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.
She said, “Billy told me that you wanted to meet me. I like meeting new and interesting people, so I said okay.”
I said, “I saw your picture. That’s why I’m here, and I know you can guess why. But my intentions went out the window the second I saw you.”
Stretch smiled. “Billy said you’re the man to see in L.A. He considers me trouble-prone, because I sort of like girls. I’m training for the ’56 Olympics, and I don’t want to bollix that up.”
Drinks appeared. On the house. Linda brought them herself. A Manhattan for Stretch. Old Crow for me.
We tipped glasses. “You’re nineteen. Everyone’s a new and interesting person to you. That leaves you vulnerable. Lezzie girls, and colored guys like Billy, and guys like me are trouble, so if you’re trouble-prone, you should consider who you let into your life.”
Stretch sipped her drink. I held my hands back and tried not to touch her.
“If the stern-big-brother routine is a ploy, it’s a new one. People usually don’t meet me and start warning me away in the same breath.”
“I like the idea of you being reckless, and me getting you out of jams. Here’s my first bit of advice. Billy told me you want to be linked to him in Confidential. That’s a dumb move. It’ll mess you up with the USC regents and the Olympic people.”
Stretch shrugged. “I’m nineteen. I’m restless. I’m as notable as an intramural athlete who happens to be a girl can be. I’m big, and I’m rather awkward, and a certain type of man and woman go for me, and want to meet me and test themselves with me, and I’m very curious as to who those people are.”
I folded my hands on the table. Stretch folded her hands over them. Her hands were bigger than mine.
“So, I go for you. I wanted to meet you, and I’ve met you. I’ve explained my intentions, so here’s something you might find interesting. I’m looking after a real-live leopard for the next three weeks. You can visit my pad and meet him, and I won’t let him maul you or kill you.”
Stretch laffed. She temptress-tossed her hair. It was straight and dirty blond and center-parted. She had big buck teeth.
I locked up our fingers. It went to a cute tug-of-war. Her hands were stronger than mine.
“Are you in a jam right now?”
“No.”
“Can you sniff out bad intentions and walk away, fast?”
“Yes.”
“Will you call me if you’re unsure about somebody?”
“Yes.”
“Have you got enough money to live on?”
“Yes, and I’d never let man, woman, or beast set me up in a place and expect favors.”
I yukked. “It’s a code you’ve got, right? It’s like me. I’ll do anything short of murder, and I’ll work for anybody but Communists.”
Stretch yukked and unlaced our hands. The booth was warm. We popped sweat. Stretch wiped her brow and her underarms. She tied her hair back with a rubber band and gave me This Look.
“I’m glad you like me there. It means that you’re discerning, and that you dig the offbeat.”
My nerves were shot to shit. Stretch scared me and scattered me and lust-lashed me some new way. Stretch read me her restricting riot act.
“I like to make out and take naps with men. I’m putting the rest of it off until I sort some things out.”
I lit a cigarette. Stretch lit up out of my pack. She blew four concentric smoke rings to my three. I felt dope-ditzed and sex-socked — and lost-lifed some new way. I laid my head on the table. Stretch ran her hands through my hair.
“You’re okay, Uncle Freddy. I know you killed a man when you were a policeman, and Billy said maybe you shouldn’t have. I’m forgiving with people, if they don’t mess with me directly.”
I raised my head and pulled her hands down and kissed them. I caught her scent and my scent, all merged up.
“What else did Billy tell you about me?”
“He said we were both curious and lonely, in the exact same way.”
Jungle Jaguar. The widow’s withered scent. The Joan-to-Joan parlay at 1:00 a.m. A penance payment in my pocket and a picture in my head.
Liz Taylor in A Place in the Sun. The final shot. Monty Clift walks the last mile. The mad mise-en-scène goes silky subjective. There’s a climactic close-up. Liz looms, laaaaarge.
She parts her lips. Transposition/transfiguration. I kiss the merged Joan Perkins and Joan Horvath for the fade-out.
Camerford and El Centro. There’s the house. There’s late living room lights.
I parked and walked over. I mimicked Monty’s last mile and made the mailbox drop laaaast. I looped back to my sled and waited. I whistled “My Funny Valentine” at dirge speed.
Joan Horvath walked out. She wore the same stay-at-home ensemble. She held a cigarette and a highball glass. She tossed her dumb wool skirt and sat down on the porch.
She caught me mid-chorus. I hit a high note and made the secondary theme soar. I looked at her. She looked toward me. The moon moved out of a cloud bank. I saw gray flecks in her shag cut.
Those steel-rimmed glasses gave her 3-D vision. She saw through me like some creature in a monster matinee. I shut my eyes to shut her gaze out and deploy the big close-up. A black curtain closed off her kiss.
Bernie Spindel’s Bug Van
Outside Steve Cochran’s Apartment Complex West Hollyweird
2/16/54
Bernie said, “I’m wary of this job. This psycho cocksucker scares me.”
Studly Steve lived on Havenhurst between Fountain and the Strip. Three sparkle-Spanish buildings/one cool courtyard. Six pads per building. Call girls and minor movie minions ensconced within.
It’s 9:14 a.m. now. Steve’s home. His coon maroon Merc’s parked out back.
I lit a cigarette and gargled Old Crow. I had a case of the yammering yips and the mean megrims. I kept seeing things. Strongarm cops in surging surveillance. Women I wanted wicked baaaaaaaad and weren’t there. Waiting wilted me. I wanted WORK. I popped two Dexedrine to goose things along.
Bernie said, “He’s got four rooms, plus bathroom. I checked with the County Planning Office. The walls are soft stucco, and all rough-finished. They’ll be easy to drill and respackle. I broke in last night and carved some paint chips. It’s a new paint job, so it should be easy to match.”
We wore TV repairman jumpsuits. Master keys would get us in. Steve the Stud was filming some crime lox called Private Hell 36. Bernie spot-tailed him yesterday. He said Steve got his all-day calls at 9:30 a.m.
I said, “We’ll piggyback the listening post on Sweetzer. Burt Lancaster’s got his torture den in the same building. My Marines will monitor both locations. We’ll have a man hot-wired in at all times.”
Bernie went Oy. “Burt swings both ways. Ward Wardell told me. He buys his boys from a swish named Dwight Gilette.”
I said, “To each his own. You’re a big cheese at your synagogue, and you’ve got eight schvartze girlfriends.”
Bernie went Oy. I pointed across the street. Studly Steve’s rolling. His cherry Merc’s wheeling southbound.
We loaded up. Drills, spackle paste, paint and brushes — check. Wire rolls, condenser mikes, friction tape — check. Wire clamps, spatulas, industrial vacuum — check. Toolbox packed with close-work tools — check.