by James Ellroy
He looked down. He saw, he recognized, he willed himself nonreactive. His hands palsied, his neck veins pulsed.
“It’s not my handwriting. And even if it was, I’ve attributed those crimes to someone else.”
I lit a cigarette. “You only looked at the top page. You don’t know it’s crimes plural you’ve described here. I didn’t mention the attribution, and the only way you could have known that was if you’d written this document yourself.”
Chessman pushed the pages back to me. He’s Camus’ l’étranger. He’s beset by bourgeois burghers who just don’t understand. He’s implacably withstood their stupidity and indifference. He’s read Gandhi and Sartre. He knows how to trenchantly transcend.
He said, “No.” That one word. Existentialism 101. To refuse is your right of redress.
I passed him a pen. “You will write the following on that top page. ‘These are my crimes, as told to the late actor James Dean, and attributed to an unnamed rapist. Thus, they are my crimes, and these documents in the aggregate stand as my confession.’ ”
Chessman said, “No.” The Beast’s beset by Bourgeois Burgher Freddy. It’s his lot in life. Who’s that red-haired wraith? She’s rape bait, for sure.
Chessman said, “No.” I backhanded him and banged him to the floor. He went sullen silent and nonreactive. Bourgeois Burgher Freddy kicked him in the balls.
“You have two choices here, Caryl. Sign the confession or get kicked to death. The latter option leaves you no option. The former option permits you to survive, cultivate yet more public acclaim, and further dissemble in court.”
Chessman shape-shifted. He went maladroit Mahatma, coming off the railroad tracks. He couldn’t call up a costume change. He couldn’t shave his head and don his granny specs.
He stood up. He winced from my nut shot. He wrote out my confession text and signed his name below.
Lois said, “Jimmy Dean wanted to play you. That must have appealed to your vanity.”
Chessman said, “Hi, Red. I knew you’d have a kicky voice.”
I locked his confession in my briefcase. Chessman kicked back in his chair.
“I’m beyond vanity, Red. I’ve seen too much and had too much done to me. You’re a woman, so I’m sure you’ll understand.”
I said, “Too bad Jimmy crapped out. I would’ve dug on the movie.”
Chessman said, “There’s always Nick Ray’s alternative movie, not that it will ever surface. I was the technical adviser on it, so I’m sure it’s got some verisimilitude.”
Lois said, “Things went awry there, didn’t they? It seems that always happens with you.”
Chessman shrugged and grinned. Ring-a-ding. The Mahatma meets the Rat Pack.
“The game’s rigged, Red. That’s why I always take what I want, and take it where I can find it. And I always find it, because I’m not choosy. Johnson, Meza, and Tutler surely attest to that.”
That’s it, then. It took eight minutes and sixteen seconds.
I hustled Lois out to the hallway. The wall speaker spritzed and sparked static. Bill Parker and the Hats hooted, howled, and clapped.
* * *
—
I had no name/no at-the-scene proof/no certified murder suspect. I had the infernal inspiration for the crime itself and the cancerous contexts that had caused it. Lois and I laid siege to the Bacillus chessmanitis. At some point of prickly protraction, the strain would strangle by gas. That was the unforeseen then. Janey Blaine revenged ran me resolute now.
I dropped Lois at the hotel and nudged north-northwest. I hit Mulholland and Beverly Glen. The two crime-scenes crisscrossed and merged as one hellish whole.
’48 to ’55. The perfectly preserved historical location. Jimmy D. didn’t kill Janey. Ditto, Nick Ray. It was some suck-ass subaltern. He’d prowled Janey’s pad. He rifled her desk and jizzed up her undies. Somebody stole Robbie Molette’s list of Janey’s johns. That somebody was circling Janey in advance of the alternative film. Nick Ray called that man at the pay phone by the Black Cat. They discussed the details of the shoot. The Hats cleared Robbie Molette’s dad. The killer was a Rebel set flunky. He possessed technical and/or logistical skills. He 459’d Robbie’s pad. That meant he knew Robbie. That meant Robbie knew something about him.
I walked the merged crime scenes. I climbed hills and claimed clues. I found used flashbulbs off the Mulholland embankment. That meant photography. It linked the lead of the used flashbulbs at the Demo fund-raiser site. He was stalking Janey then. It was furtive foreplay. He knew Janey would be there to culminate with Jack K. Robbie set Janey up with Jack. That meant Mr. X knew Robbie.
I humped hillsides. I claimed clues. I found a roll of red cellophane by a tree trunk. Red cellophane. It covered the headlights on Chessman’s ’46 Ford. It covered the headlights of the ’46 Ford prop car Nick Ray discussed with Mr. X. The Red Light Bandit posed as a cop. Jimmy revived the role. This red cellophane was weathered and worn. It looked to be two-plus years old.
Robbie didn’t kill Janey Blaine. He showed me his foto ID once. He had O-positive blood. The killer had AB-negative blood. His jizz secreted his blood type. Robbie had a name for me. I sensed it, sure thing.
* * *
—
The wheelman lot. There’s Robbie. He’s listlessly lounged by the lube rack. The lot’s listless, today. There’s no trabajo, no divorce dinero.
I pulled in and hit my horn. Robbie rubbed his eyes and walked over.
I popped the passenger door. Robbie scooched in. I passed him my flask. We traded pops and glommed up a glow.
“I had a few questions about Janey.”
Robbie said, “Boy, that’s sure old news.”
I smiled. “Well, something’s come up.”
Robbie heh-hehed. “You mean Fat Boy doesn’t fit the bill anymore? Not that he ever did, to the cognoscenti.”
I went nix. “I’m recalling something you said, and how you said it wistfully. You said, ‘Well, she resisted me,’ and I’d like you to elaborate on that.”
Robbie choked up. “Aw, Freddy. Don’t make me say it.”
“Say what, Robbie? That you were in love with her?”
Robbie wiped his eyes on his sleeve. Robbie blew his nose on his shirttail.
“Okay, I’ll say it. I was in love with her.”
“And your dad set you up with her. And she joined your stable at the hotel.”
Robbie said, “You’re rubbing it in. I divested the stable, as you damn well know. I’m a wheelman now. I’m on the straight and narrow.”
That made me laff. “Your dad introduced you to Janey, right?”
“No. Chrissy, my sister, did. She knew Janey, independent of my dad. Even before she got her contract at Metro.”
“Are you saying they were pals? Running partners?”
Robbie snatched the flask and deep-dunked it. He got this kid wild-man glow.
“Chrissy and Janey were movie-mad. They costarred in these jive, skeevy-ass shorts. You know, so-called experimental films where nobody gets paid, you never see the flicks in theaters, but copies circulate. I’m not calling them smut, but I’d call them ‘bodice rippers,’ with a lot of skin and some pretty smutty scenes, if you get what I mean.”
I said, “Keep going. Don’t make me prompt you.”
Robbie deep-dunked. “They were historical-type pastiches, and they were all based on famous crimes where women got raped and sliced. You know, The Last Days of the Black Dahlia, Fatty Arbuckle and Virginia Rappe, the girls that guy Otto Stephen Wilson shanked. Chrissy always played the sidekick, and Janey always played the victim. That’s how they met, and how they got tight.”
I said, “Who made the films? I mean photographed and directed them?”
Robbie said, “I don’t know. Just some fucko movie guys who wanted to push women around and see
some skin.”
“Did any guys like that work on the Rebel shoot?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Did you know that a film like the ones you described was being shot, and that it pertained to Caryl Chessman?”
“No, but it don’t surprise me, because, like I told you back then, that sick twist Jimmy Dean was all hopped up to play Chessman, and that yet sicker twist Nick Ray was promoting the idea. I also passed you the tip on that so-called alternative film.”
I lit a cigarette. “Do you know a bar in Silver Lake called the Black Cat?”
“Yeah. It’s a bookie joint by day and a fag joint by night.”
“All right. Did you know anyone from the Rebel shoot who lived near there? Right off of Sunset and Vendome?”
Robbie shook his head. “Not exactly. Not back in ’55, I didn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I knew a guy who lived up the hill from there, and who frequented the Cat, and who moved his studio to a couple of doors down from the Cat, maybe last year.”
I tensed up. Say the name, Robbie. We just tipped telepathic. I should have tapped the guy already. I nabbed the name a split second back.
“And?”
“And, what? It’s Arvo Jandine. He was the unit fotog on Rebel, and he’s another sick twist of the Jimmy and Nick Ray ilk. He don’t strike me as the killer type, so that’s why I didn’t mention him when you started in on the Rebel guys.”
I shut my eyes. I saw it. Jandine. The Rebel records checks. He’s a whipout man. He habituates junior high schools. He invades girls’ locker rooms. He’s a photographer. He snapped stills at the Liquor Store Inferno.
Plus, the dope raid. Jandine’s flop. The bikini pic from Robbie’s girl book.
Robbie said, “Freddy’s in a trance. It’s like he’s on some new species of hop that’s just been discovered.”
I opened my eyes. “You said ‘sick twist.’ ”
“Yeah. He’s the guy who took those beaver pix of Chrissy. That, and he whipped it out on my mom.”
I reshut my eyes. Robbie said, “Do you ever get ashamed of your life, Freddy?”
I said, “Only most of the time.”
* * *
—
Escalation. Mine and his. I escalated my efforts to know him. I escalated my master plan and primed it for profit. I called LAPD Vice and filched a full fotostat of Arvo Jandine’s green sheet. It revealed his rude escalation.
Arvo Jandine, one sizzling sick twist. Born 6/8/19, bumfuck Nebraska. Arvo’s a shifty shutterbug. He’s sneaking snaps in girls’ locker rooms, eeeaaarly.
His first bust is back in Omaha, ’37. He’s peddling candid nudes at CCC camps and WPA wingdings. He’s sent to a compassionate youth camp. It’s committedly coed. He wires the girls’ locker room and rigs an automatic shutter flap. He compiles and catalogues candid nudes by the thousands. He escapes and peddles the pix at truck stops and gin mills throughout the Midwest. He’s Mr. Smut now. He makes his move and hotfoots it here.
He becomes a unit fotog. He pops pix at Paramount and calls Columbia home. He rigs automatic shutter flaps in female stars’ dressing rooms. They snap sneak pix on overdrive. He’s Mr. Beaver Bounty and Mr. Stark Naked Star. Word of mouth mainlines him to the L.A. Perv Elite. He manufactures nude actress trading cards. Myrna Loy, Carole Lombard, Norma Shearer. Rita Hayworth, Ella Raines. One Ann Sheridan trumps two Betty Grables. He spawns a craaaaazy craze. He makes a fat fortune. The fuzz fox him and entrap him. He sells shunt shots to an undercover cop and gets five to eight in quivering Quentin.
He’s paroled in ’49. He returns to L.A. He’s Mr. Subtle till his fall ’51 flameout. He gots to have it/see it/fotograph it young now. He’s popped outside Le Conte Junior High, June ’52. He does eighteen months at Chino and pops out on parole—January ’54.
He’s escalated. He’s ready to collaborate. He seeks sick twists who twirl to his delirious delusions. He finds his way to Nick Ray and Rebel Without a Cause. He’s cringingly crossed the path of Freon Freddy Otash. That’s where Arvo erred.
Escalation. His and MINE.
I creeper-crawled Sunset and Vendome and stared at storefronts. Jandine Art Photography was two doors down from the Black Cat.
Noxious nitefall fell. I wound my way west to the Fox lot. Nick Ray was shooting his latest lox there.
Party Girl. Robert Taylor and Cyd Charisse. Costarring studly John Ireland. Jungle John’s Hollywood’s reigning tape topper. He measures in at a mighty 171/2.
I knew all the gate guards on the Fox lot. I knew I could bluff my way in.
I did. I cited a pokerfest at Pandro Berman’s office. The guard bought it. I slid him a C-note. I parked my Packard pimpmobile and noodled over to Nick Ray’s bungalow.
I burgled my way inside and paved paths by penlight. I planted a mini-mike and a battery pack under Neuter Nick’s desk. It was a flip-switch gizmo. I’d flip said switch on Judgment Day.
It was 11:14 p.m. I barged back to Silver Lake and orbed Jandine’s studio. It was deep dark and devoid of all movement. I circled the block and saw a back door off the alley. I stashed my sled and slid on rubber gloves.
I carried a camera case and a Leica loaded with infrared film. I loped up like I owned the place. Two pick pokes popped the door. I locked myself in. My penlight paved paths once more.
I got the gestalt. Arvo lived for his work. I flash-flared three storerooms laid with lights and camera gear. I slid by a sleeping cubicle. Arvo conked on a couch-bed combo and cooked on a hot plate. He hung his threadbare threads in a freestanding wardrobe. The sink, shower, and toilet stall stank of rat turds and sprayed piss.
Arvo the obsessive. Arvo the unkempt. He’ll keep malignant mementos. These sickniks save souvenirs.
The cubicle catty-cornered a corridor. My penlight lit a shut door. I nudged the knob. I got no give. I put picks in and pushed counterclockwise. The door gave and bent in.
It’s one room. Ten by ten, tops. It’s windowless and suction-sealed, tight. I tapped the walls and tipped a switch. Gooseneck floor lamps lit four walls of this:
The combined shoots. Rebel Without a Cause and Red Light Bandit. Glam glossies by Arvo Jandine.
Jimmy Dean in his red Rebel jacket. Nifty Natalie and Sassy Sal, costumed per the flick. Shots from the shoot. Shots from the Sorority Panty Raid. Shots from the Liquor Store Inferno. Natalie, nude. Sal, nude and nervously embarrassed. A nude Jimmy Dean, banging his bongos. Jimmy Dean, costumed as Caryl Chessman. The ’46 Ford rape car, replicated. Nite exteriors at Mulholland and Beverly Glen.
Janey Blaine done up as Shirley Tutler. Janey, with mock blood blotting her blouse. Janey and Jimmy, tussling in the Ford. Note Janey’s bare breasts.
Then we escalate. Note this wraparound wreath of shots:
See Janey, nude. See Janey and Jimmy, nude. See Janey and Jimmy coiled in coitus in the backseat of the Ford. See Janey in the clothes she wore to Frascati. See Janey body-dumped at the crime scene. She’s handspan-strangled and dead.
NABOB NICK RAY’S OFFICE
20th-Century Fox
10/20/57
I sat and tamped up some tension. I conjured Lois and moved money to new mountains on the moon. Nick notched his final take an hour back. His office slaves slid out early. I booby-trapped the doorway. I kept the lights off. I brought Exhibits A and B in my briefcase.
My pix of Jandine’s pix. My pix of his diary pages per Red Light Bandit. He kept his diary cached under his couch-bed. He kept his Junior High Hall of Fame pix close by.
Jandine recounted his revelatory fix on Janey Blaine. He met her at Robbie Molette’s place. Chrissy introduced them and called her a friend of her dad’s. Janey got him unit fotog work on The Last Days of the Black Dahlia and the Fatty Arbuckle flick.
His obsession per-per-percolated. He 459�
�d Janey’s pad and stole her diaries. He read them and got to the hard-hearted heart of her yen for men and money. He tried to seduce her with his own blackmail scheme. He enlisted Nick Adams. They Mickey Finn’d Rock Hudson and took nudie pix. He 459’d Robbie’s room and stole his list of powerfully perved clients. Janey laffed his blackmail scheme off. He fotographed Janey and Jack K. at the Beverly Hills Hotel. He had the unit fotog gig on Rebel, already. He ran up a rapport with Nick Ray and Jimmy Dean. They concocted Red Light Bandit. The shoot went swell. Janey jumped Jimmy’s bones for real, right out in the open. It made him mad. He said he’d drive her home after the wrap. It got out of hand. He didn’t mean to rape her and kill her. Shit like that happens. Thank goodness nobody blabbed.
The door opened. Nabob Nick hummed “Lisbon Antigua” and walked this way. My trip wire tripped him and proned him out flat on his face. His head hit the floor. He snagged his snout. He’s Nosebleed Nick now.
He groaned. I got up and stepped on his neck. It pinned him and muzzled his mouth. I penlight-flashed the pix and the diary pages. I ran them by his flattened face sidelong and slooooow. I gave him time to digest his dilemma and ponder Jandine’s every word.
“You’re going to pay me twenty-five percent of your net earnings, for the rest of your life. That means twenty-five percent of every dime you make. You’re going to cut me in for twenty-five percent of all your current bank balances, and you’re going to liquidate any stocks and bonds you might possess and pay me twenty-five percent of their value, now. You’re going to pay me twenty-five percent of the assessed values of any properties you might own, now. You will pay me my salary cuts on the first of each month, beginning on November 1, 1957. I called your bank in Beverly Hills this afternoon. I impersonated a Federal bank examiner and learned that your current balance is forty-four grand. We’re going to the bank together, tomorrow. I’ll take the first eleven grand in cash.”
Nick Ray squirmed and squinted back tears. Freon Freddy Otash. The Giant Ant ascends.
