Perfidia

by James Ellroy

  The approaching footsteps were Her. Stacked heels on hardwood. What is this unsolicited interruption?

  Bette Davis opened the door. She wore a plaid shirt over dungarees and riding boots. Her look was unkind. No amenity would work here. I said, “Dudley Smith.”

  It brought her up short. Her look went from unkind to Oh shit. She said, “Who are you, and what do you hope to gain by mentioning that name to me?”

  I said, “My name is Kay Lake, and I’m not looking to gain anything. I’m hoping that we both might benefit, or at least achieve a measure of relief, from a discussion.”

  She held the door open. She said, “I can give you a few minutes,” and stood aside to let me in. She pointed to two thronelike chairs. It was Sit, you.

  I followed her lead and obeyed. There, now. She walked off toward the back of the house.

  Which was unwelcoming and overly conceived. Large beams and too-large furniture. Too much dark wood. The home of a British baroness—and an unruly Airedale bounding my way.

  I embraced him and held him off; he ignored my entreaties to sit. He wanted all my attention and seemed to know how beguiling he was. I gave in and gushed over him.

  Miss Davis returned and resumed her performance. She was brusque—but now amenable. She balanced a pewter tray like a drive-in carhop and swooped over to me. She placed the tray on a table by our thrones. The baroness, her petitioner. The pewter pitcher and mugs. The props covered her skittishness. She was dying to hear what I had to say.

  She filled the mugs with rum punch. She opened a pewter box and pointed to a pewter lighter. I lit a cigarette and reclined in my throne; Miss Davis did the same. The Airedale hopped on an ottoman and went to sleep.

  “Dudley was besotted by the dog. There’s a way that certain men behave with animals. They regress in a certain way. Dudley kissed the dog, which I found discomfiting.”

  I sipped grog. “I live in a policeman’s world. In a sense, I’ve been seduced by it. It’s my résumé for any discussion of Dudley Smith.”

  Miss Davis tucked her legs up on the throne. She placed a pewter ashtray on the ledge between us.

  “I know from seduction, as you might have guessed. I thought I recognized him, and then convinced myself that I knew him and could restrict him within the boundaries that I impose upon my men. I erred there, and I will never see him again. Which does not mean that he will fail to haunt me.”

  I said, “You haven’t asked me to explain my résumé, or asked me if there’s a specific purpose for my visit.”

  “Why should I? You’re an artful inconvenience, and I’m momentarily taken with your approach. It’s a cool Saturday morning, and we’re having a chat. We’re going to get shit-faced and become over-familiar, because the war has sanctioned such indecorous behavior. Your introduction was entirely sufficient.”

  I sipped punch. Dark rum, Pernod, fruit juice. Pinch me—am I really here?

  “Tell me about you and Dudley Smith, please.”

  Miss Davis said, “He fell ill here Wednesday afternoon. He became delirious and muttered things in his sleep.”

  10:26 a.m.

  There was no quick revelation. I knew why, instantly. Miss Davis was at loose ends. She was lonely and needed an audience; she knew that she could hold me enthralled, in my front-row seat. She would bid me to speak, in time. She would ignore telephone calls and intrusions, such as her husband and any lovers she might have on a string. I expected autobiography, and got it.

  Miss Davis, Broadway ingénue. She runs afoul of her family and makes her way to the Big Town. The ’20s. Prohibition. Jewish intellectuals, eager to fuck her. George Gershwin succeeds. Poor George. He may or may not have been queer. She’s there for the Carnegie Hall debut of Concerto in F. She smokes hashish with Scott Fitzgerald and finds herself weeping at the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine. She witnesses a May Day parade that leaves three dead. She’s outside the prison when Sacco and Vanzetti fry. I sat silent and steady-eyed. I made no attempt to intrude on the woman’s one great theme of Herself.

  The stories went on. The day passed in one long monologue. We moved room to room. Miss Davis tossed flapjacks and deep-fried them into egg-stuffed enchiladas. Every movement was graceful and calculated to appear nonchalant. She was teaching me how to act in the world. The baroness and her protégée. She knew that I was studying her and believed that I would mimic her for the rest of my life. Miss Davis failed at insight and excelled at technique. This put her at odds with Claire De Haven. Claire embraced drama and employed it as but one approach to her fierce assignment of task.

  We sipped grog, smoked cigarettes and stayed short of pie-eyed. Miss Davis had her one story. This shortcoming outlived its novelty and taxed me over time. I resisted her story, in all its accomplished seduction. I saw how deeply she fell prey to Glamour and how willfully she reconstructed it as Life’s Big Romance. Her Forced March to Hollywood. Her Conquests of Famous Men, all weaker than she. Her Tiffs with Studio Chieftains and Directors.

  It went on through the night and two bottles of red wine with coq au vin. The Airedale reappeared at fetching intervals. He brought the baroness a fresh-killed squirrel at one point. I dutifully cleaned up the mess as Dudley Smith loomed in ellipsis. The dog reminded her of him. Miss Davis was all artifice, save for her fear and rage. It was fear of nothingness and rage at the prospect fulfilled. It was her appetite for men at war with her need to orchestrate her every life’s moment. Dudley Smith terrified her. He was the brutal blank page of her unconscious and had hurled her beyond her ken. They had breached each other’s façades.

  Miss Davis goes to Hollywood. Miss Lake goes to Hollywood. The film star, the round-heeled carhop. She was there at the premiere of Gone with the Wind—and was almost cast and should have been cast as Scarlett O’Hara. I attended the first public showing and still kept the ticket stub in my purse.

  My visit ran through the wee small hours and up through dawn. I realized that she’d done this many times. She got lonely and became bored with all the people in her life. She needed a new audience. Someone might offer her a perfect new reflection. It would cut her loose to be someone less furious and less arch.

  She gave me my opening. It was her critique of Victor McLaglen in The Informer. I told her that Dudley Smith brought to mind McLaglen, writ suave.

  So she told me. She phrased it as a Bette Davis Story. Miss Davis and her Demon Lover. His infected hand, his delirium, the studio abortionist she brought in. She invited him here to screw him one last time and then banish him. She changed her mind at the door. He collapsed and said things in his sleep.

  What things, Miss Davis? Please tell me. I can tell that they disturbed you.

  She said she heard Dudley confess. He blathered in Catholic Latin and English. His utterings shocked her.

  Extortion and robbery. Murder. The killing that took her past Her Ken—Because She Caused It.

  “There was a party for Ben Siegel, a little over two weeks ago. It was at the Trocadero. I keep a room there, over the club.”

  Yes, Miss Davis. And then?

  “I spent the night there with Dudley, and I made a harmless wisecrack as I fell asleep. I said, ‘Kill a Jap for me.’ I read the newspaper the next day, and there was a horrible account of that Japanese man shot in the phone booth. Dudley confessed to the murder in his sleep.”

  Miss Davis wept then. It was the crescendo of her performance. She wanted to be held, so I held her. I thought of my Kabuki mask and heard Japanese music. I held Bette Davis and let her sob into me.

  7:53 a.m.

  Church. A High Mass for the Pearl Harbor dead.

  The Archbishop sermonized. He extolled goodness in a world gone mad. He cited statistics—lives lost and battleships sunk.

  Parker sat in the fourth row. Dudley sat two rows up. The Archbishop assailed the madness of nations and men.

  Parker smelled bourbon-doused tobacco. Parker saw Pierce Patchett at his shortwave radio. Parker heard civilian freighters explo
de.

  He went by The House at dawn. He walked to the parkway and saw those cigarette butts. Saul Lesnick and Lin Chung killed time there.

  The Archbishop sermonized. He preached to a full house. The Mass drew nonbelievers who showed up just for show. Fletch Bowron showed. Bill McPherson showed. Call-Me-Jack showed. Brenda Allen’s lipstick showed on his neck.

  War. The will to atrocity. Invisible subversion. Detectable and eradicable. The duty of God-driven men.

  Parker stared at Dudley. The Archbishop segued to patter. There’s a war-bond rally. Hollywood, tomorrow night. It’s star-studded and free. Here’s the cutie: a Catholic setter and Protestant spaniel fall in love at the pound.

  The celebrants roared. Dudley roared—Your Eminence, that’s rich!

  The Archbishop announced the “Gloria Patria.” The celebrants stood. Hideo Ashida entered the church.

  He’s putting out rays. Jap, Jap, Jap. There’s the looks and whispers. He’s sliding down the second row. The Archbishop is miffed.

  Ashida walked straight to the Dudster. Dudley draped an arm around him.

  Now the gasps. Now the shudders. Now the big NO.

  The Archbishop put the skids to it. The Archbishop closed the show.

  Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost. As it was in the beginn—

  Parker walked. He tripped out of the pew. He stumbled to the aisle and made the side door. An usher gulped and looked away.

  He made the parking lot and his black-and-white. He kicked an empty pop bottle and shattered it. A flock of nuns crossed themselves.

  Parker gunned it and took Wilshire west. The Miracle Mile and Beverly Hills were Sunday quiet. He cut north and ditched the car at Bedford and Dayton. He reached under the seat.

  There—weighted sap gloves. The nightwatch man kept them stashed close.

  The front door stood open. Parker walked through the lobby and took the hallway stairs. The second floor was quiet. Saul Lesnick’s door was shut. The 216 door stood open. Parker walked right in.

  Patchett was sorting mail. He wore tennis garb. The shorts and cable sweater. The polo shirt.

  “It’s the cop-lawyer. What’s with the gloves? They look too sexy for a guy like—”

  Parker ran up and hit him. A tight uppercut snapped his chin and rocked him back. Parker came in behind glove weight. He stepped close and saw Patchett get fear.

  He put his hands out. Don’t hit me—we can talk about this. Parker stepped in close and went for his face.

  He hit him. Bones cracked. He had stitched lead in both fists. Patchett stumbled and crashed into the doorway. Parker pinned him there.

  Parker hit him. He swung left-rights. He broke his nose. He broke his jaw. He sheared off one nostril and his lower lip.

  There was all this blood. Bone showed white under it. Patchett screamed. Parker screamed over him. No Sabotage, No Prisons, No Parkway, No Eugenics.

  Patchett’s eyes rolled back. Parker smelled his piss and sprayed shit.

  He hit him. He got his nose. He hit him. He got his mouth. He hit him. He cracked his teeth gum-deep. There, one ear’s dangling. There, his scalp’s gone. There, he’s got no eyebrows. There, you’ve soaked your arms red.

  There, he’s half-dead.

  There, he’s eradicated.

  There, you’re God-driven now.

  9:02 a.m.

  Opium.

  The pallet, the tar, the pipe. Kick off those shoes, spark that flame.

  The smoke hit his blood. It was immediate. The body was all conduit. Monsignor Meehan taught biology and smuggled arms by night. Dublin, 1918. Machine Gun Meehan knew from blood.

  Opium. Three match strikes. The pallet drifts.

  Stopover, L.A. Airplanes arrive and depart. The Airedale stares out a passenger window, agog.

  He drove Beth and Tommy to the airport. It was sweet wartime l’adieux. He takes his oath of service tomorrow. Joe Kennedy will fly in.

  He invited Hideo. Claire would appreciate that.

  Stopover, Acapulco. Cliff divers and lobster salad. Claire in frocks from ritzy catalogues and Claire walking naked through steam.

  Dudley smoked opium. He drifted through his own body and swam in red arteries.

  He heard something. It was not of this drift on this pallet. It was a click. It was a creak.

  He heard something. It was a footfall. It was a creak.

  IT brushed the pallet.

  He opened his eyes.

  IT had a knife.

  IT was Goro Shigeta, resurrected. He returned with a lacquered-wood face.

  He covered his own face. He had no voice to say Please don’t hit me.

  A knife came down. This thing stabbed him. This thing raked his arms and his neck. He hid his face. This thing stabbed him. He had no voice. This thing cut him—his back, his legs, his feet.

  He heard Chink voices. They were far, they were close. This thing vanished. The pallet dropped through a hole in the world. His blood was ice on his lips.

  9:43 a.m.

  The Werewolf sleeps.

  He had his own cell row. It accommodated his fans. Jailers sold photos. The Werewolf snarls. He bites your neck for five bucks.

  Ashida watched him sleep. The urge to see him hit out of nowhere. It took his mind off Mexico.

  The Werewolf sleeps. He’s curled around his pillows. He’s unshaven and knocked out behind terp.

  Ashida stood in the catwalk. The adjoining tiers ran all-Japanese. He lived at the Biltmore Hotel now. His suite overlooked Pershing Square.

  Ray Pinker walked up. “I don’t know what this means, so you tell me. Dudley Smith was attacked, over at Kwan’s. Your name was on a card in his wallet. You know, ‘in case of emergency.’ ”

  9:51 a.m.

  His car was boxed in. He kicked the gas and plowed a row of trash cans. He popped the clutch and fishtailed east. He blew a red light and made Main.

  A logjam held him back. Temple Street was blocked. Flag wavers and drum beaters stalled traffic dead. It was some ragtag parade. Remember Pearl Harbor! Lest we forget!

  Ashida nudged the gas. He grazed the car in front of him. The driver looked back and saw Jap. He shot Ashida the finger—Lest we forget!

  The logjam broke. Ashida swerved around the finger man and blew two reds.

  He fishtailed across Temple and hooked to Broadway. He saw grief outside Kwan’s.

  Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle ditched a K-car. Lin Chung pushed a gurney. Fluid bags swung on a pole.

  He swerved up and parked on the curb. A crowd pushed into Kwan’s. Nort Layman and a tall woman ran in.

  The car blew hot oil and steam. Ashida tripped out and fought leg cramps. He half walked, half ran over. He caught an antiseptic stink. He pushed his way in.

  Tables were shoved aside. Floor space was cleared. Dudley was stretched out on a bloody tablecloth.

  Lin Chung fed him fluids. Ace Kwan waved a shrunken head. He thought he saw/​he saw Claire De Haven. She was the tall woman. She was squeezing prayer beads.

  All eyes on Dudley. All prayers for Dudley. He’s stripped to his shorts. He’s been gored and ripped.

  Nort Layman made napkin tourniquets. Lin Chung swabbed Dudley’s neck and plunged a syringe. A thin woman rigged fluid bags. Mike Breuning called her “Ruthie.”

  Dick Carlisle said, “It’s good you were close.”

  Ruthie said, “Dud’s been in the shit lately.”

  Ashida pressed close. Dudley bled out, ruddy to pale. Claire stood close. Her feet touched the tablecloth. Blood seeped into her shoes.

  Busboys talked pidgin. Four Families attack Dudster. Blue kerchief boy. Very small. Bandanna on face. Run through office. Escape out alley.

  Nort swabbed Dudley’s arms. Lin Chung rolled Dudley on his back and swabbed posterior wounds. Nort said, “The neck cut’s superficial.” Chung said, “Back cuts, too.”

  Ruthie hung a plasma bag. Nort counted wounds. Ace ran up with a bottle of vodka. Ruthie wiped Dudley’
s back with high-test Smirnoff. Nort said, “We’re good so far. He missed the arteries.”

  The tourniquets stanched blood. Ruthie dug in a doctor’s bag. She pulled out stitches and bandage clamps. Breuning yelled. Carlisle yelled. It was all no hospital/​no cops.

  Ruthie threaded stitch needles. Chung held up Dudley’s arms. Nort pumped his veins and passed out fluid bags. Busboys stood on their tiptoes and hooked them to ceiling beams.

  The vodka went around. Nort and Ruthie chugged. Dudley stirred and coughed. He raised his hands and made fists.

  The whole room cheered. Ruthie winked at Claire. It was a great faux-Dudley wink.

  Ashida walked back to the alley. His legs gave out. He sat on a stack of bald tires and sobbed.

  They cheered inside the restaurant. Nort warbled that Irish song “Kilgary Mountain.” Ace announced free pupu platters and drinks.

  Ashida wiped his face and kicked rocks across the alley. His lab smock was tear-drenched.

  “Were you really Kay’s lover?”

  Ashida looked over. Claire sat on her own stack of tires. Her dress was soaked red. Her cheeks were bloody. She’d knelt to kiss him.

  “No. I wasn’t.”

  “I found her miraculous and disturbing. She taught me things.”

  Ashida nodded. Claire dabbed her cheeks.

  “It’s very powerful to love someone that you shouldn’t.”

  Ashida said, “Yes. I know what you mean.”

  1:28 p.m.

  I burned the evidence in my backyard incinerator. The bloody clothing, the blue kerchief, the mask. I wadded up newspaper and covered all of it. A single match made it all flame.

  I intended to kill him, and may or may not have succeeded. Radio bulletins will confirm the murder. No news will ascribe a clandestine convalescence and prepare me for a fateful knock on the door. In either case, I’ll be ready.

  I might waltz altogether. I might be sent to the green room at San Quentin Prison. I’ll walk that last mile with Bette Davis defiance or in the spirit of Claire De Haven as Joan of Arc. I will exhibit stunning artistry in any and all cases. Character and conviction? Maybe, maybe not. I’m only twenty-one, and this war is but three weeks old. These past days affirm my appetite for heedless adventure. Opportunity may or may not find me. In the meantime, I will sit perfectly still.