Widespread Panic
- Автор: Эллрой Джеймс
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: Alfred A. Knopf
- ISBN: 978-0-593-31934-5
- Жанр: Мистика
Электронная книга - «Widespread Panic». Краткое содержание книги:
Confidential presaged the idiot internet — and delivered the dirt, the dish, the insidious ink, and the scurrilous skank. It mauled misanthropic movie stars, sex-soiled socialites, and putzo politicians. Mattress Jack Kennedy, James Dean, Montgomery Clift, Burt Lancaster, Liz Taylor, Rock Hudson — Frantic Freddy outed them all. He was the Tattle Tyrant who held Hollywood hostage, and now he’s here to CONFESS.
“I’m consumed with candor and wracked with recollection. I’m revitalized and resurgent. My meshugenah march down memory lane begins NOW.”
In Freddy’s viciously entertaining voice, Widespread Panic torches 1950s Hollywood to the ground. It’s a blazing revelation of coruscating corruption, pervasive paranoia, and of sin and redemption with nothing in between.
Here is James Ellroy in savage quintessence. Freddy Otash confesses — and you are here to read and succumb.
“Jimmy, do you know why you’re a freak?”
“I don’t know, Freddy. Do you know why you are?”
I said, “I don’t know, but sometimes it all gets to me.”
Pervdog
Freddy Otash Confesses, Part II
Cell 2607
Penance Penitentiary
Reckless-Wrecker-of-Lives Block
Pervert Purgatory
8/25/2020
I’m balefully back. It’s time for my next contaminated confession. I’m still stagnantly stuck in the Hell Adjacent Hilton and yammeringly yearn for a heavenly reprieve. I’m still stuck with the fucked-up and failing body I had when I crapped out, back in ’92. It’s still confession/repentence/atonement. It still comes down to that. Here’s the draconian drilclass="underline"
I’ll repugnantly reprise some shit I pulled in phantasmagoric ’54. I’ll be freewheeling Fred Otash at thirty-two. ’54 was a ring-a-ding-ding year. I’m going to diiiiiiiig going back.
So, succumb to the seditious soul of a scandal-rag scoundrel — because wicked words on paper are pop-pop-popping your way.
Freaky Freddy O. rides again.
Atop Mattress Jack Kennedy’s Boss Bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel
2/14/54
It’s a wind-whipped winter nite. It’s cloudless clear all the way to noxious Nevada. Uncle Sambo is detonating a payload-packed A-bomb in some deserted desert burg. We’re here to grok, groove, flip, flash, and gas on the show.
We’ve got a ripe rooftop perch. I’m here at Bondage Bob Harrison’s behest. Confidential’s running a farkakte feature on radioactive waste as a dick-enlargement bonanza. Bob’s got a mad chemist brother. He’s calling his priapic product “Megaton Man.”
We’re here. That means me and my Marine Corps mastiffs: Race Rockwell and Ward Wardell. Mattress Jack has slipped his gilded guests binoculars and Hyannis Port toggle coats. My cool contingent carries burglars’ tools and comes with B and E know-how. The plan: burglarize Senator Jack’s bungalow in the wiggy wake of the blast.
Dig the guest list. There’s Jack the K. and insolent Ingrid Bergman. There’s Bob Mitchum and Juicy Jane Russell. There’s Tarzan-toned Lex Barker and liquor-looped Lana Turner. Jimmy Dean’s on my guest card. He’s still peddling snapshots of Marlon Brando with a dick in his mouth. Jimmy’s got director Gadge Kazan in tow. He’s this close to snagging the top role in East of Eden. Gadge is a maladroit midget. His flicks send me somnambulistic. He ratted some Comintern cads to HUAC and earned Confidential’s fevered fealty. He snitches recidivistic Reds to Bondage Bob, subversively sub rosa.
Senator Jack served rum drinks topped with floating hashish cubes. I opted for the Benzedrine-spiked reefers. Jack Baby loves my larcenous Lebanese ass. I flew a bitching bevy of call girls down to Acapulco last year. They trashed Jack’s paparazzi-pounced honeymoon and made Jackie jump into my bed. Jack’s a c’est la vie, Daddy-O, noblesse oblige sort of guy. Jackie was grovelingly grateful.
A portable radio announced the countdown. Waiters stood by with postblast drinks and hors d’oeuvres. A doomsday disc jockey intoned: “ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one — zero.”
Bombs Away, Motherfuckers!!!!!
A magnificent mushroom cloud morphed into mauve and pink. Man, what a suck-your-soul sight!!! My balls contracted. My boys and I hopped off the roof, down to ground level. Ground zero popped pink particles high in the sky. The gilded gang applauded and roared.
We deviously ditched the party. None of the bomb babies saw us. Jack’s bungalow was right there, off the roof. I demobilized the door lock with a celluloid strip. We locked the door behind us and worked with pocket penlights. Chop, chop — fuckers. I’m giving us eight minutes, tops.
Our top target was address books. They were stashed in handbags and overcoats discarded for Jack’s toggle togs. It’s a scandal-rag caper. I’m out to notch names/numbers/addresses. The lurid love shacks of the heavy-hung and hard up. Nubile names and fuck-struck fone numbers. Noxious names and homo-hideout addresses. Non sequitur names that might mandate bracing break-ins themselves.
It was all for Confidential. Knowledge is power. You naïve nudniks know that. My misanthropic motive? A demonic desire to know the world’s secret shit and hoard said shit for my personal titillation and shakedown potential.
The clock’s ticking. We crisscrossed the crib. Ward and Race went for all the boss booty. Ooooohhh — overcoats draped on hotel-suite chairs, high-line handbags galore. My job was forensic frame-up. I secretly secured three fingerprint cards from Beverly Hills PD Burglary.
Dig: three hot-prowl/rape-o/459 men. Bad lads, already ID’d. At large for six Beverly Hills jobs. Forced oral cop/straight rape/thirty-four thou in stolen furs and jewels.
It gets wicked worse. There’s a Little Lindbergh Law kidnap. She’s a Beverly High cheerleader. There’s multiple motel-room rapes before she’s cut loose. The BHPD wanted these fucked-up fiends, baaaaaaaaad. Heh, heh — I made Scotch-taped transparencies of the three print cards. George Collier Akin, Durwood N. M. I. Brown, Richard “Rattlesnake” Dulange. Fred O. judge-and-juries a frame job on YOU.
I got out my print cards. I laid the treated transparency tape across three thumb and full-fingerprint spreads. I pulled off my single-digit tapes. I laid prints on chair backs, waist-high wainscoting, touch-and-grab bedroom planes.
J’accuse — Akin, Brown, and Dulange — you were here. You robbed Senator Jack Kennedy’s hotel suite. You done been FRAMED.
Ward and Race dumped furs and address books. They stacked them in Senator Jack’s ostrich-skin suitcase. We were six minutes in. I saved the best booty for last.
Mattress Jack was a hellacious hophead. He had legal scripts from half the pharmacists in L.A. I made for the bathroom and Jack’s mad medicine chest. Oh yeah — Dilaudid, Dexedrine, Dolophine sulfate. Ooooohhh — the nifty new Nembutal suppositories!!!
Jack collected lissome locks of women’s pubic hair. He traveled with them and kept them in unscented sachets. I found his stash in an attaché case under the bed. They were lewdly labeled. I’ve always gassed on La Bergman and Anna Magnani. I left the attaché behind. I took two love-lashed sniffs on my way out the door.
Ward and Race left me the address books. Bomb blasts and burglary — the total take vibed ten g’s. Don Wexler knew a fence. We’d lay off the furs soonsville. We split the wallet cash three ways.
I popped two of Jack’s delectable dexies and leveled the load with a one-grain Dilaudid. I drove to Googie’s to log tattle tips from the late-nite legions who lingered there.
Tipsters crept up and crowded my table. Here’s baritone sax Gerry Mulligan. He lays out alto sax Art Pepper’s yen for lush high school chicks. Pepper pounded his pud at the sight of pom-pom-girl garb. He haunted Hollywood High and Hami High and left drool stains on the football field bleachers.
Comme ci, comme ça. I laid twenty clams on Gerry. He amscrayed to score some Big “H.”