on. The Chief wants to observe.”
Robbie noshed his Nougat Deelite and chugged his Coke. Max, Eddie, and I straddled chairs. Robbie sat sidesaddle. He’s a passive putz. He’s here to help. He’s a fellow rat. Who do I have to betray to leave here unthumped?
Max said, “You’ve got your girl biz and your dope biz. Your dad runs the girl biz. He recruits, and you peddle the tail, exclusively at the hotel. You run the dope biz on your own, and you sell maryjane and pills to dickheads on film shoots. You suck up to film-biz guests at the hotel, and develop leads on the shoots in that manner.”
Robbie said, “Right with Eversharp.”
Eddie said, “For the record, did you kill Janey Blaine, or know who did?”
Robbie said, “No.”
I said, “What’s your best guess?”
Robbie glugged Coca-Cola. “I read the Herald. They said Janey left the restaurant alone. That means she’s on the hoof, alone, in deserted Beverly Hills at midnight. She left her car at home. Maybe she was meeting someone, maybe she got picked up. Here’s an insight. Janey was avaricious. Maybe a guy picked her up, and she sensed his interest. She offered him some snout for fifty clams, and it got all tangled up, and poor Janey got 86’d.”
Eddie said, “Give up your dad. For the record. Let’s get it out of the way.”
Robbie scratched his ba
lls. “For the record, my dad has been exploiting his job as a grip at Metro for the purpose of recruiting wholesome, Ivy League–looking ingénue snatch, for the purpose of turning them as call girls, for a fifty-fifty split. He’s been pulling this shit since ’49. Before you ask, I’ll tell you he doesn’t keep a trick book or a girl book. He keeps it all in his head.”
Eddie said, “Describe his relationship with Janey Blaine.”
Robbie picked his nose. “He recruited her. That means he made her strip, and he poked her, one time only. He didn’t kill her. That’s ridiculous. He never leaves the house at night. He’s got home cooking, anytime he wants it—and he always wants it. My mom and my sister keep him well supplied.”
Max said, “Tricks harassing Janey. What have you heard about that?”
Robbie said, “Zilch. And that goes for all my girls. They work a high-class clientele, strictly at the hotel.”
I said, “Your dad doesn’t keep a trick book or a girl book. But you keep a picture book—because I’ve seen it. Here’s the question. Did Janey keep a trick book?”
Robbie licked his fingers. Yum, yum—Nougat Deelite.
“I don’t know, but here’s something you should know. I keep a trick list in my room at the house. Specifically, all the big-name guys who put the boots to my girls, and here’s the rub. My room got burgled a few days ago. Shit was subtly out of place when I got home, and the trick list was gone. Lucky for you, I had the list memorized.”
Max yukked. Robbie Molette. Accept no substitutes.
“Give us a preview. You can reconstruct the list on paper, later on.”
Robbie rescratched his balls. “Besides our pal Senator Kennedy, we’ve got Senators Johnson, Knowland, Smathers, Humphrey, and Governor Stevenson, who likes boys, but my biz don’t fly that route. We’ve also got Ike’s chief of staff, Sherman Adams, DA Ernie Roll, Louis B. Mayer, Lew Wasserman, Jack L. Warner, and Darryl F. Zanuck. Not to mention Clark Gable, Gary Cooper, Van Heflin, and that froggy guy, Yves Montand.”
