by James Ellroy
I didn't buy it. I felt one of my Patented Post-Passive Rages poised to pop. I lashed out once in a billion blue moons. I imploded all my impacted shit inward and outward and took it out on inanimate objects.
The bomb shelter smelled like a catbox. I taped some nudie pix to the ceiling above my cot and stretched out to slam the ham.
I noticed two envelopes on the nightstand. My mom must have brought them in. They were perfume dipped and pale blue linen.
I picked them up. I sniffed them. I saw my name and address. The back flaps were stained at the edge. Prison mail was steamed open, read, and resealed. This looked like the same thing.
The postmarks read 2/18 and 2/20/54. The return-address stickers read:
Vivian Woodard, 348 South Muirfield Road, Los Angeles, 4, California.
"Woodard"--as in "L. Trent." Swank Hancock Park.
I opened the envelopes. I read the letters inside. Passionate passages pounced on me.
"Your art is dubious and derivative, but you play with an astounding sensual conviction." "My husband admires your struggle and your blunt and wrenching admissions of your fear, and is concurrently vexed by your power over me." "You cannot be socially enlightened without acknowledging Dick Contino as a symbol of candor and transcendent vulnerability." "I want you inside me. I want to swing off the axis where our loins meet in wetness and tumescence." "Your music is my anthem. Your seed is the hot ink that courses through my veins and my pen as I write these words."
Oooooooooh, Daddy-o!!!!!
I read the letters four times. I circled the sex stuff. I taped the letters to the ceiling above my cot and formed an erotic collage.
Somebody banged on my door. My mom yelled, "Dick! Oscar's on the phone!"
Oscar Levant said, "You're a schmuck. You're also a schmendrick, a schlemiel, and a schlemazel."
Oscar was pissed. Freddy Otash cut down his dope dose. Oscar said Freddy extorted the shit out of schvartze jazz musicians. Freddy didn't want Oscar to overdose and die. Hush-Hush couldn't fly without his sinful and sincere sinuendo.
I tilted my chair back. I scoped out the nut ward. Oscar tilted his chair back and tracked my eyes.
The rec room was chock-full of nuts. An orderly was marching an old man around. The old man was talking non-stop and drooling into a cup.
Oscar said, "Pops is a Wall Street trader. He recites nursery rhymes, with some insider stock tips laced into the flow. The orderly is Freddy O's watchdog. He keeps an eye on me, pumps the old guy for stock tips, and feeds them to Freddy."
Gail Russell and Barbara Payton were playing dominoes. Barbara ran her right foot up Gail's leg sapphically slooooow. Gail swatted it away.
Oscar said, "They're both dipsos. The boss at Paramount told them to dry out or else. Babs always goes lez in stir. Gail's pining for Rock Hudson. Rock's playing skin-flute on a bartender at Don the Beachcomber's. The bartender snorts Big 'H' and moonlights at an all-male cathouse."
A geek was twisting his hair in knots and doodling on a scratch pad. A dozen nuts stood around and watched him draw.
Oscar said, "He's an animator for The Webster Webfoot Show. He makes animated smut flicks on the side and sells them down in Tj. He thinks he's Webster Webfoot. His wife shows up once a week and throws popcorn at him."
I laughed. The orderly noticed me and sized me up. Oscar lit a cigarette and blew smoke in my face.
I said, "You want something. You're playing some kind of angle here."
Oscar blew concentric smoke rings. "I want to contemporize you. I want to revitalize your career and end your days as a schmuck, a schmendrick, a schlemiel, and a schiemazel."
"What's in it for you?"
"You check me out on a pass, right this goddamn instant. You take me down to Darktown and get me what I need to survive."
He was headed for Shake City. He sucked that cigarette down to a stub in sixteen seconds.
He started twitching. He started shaking. His eyes started begging me.
I said, "Let's go."
We drove south and smoked Linda's reefer. Life lapsed into slow motion. We were bebop bwanas on the Dark Continent. My dad's '50 Ford was a barge on the River Styx.
Dig the jazz clubs! Dig that drive-in mosque! Dig the unkinkyour-hair parlors and the chopped-and-channeled chariots in cool coon maroon!
We cruised Central Avenue. A voodoo moon beamed down and lit the way. Oscar found Rachmaninoff on the radio. We rolled our windows down and shared him with our wild-ass world.
The weed unkinked Oscar. He stopped twitching and abusing me. I steered the barge with one finger. Water lapped under my feet.
Oscar said, "The Pharaoh Club. They've got a steam room, and all the hip junkies sweat themselves out there before their Nalline tests. Freddy 0 jacks them up and steals their stuff."
My life lapsed out of slow motion. Oscar wrecked my reverie. He sounded like a 45 single spun at 78.
I spoke slooow and easy. "Freddy O is a cop. He can flash his badge and pull that kind of thing off."
Oscar lit a cigarette and sucked it down to a cinder in one drag. He flicked the butt out the window and flashed two little gold stars.
Toy badges.
"Junior Deputy" at the bottom. "SheriffJohn's Lunch Brigade" at the top.
I blinked. The Belgian Congo disappeared and cohered as Darktown L.A. A bazaboo bipped in front of the car. I missed him by a snatch-hair margin.
Oscar said, "You can't pass this up. It's too sweet. You'll do anything to prove you're not a crap-your-pants crybaby."
I gulped. I popped a sweat. I saw the Pharaoh Club three doors down and pulled to the curb.
I wore a babaloo bongo shirt and peg pants. Oscar wore a nutward robe and pj's. Hepcats, hipsters, and hopheads knew our faces.
Oscar said, "Fearful faigeleh fiddle-faddles while--"
I jumped out of the car. Oscar jumped out. We squared off on the sidewalk. Oscar passed me my badge. I concocted an intro line and pushed the door open.
We entered Pharaoh's Tomb. A big schvartze in Egyptian threads materialized. I caught the layout behind him.
Black crepe walls. Tables shaped like scarabs going sixty-nine. A bandstand inlaid with a gold-embossed Ramses II holding crossed scepters. A jazz combo decked out in fezzes--blasting to an allsepia crowd.
Steam seeped through some ceiling cracks. The spa was upstairs.
The schvartze eyeballed Oscar's pajamas. "You lookin' for a bed, or you come for some milk and cookies?"
Oscar flashed his badge and said, "Fuck you, King Tut."
The schvartze laughed.
I reached for my intro line. I lost it in the flight path of Marijuana Airways. I said the first thing that hit my head:
"My name's Friday. I carry a badge."
Fuck--straight out of Dragnet.
The schvartze laughed. He leaned back and howled. His sheik shirt rolled above his sheik pants. He packed a beavertail sap in his waistband.
Oscar grabbed the sap and cracked him in the head. The schvartze hit the side wall and knocked a liquor license loose. I grabbed him by his conk and bent his head back. Oscar cracked him again.
He spit out some denture debris and a slice of his tongue. Oscar said, "Who's holding? Who's got the stuff to feed the monkey on my back?"
The schvartze quaked and quivered. I dropped his head. Oscar propped it up with the sap.
"I asked you, 'Who's holding?' Who's got the doughnuts, the strudel, the shit?"
The schvartze stammered, stuttered, and pointed upstairs. He got out a string of popped P's and the single word "Playboy."
Go, Oscar!
The schvartze stammered and stuttered. He got out more popped P's and the words "Please don't hit me!"
I looked at Oscar. Oscar looked at me. We tore through the Pharaoh Club.
People laughed. People snickered. People ducked and dove under their tables. Oscar's robe billowed. It snagged on chair backs and chicken-and-waffle plates. We distracted the combo. They blew their beat. "B
umble Boogie" bent off-key.
We ran up the backstairs. We kicked down a door marked Private. Black faces poked out of a steam cloud. Dissipating dope drifted through it. Oscar sucked the shit into his lungs and swung his sap blind.
A black blip blipped into black-and-red. Blood spritzed through the cloud. I heard bones crack. I heard a man scream. Oscar yelled, "Where's Playboy?"
A black face yelled, "Out back!" A black face yelled, "The parking lot!" A black face yelled, "Out back with some white guy!"
We ran downstairs. We kicked down an exit door. That voodoo moon lit up the parking lot. I saw a white man and a Negro man huddled by a '49 Olds.
They had their backs to us. I tapped Oscar and made the sssshhh sigh. Oscar nodded and zipped his lips shut.
We tiptoed up. I heard every word they said.
The white man said, "You weren't supposed to pull heists. That was part of our deal."
The Negro man said, "Sheeit."
The white man said, "You were supposed to recruit colored tail for the movie gig and chauffeur the girls out of Sybil Brand, and that's fucking all you were supposed to do."
The Negro man said, "I didn't like the way that Harvey creep was lookin' at my bitch."
The white man said, "He's harmless. All he wants to do is take pictures."
Oscar held up his badge and said, "Freeze, shitbirds."
The men turned around. I made them from the Mirror-News.
Cal Dinkins--LAPD bull. Rudy "Playboy" Wells--robber.
Dinkins laughed. Wells laughed. I dug my feet into the ground and reinforced my spastic sphincter. Dinkins said, "Holy shit! Oscar Levant and Dick Contino."
Oscar said, "We just look like those punks. It's part of our cover. Cough up the dope, Playboy."
The word "Playboy" tripped Playboy's trigger. He looked at Dinkins. The look said, "They know us." Dinkins said, "Kill them."
Oscar twitched and dropped his sap. Playboy pulled a shiv and flicked his tongue down the blade. Blood trickled over his lips. He licked it off and giggled.
I kicked him in the balls. He jackknifed. I pried the shiv out of his hand and jammed it in his right eye. Oscar picked up the sap and whacked Dinkins in the knees.
Dinkins yelped. Playboy screamed. I pulled the shiv out of his eye and lashed it across Dinkins's throat. It snagged on his windpipe. I pulled it out loose and ripped Dinkins down to the breastbone.
They gurgled. They spat blood. They hit their knees in one big convulsion. I picked them up and tossed them in the '49 Olds. Oscar picked their pockets.
They gurgled. They spat blood. They moaned. I saw a hunk of hose on the seat beside them. I got a flick-their-ID-up idea.
I popped the gas cap and stuck the hose in the tank. I siphoned six inches of ethyl and spat it in their two gasping gullets. They choked. They gasped. They opened up wiiiide.
I pulled the gun off Dinkins's hip. I popped the clip. I dropped four slugs in his mouth and fed three to Playboy. I chased them with two matches.
The bullets blew up. I heard dental work destroyed and saw detective work deconstructed. They shot mouth flames. They scorched the upholstery. The Olds went up like Cinder City.
Oscar shook and twitched. He lit a cigarette off the car flames and killed it in a third of a drag.
I picked him up. I threw him over my shoulder and ran.
3
I opened my eyes. I saw the mash notes and the girls taped to my ceiling.
It all came back. I almost pissed in my pajamas.
I got Oscar back to Mount Sinai. We tossed Playboy's billfold en route. I kept Cal Dinkins's address book. I wanted to know who he knew. Maybe I could frame some freak for my murders.
I was hung over from Maryjane and mayhem. I made up for the men I didn't kill in Korea. They sheltered me in Seoul. They didn't know that candid cowards could kill with correct provocation.
I was scared.
I showed my face at 83rd and Central. Oscar showed his face and shot off his dope-deprived mouth. People knew us. We were penny-ante public personas. Oscar played piano and portrayed pissants in a dozen flicks in constant rerun. A Pharaoh Club patron might see Humoresque and buzz the fuzz. My career might soar and plant my puss in a million memory banks. I might fall from cloud nine to the gas chamber.
I stared at my ceiling. I strafed words and pix. I lingered on "I want you" and a blonde with a heat rash.
Yesterday and today. The tightrope and the abyss.
I rolled off my cot. I cooked up some coffee and skimmed the radio dial. I caught the morning news on six stations. Nobody mentioned the Pharaoh Club inferno.
I went through the address book. I saw a bunch of no-names listed in alphabetical order and some names and numbers listed at the back.
Two name-names/one familiar name/one no-name.
The no-name:
Harvey Glatman (Harvey's TV Repair, HO-492 36). $2,000.
The familiar name:
Johnny Stompanato, CR-2 8609. $4,000.
Johnny Stomp: ex-Mickey Cohen goon.
I knew Mickey at McNeil Island. He said Johnny poured the pork to Donna Reed and Rita Hayworth. Orson Welles filmed the trysts through a 2-way mirror and screened them at a stag night at the Cannes filmfest.
The name-names:
Ida Lupino/CR-622 1 1/$6,000. Steve CochranlOL-65189/ $6,000.
Ida Lupino: Mrs. Howard Duff. Film star and director. Steve Cochran: B-movie stud.
I kicked the names around. I retrieved two things that Wells and Dinkins said:
"You were supposed to recruit colored tail for the movie gig." / "I didn't like the way that Harvey creep was lookin' at my bitch."
Dinkins: rogue cop. Wells: heist man. They colluded on the drive-in job. The "movie gig" had to be something else.
I ran out to my parents' porch and picked up the Herald. On page two: NIGHTCLUB NIGHTMARE.
They tagged the victims John Doe #1 and #2. The schvartze described his assailants: "Big guys--they'd have to be to mess with me." Two sketches ran on page three. The sketch artist did not draw Oscar and me. He drew two bullet-headed pachucos.
I laughed. I roared. I did an impromptu shimmy. We took two Gs off the stiffs. My half would spring my ax and rent me a slick little love shack.
A big man stepped out of a shadow. He held out a badge and blocked out my brand-new sunshine. He said, "You silly cocksucker."
The badge was real. The man was all muscle. He pulled out a claim tag and flicked it on my nose. He said, "You silly fuck."
He wore a gold watch and a gold-plated .45. He wore a gold ID link. The "EO." ID'd him.
Fred Otash--the big-time Big O.
I twitched. I shook. I popped a Popsicle sweat. A van pulled into the driveway. Dig the side panels: HARvEY'S TV REPAIR.
A creep stared out the windshield. He picked his nose. Otash flicked the claim tag on my nose.
"You dropped it by the car you torched, and that orderly saw you check Oscar out of Mount Sinai. He called Danny Getchell. Danny tailed you down to niggertown and lost you. He figured you went down there for some smoky meat, and he thought he might nail you coming out of some coon whorehouse."
I shook. I shivered. I shrugged like I didn't give a shit. A gyroscope popped out of the van and spun on the roof. The next-doorneighbor lady walked out on her porch and picked up her morning paper. The creep ogled her.
I looked at Otash. Otash looked at me. It hit me hard:
A fix was in. The cops John Doe'd Wells and Dinkins deliberately. Otash did not know that I knew that. Otash did not know that I knew my victims' names. I did not tell Oscar their names. I had to hold it all back from Oscar and Otash.
Otash yawned. "Let's wrap this up before your folks get back. First, quit shaking and lay out last night for me."
I laid out a condensed version. "Oscar Levant and I got in some trouble at the Pharaoh Club. We tried to cop some dope, and a white guy and a colored guy attacked us. I killed them in selfdefense."
Otash smiled.
The creep smiled back. Otash nodded. The creep hit a switch on his dashboard. My voice boomed off the gyroscope and covered the whole block:
"Oscar Levant and I got in some trouble at the Pharaoh Club. We tried to cop some dope, and--"
Otash nodded. The creep hit a switch. My voice died out.
I shook. I weaved. My legs went. I fell back and hit a porch post. Otash pulled his gun and pinned me toit.
"Did you take anything off the bodies?"
I lied big. "We took the money out of their wallets and tossed the wallets down a sewer grate."
"Did you find an address book on the white guy?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Sure I'm sure. Do you think I'd--"
Otash slapped me. A big gold ring raked my nose.
"Here's thequestion, paisan. Do you want to burn for this? Do you want me to sweat Oscar cold turkey until he gives you up to corroborate your confession, or do you want to get some middleaged pussy and make friends in the LAPD?"
My head spun six ways. My tongue tripped over six ways to express acquiescence. I stammered. I stuttered. Otash slapped me. Blood burst out of my nose.
"I'll take that response as a yes and lay it out for you. One, the Feds intercepted some letters that a certain pink lady wrote to you and shared them with us. Two, the pink lady's husband has said some entirely unacceptable things about the LAPD and has to be punished. Your job is to meet the pink lady at a bash at the Wilshire-Ebell tonight, fuck her silly, and get her to admit that her pinko husband is a member of the various Commie-front organizations that we suspect he is. Do you understand your job, paisan?"
I said, "Yes." My voice sounded too deep and overamplifled. It wah-wahhed off the van.
Otash glared at the creep. The creep hit a switch. My voice wah-wahhed and died.
Otash tapped his gun on my chest. "That's Harvey Glatman. He's a genius, but he likes to play with his toys too much. You meet him at his shop at 5:3 0. He'll wire you up for the job."
