The Best American Noir of the Century

by James Ellroy

  They weren't at the Trocadero, the Mocambo, or the La Rue; they weren't at Sherry's or Dave's Blue Room. I called the DMV night information line, played cop, and got a read on Mo Hornbeck's wheels—1946 tan Dodge Coupe, CAL-4986-J, 896¼ Moonglow Vista, South Pasadena—then took the Arroyo Seco over the hill to the address, a block of bungalow courts.

  At the left side tail end of a stucco streamline job was 896%—rounded handrails and oblong louvers fronting tiny windows strictly for show. No lights were burning; Hornbeck's Dodge was not in the carport at the rear. Maybe Gretchen Rae was inside, armed with stuffed animals, negligee garrotes, stew pots, and frying pans—and that suddenly made me not give a fuck whether the world laid, prayed, stayed, or strayed. I kicked the door in, flipped on a wall light, and got knocked flat on my ass by a big furry mother with big, shiny, razor-white teeth.

  It was a Doberman, sleek black muscle out for blood—mine. The dog snapped at my shoulder and got a snootful of Hart, Schaffner & Marx worsted; he snapped at my face and got an awkwardly thrown Meeks right jab that caused him to flinch momentarily. I dug in my pocket for my Arkansas toad stabber, popped the button, and flailed with it; I grazed the beast's paws and snout—and he still kept snapping and snarling.

  Giving the fucker a stationary target was the only way. I put my left arm over my eyes and tried to stay supine; Rex the Wonder Dog went for my big, fat, juicy elbow. I hooked my shiv up at his gut, jammed it in, and yanked forward. Entrails dropped all over me; Rex vomited blood in my face and died with a snap-gurgle.

  I kicked the day's third corpse off of me, stumbled to the bathroom, rummaged through the medicine cabinet, and found witch hazel. I doused my elbow bite and the blood-oozing teeth marks on my knuckles. Deep breathing, I splashed sink water on my face, looked in the mirror, and saw a middle-aged fat man, terrified and pissed to his drawers, in deep, deep shit without a depth gauge. I held the gaze, thinking it wasn't me for long seconds. Then I smashed the image with the witch hazel bottle and eyeballed the rest of the bungalow.

  The larger of the two bedrooms had to be Gretchen Rae's. It was all girlish gewgaws: pandas and arcade Kewpie dolls, pinups of matinee idols and college pennants on the walls. Kitchen appliances still in their boxes were stacked on the dresser; publicity glossies of RKO pretty boys littered the bedspread.

  The other bedroom reeked of VapoRub and liniment and sweat and flatulence—bare walls, the floor space almost completely taken up by a sagging Murphy bed. There was a medicine bottle on the nightstand—Dr. Revelle prescribing Demerol for Mr. Hornbeck—and checking under the pillow got me a .38 Police Special. I flipped the cylinder, ex-tracted four of the shells, and stuck the gun in my waistband, then went back to the living room and picked up the dog, gingerly, so as not to drench myself in his gore. I noticed that it was a female; that a tag on its collar read JANET. That hit me as the funniest thing since vaudeville, and I started laughing wildly, shock coming on. I spotted an Abercrombie & Fitch dog bed in the corner, dumped Janet in it, doused the lights in the room, found a couch, and collapsed. I was heading into some sort of weird heebie-jeebie haze when wood creaking, a choked "Oh my God!" and hot yellow glare jolted me to my feet.

  "Oh Janet, no!"

  Mo Hornbeck beelined for the dead dog, not even noticing me. I stuck out my leg and tripped him; he hit the floor almost snout to snout with Janet. And I was right there, gun at his head, snarling like the psycho Okie killer I could have been. "Boy, you're gonna blab on you, Gretchen Rae, and them bodies on Mariposa. You're gonna spill on her and Howard Hughes, and I mean now."

  Hornbeck found some balls quicksville, averting his eyes from the dog, latching them onto me. "Fuck you, Meeks."

  "Fuck you" was acceptable from a ranking sheriff's dick in my debt, but not from a statch raper hoodlum. I opened the .38's cylinder and showed Hornbeck the two rounds, then spun it and put the muzzle to his head. "Talk. Now."

  Hornbeck said, "Fuck you, Meeks"; I pulled the trigger; he gasped and looked at the dog, turning purple at the temples, red at the cheeks. Seeing myself in a cell next to Fud, the Meeks boys playing pinochle sideways through the bars, I popped off another shot, the hammer clicking on an empty chamber. Hornbeck bit at the carpet to stanch his tremors, going deep purple, then subsiding into shades of crimson, pink, death's-head white. Finally he spat dust and dog hair and gasped, "The pills by my bed and the bottle in the cupboard."

  I obeyed, and the two of us sat on the porch like good buddies and killed the remains of the jug—Old Overholt Bonded. Hornbeck blasted Demerol pills along with the juice, flew to cloud nine, and told me the saddest goddamn story I'd ever heard.

  Gretchen Rae Shoftel was his daughter. Mom hit the road shortly after she was born, hightailing it to parts unknown with a Schlitz Brewery driver rumored to be double-digit hung, like the human equivalent of Mickey Cohen Jr.; he raised Gretch as best he could, nursing a bad case of the hots for her, ashamed of it until he picked up scads of unrelated skinny: that his wife was servicing the entire Schlitz night shift during the time his little girl was conceived. On general principles he stayed hands-off, taking his lust out on girls from the greenhorn hooker camps up in Green Bay and Saint Paul.

  Gretchy grew up strange, ashamed of her old man—a gang stooge and occasional killer. She took her old lady's maiden name and buried her head in books, loving arithmetic tricks, figures, calculations—stuff that proved she was smart. She also took up with a rough South Milwaukee crowd. One crazy Polack boyfriend beat her silly every night for a week straight when she was fifteen. Mo found out, put the kid in cement skates, and dumped him in Lake Michigan. Father and daughter were happily reunited by the revenge.

  Mo moved up in Jerry Katzenbach's organization; Gretch got a bundle together tricking the hotel bars in Chicago. Mo installed Gretchen Rae as sixteen-year-old pit boss of a swank whorehouse: movie-star surrogates, the rooms bugged to pick up gangland and political skinny that might prove valuable to Jerry K. Gretch got friendly with stock swindler Voyteck Kirnipaski; she just happened to be listening through a vent one night when Howard Hughes and a cadre of Army three-stars were cavorting with Jean Arthur, Lupe Velez, and Carole Lombard, greenhorn versions. Gretch picked up lots of juicy Wall Street gossip, and realized that this could be the start of something big. Mo contracted stomach cancer about that time and got the word: half a decade tops—enjoy life while you can. Cash skimmed off Jerry Katzenbach's books provided class-A treatment. Mo held his own against the Big C. Jerry K. got bum press for his whorehouse, kiboshed it, and banished Mo to the Coast, where Mickey Cohen welcomed him with open arms, using his juice to get Mo's two statch-rape indiscretions plea-bargained to bubbkis.

  Back in Milwaukee, Gretchen Rae audited business classes at Marquette, and hauled Voyteck Kirnipaski's ashes for free when she learned he was working for Jerry K. and was dissatisfied with the pay. Then Mo had a relapse and came back to Milwaukee on a visit; Voyteck Kirnipaski skipped town with a bundle of Katzenbach's money so he could bankroll stock swindles in L.A.; Gretchen Rae, always reading the papers with an eye toward political repercussions, put her overhead dope from Howard and the high brass together with whispers on the Korea situation and decided to get more info from the man himself. Mo took some lung shots of his little girl and mailed them to Big How; he bit; Gretchy glommed leads that the on-the-lam and hotly pursued Voyteck was hanging out at Scrivner's Drive-in, and, wanting to enlist his aid in possible squeeze plays, got a job there. Mickey Cohen's crush on her put a monkey wrench into things—but she thought, somehow, that the little big man could be tapped for juice. She became his consort concurrent with Howard, father and daughter pretending to be strangers at Mickey's nightclub get-togethers. Then, at a Santa Monica motel, she located Voyteck, terrified that Katzenbach triggers were right behind him. Mo gave her the key to Mickey's Mariposa Street hideout; she ensconced Voyteck there, moving back and forth between Howard's fuck pad, pumping information subtly and pumping Kirnipaski blatantly—attempting to lure him in
to her web of schemes. She was making progress when Fritz Steinkamp made the scene. And damned if Gretchy didn't rise to the occasion and throttle, scald, and frying pan him to death. She attempted to soothe the terrified Voyteck afterward, but he went into cardiac arrest: the volatile combo of a murder attempt, a murder, and a murderess's tongue. Gretchen Rae panicked and took off with Voyteck's pilfered cash—and was currently trying to unload "secret insider" prospectuses on Hughes stock to a list of potential customers Kirnipaski had compiled. The girl was holed up someplace—Mo didn't know where—and tomorrow she would be calling at the homes and offices of her last wave of potential "clients."

  Somewhere in the course of the story I started liking Mo almost as much as I liked Gretchen Rae. I still couldn't see any way out of the mess, but I was curious about one thing: the girly gewgaws, the appliances, all the squarejohn homey stuff Gretchy had glommed. When Mo finished his tale, I said, "What's with all the clothes and gadgets and stuffed animals?"

  Morris Hornbeck, worm bait inside six months, just sighed. "Lost time, Meeks. The father-and-daughter act someplace safe, the shtick we shoulda played years ago. But that's tap city, now."

  I pointed to the dead dog, its paws starting to curl with rigor mortis like it was going to be begging biscuits for eternity. "Maybe not. You sure ain't gonna have a trusty mascot, but you might get a little taste of the rest."

  Morris went to his bedroom and passed out. I laid down on the homey dreambed, holding a stuffed panda, the lights off to ensure some good brainwork. Straight manipulation of Mickey and Howard fell by the wayside quick, so I shifted to the Other Guy Routine and made a snag.

  Sid Weinberg.

  RKO line producer.

  Filthy-rich purveyor of monster cheapies, drive-in circuit turkeys that raked in the cash.

  A valuable RKO mainstay—his pictures never flopped. Howard kissed his ass, worshiped his dollars-and-cents approach to moviemaking, and gave him carte blanche at the studio.

  "I'd rather lose my you-know-what than lose Sid Weinberg."

  Mickey Cohen was indebted to Sid Weinberg, the owner of the Blue Lagoon Saloon, where Mickey was allowed to perform his atrocious comedy routines without cops hanging around—Sid had LAPD connections.

  The Mick: "I'd be without a pot to piss in without Sid. I'd have to buy my own nightclub, and that's no fun—it's like buying your own baseball team so you can play yourself."

  Sid Weinberg was a widower, a man with two grown daughters who patronized him as a buffoon. He often spoke of his desire to find himself a live-in housekeeper to do light dusting and toss him a little on the side. About fifteen years ago, he was known to be in love with a dazzling blond starlet named Glenda Jensen, who hotfooted it off into the sunset one day, never to be seen again. I'd seen pictures of Glenda; she looked suspiciously like my favorite teenage killer. At eight tomorrow night Sid Weinberg was throwing a party to ballyhoo Bride of the Surf Monster. I was to provide security. Mickey Cohen and Howard Hughes would be guests.

  I fell asleep on the thought, and dreamed that benevolent dead dogs were riding me up to heaven, my pockets full of other guys' money.

  In the morning we took off after the prodigal daughter. I drove, Mo Hornbeck gave directions—where he figured Gretchen Rae would be, based on their last conversation—a panicky talk two days ago; the girl afraid of phone taps; Mo saying he would let the evidence chill, then dispose of it.

  Which, of course, he didn't. According to Mo, Gretch told him Voyteck Kirnipaski had given her a list of financial-district sharks who might be interested in her Hughes Enterprises graphs: when to buy and sell shares in Toolco, Hughes Aircraft, and its myriad subsidiaries—based on her new knowledge of upcoming defense contracts and her assessment of probable stock price fluctuations. Mo stressed that was why Gretchy raped the Bullocks catalog—she wanted to look like a businesswoman, not a seductress/killer.

  So we slow-lane trawled downtown, circuiting the Spring Street financial district, hoping to catch a streetside glimpse of Gretchen Rae as she made her office calls. I'd won Mo partially over with kind words and a promise to plant Janet in a ritzy West L.A. pet cemetery, but I could still tell he didn't trust me—I was too close to Mickey for too long. He gave me a steady sidelong fisheye and only acknowledged my attempts at conversation with grunts.

  The morning came and went; the afternoon followed. Mo had no leads on Gretchen Rae's home calls, so we kept circling Spring Street—Third to Sixth and back again—over and over, taking piss stops at the Pig & Whistle on Fourth and Broadway every two hours. Dusk came on, and I started getting scared: my Other Guy Routine would work to perfection only if I brought Gretchy to Sid Weinberg's party right on time.

  6:00.

  6:30.

  7:00.

  7:09. I was turning the corner onto Sixth Street when Mo grabbed my arm and pointed out the window at a sharkskin-clad secretary type perusing papers by the newsstand. "There. That's my baby."

  I pulled over; Mo stuck his head out the door and waved, then shouted, "No! Gretchen!"

  I was setting the hand brake when I saw the girl—Gretch with her hair in a bun—notice a man on the street and start running. Mo piled out of the car and headed toward the guy; he pulled a monster hand-cannon, aimed, and fired twice. Mo fell dead on the sidewalk, half his face blown off; the man pursued Gretchen Rae; I pursued him.

  The girl ran inside an office building, the gunman close behind. I caught up, peered in, and saw him at the top of the second-floor landing. I slammed the door and stepped back; the act coaxed two wasted shots out of the killer, glass and wood exploding all around me. Four rounds gone, two to go.

  Screams on the street; two sets of footsteps scurrying upstairs; sirens in the distance. I ran to the landing and shouted, "Police!" The word drew two ricocheting bang-bangs. I hauled my fat ass up to floor 3 like a flabby dervish.

  The gunman was fumbling with a pocketful of loose shells; he saw me just as he flicked his piece's cylinder open. I was within three stairs of him. Not having time to load and fire, he kicked. I grabbed his ankle and pulled him down the stairs; we fell together in a tangle of arms and legs, hitting the landing next to an open window.

  We swung at each other, two octopuses, blows and gouges that never really connected. Finally he got a chokehold on my neck; I reached up through his arms and jammed my thumbs hard in his eyes. The bastard let go just long enough for me to knee his balls, squirm away, and grab him by the scalp. Blinded now, he flailed for me. I yanked him out the window head first, pushing his feet after him. He hit the pavement spread-eagled, and even from three stories up I could hear his skull crack like a giant eggshell.

  I got some more breath, hauled up to the roof, and pushed the door open. Gretchen Rae Shoftel was sitting on a roll of tarpaper, smoking a cigarette, two long single tears rolling down her cheeks. She said, "Did you come to take me back to Milwaukee?"

  All I could think of to say was "No."

  Gretchen reached behind the tarpaper and picked up a briefcase—brand-new, Bullocks Wilshire quality. The sirens downstairs were dying out; two bodies gave lots of cops lots to do. I said, "Mickey or Howard, Miss Shoftel? You got a choice."

  Gretch stubbed out her cigarette. "They both stink." She hooked a thumb over the roof in the direction of the dead gunman. "I'll take my chances with Jerry Katzenbach and his friends. Daddy went down tough. So will I."

  I said, "You're not that stupid."

  Gretchen Rae said, "You play the market?"

  I said, "Want to meet a nice rich man who needs a friend?"

  Gretchen Rae pointed to a ladder that connected the roof to the fire escape of the adjoining building. "If it's now, I'll take it."

  In the cab to Beverly Hills I filled Gretchy in on the play, promising all kinds of bonuses I couldn't deliver, like the Morris Hornbeck Scholarship for impoverished Marquette University Business School students. Pulling up to Sid Weinberg's Tudor mansion, the girl had her hair down, makeup on, and was ready to do the
save-my-ass tango.

  At 8:03 the manse was lit up like a Christmas tree—extras in green rubber monster costumes handing out drinks on the front lawn and loudspeakers on the roof blasting the love theme from a previous Weinberg tuna, Attack of the Atomic Gargoyles. Mickey and Howard always arrived at parties late in order not to appear too eager, so I figured there was time to set things up.

  I led Gretchen Rae inside, into an incredible scene: Hollywood's great, near-great, and non-great boogie-woogieing with scads of chorus boys and chorus girls dressed like surf monsters, atomic gargoyles, and giant rodents from Mars; bartenders sucking punch out of punchbowls with ray-gun-like siphons; tables of cold cuts dyed surf-monster green—passed up by the guests en masse in favor of good old booze—the line for which stood twenty deep. Beautiful gash was abounding, but Gretchen Rae, hair down like Sid Weinberg's old love Glenda Jensen, was getting the lion's share of the wolf stares. I stood with her by the open front door, and when Howard Hughes's limousine pulled up, I whispered, "Now."

  Gretchen slinked back to Sid Weinberg's glass-fronted private office in slow, slow motion; Howard, tall and handsome in a tailored tux, walked in the door, nodding to me, his loyal underling. I said, "Good evening, Mr. Hughes" out loud; under my breath, "You owe me a grand."