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.
Bondage Bob told me to tune in Nasty Nat tonite. He said the witch called in at 1:00 a.m. and motormouthed till 3:00. I said I’d jump on it and take boocoo notes.
The pay phone rang. Ward grabbed it and grinned. He said, “Arriba, boss.”
I banged Beverly, straight downtown. My Packard pimpmobile performed. A supercharged V-12 va-va-voomed me due east. My sled featured lake pipes, cheater slicks, and a Nazi death’s-head shift knob. It was two-way-radio-rigged and synced to the surveillance van and Donkey Don’s ’53 Chevy. Our frequency number? What else? It’s 69.
I ran the lead slot. The surveillance van dogged me. Donkey Don tailed Miss Franklin High southbound on the Arroyo Seco. She’s crazoid Chrissy Molette. She’s a hot-hormoned hellion out to bang all the bopsters on the ’54 Downbeat and Metronome polls. She plays mean skin flute and hides hatpins in her big beehive. Her high school homeroom teacher was hotsville with Donkey Don. She tattled Chrissy’s crazed yen for men.
Confluence. It’s who you know and who you blow. Thus, this shimmering shakedown—
My radio cricked, crackled, and spit sputters. Donkey Don said, “69-Baker to 69-Alpha. Come in, Freddy.”
“Alpha to Baker. I hear you, Don.”
Don gargled garble talk. Sputters, stutters, static — his real voice shimmied and shot through.
“Chrissy picked up a tail at the York Avenue on-ramp. It’s a ’49 Ford ragtop, tan over blue. I got the plate number and buzzed the DMV. It’s her brother Robbie’s ride. Robbie’s got a green sheet. One fall for pandering, one for 459.”
I said, “Shit, this is grief.” I brain-broiled a cool countermeasure.
“The Vice guys at the Lodge have a walkie. They’re tapped in at 69, D-for-Dog. Buzz them and tell them to grab Robbie, plant some dope on him, and hold him. He’s out to mess the gig up, and we need Chrissy and Pepper in the sack and at it for this deal to work for the magazine and Bill Parker.”
Don tittered and tee-heed. He giggled, guffawed, and laffed lewd.
“Yeah, plus full bush, insertion, Pepper’s sax and groovy dope paraphernalia in view.”
Wire warp froze the frequency and cut the call off. I knew Don would field a follow-thru and buzz 69-Charlie. He’d rig the rendezvous. We’d converge and collide at the Lodge. Chrissy knocks on Door #9. Pepper opens up. He might be noxiously nude. We’ll airbrush in a two-foot schlong and redact it, down to his knees. Our randy readers will get the gestalt. Ward and Race will roll film from high cover. I get the kick-the-door-in shot. The Vice cops pile in behind me.
Oooooooh — it’s Stat Rape/1st Degree for Bill Parker. Ooooooooh — it stacks my status as LAPD Rat #1 and brings me brownie points with the pervy puritan I hocked my soul to!!!!
I hit the hill by Belmont High. Beverly bywayed to 1st Street. I goosed the gas eastbound. I cut north on Broadway and east on Alpine. There’s the Leechee Nut Lodge, up ah—
There’s a car cavalcade, curbside. Chrissy’s ’48 Merc. Robbie’s ’49 Ford ragger. Donkey Don’s ’53 Chev. The Lodge is horseshoe-shaped, one floor only. Chrissy’s cutting through the courtyard. She’s anxiously angling toward Door #9. Robbie’s skulking by the door of the Lily Pad Lounge. He’s peeping the courtyard. He’s insidiously intent. There’s Donkey Don and the Vice cops. They’re crapped out in deck chairs outside the office. They’re sharing a short dog of Old Crow.
I parked behind Don’s Chevy. The surveillance van parked behind me. I grabbed my righteous Rolleiflex. Ward and Race wrangled out their movie-camera shit. The whoooole scene sizzled in SIN-emascope and slid into a slithery sloooooow motion.
I signaled Don and the Vice cops and pointed to Robbie. They booze-barged over and braced him. He went Who, me? Don went Yeah, you — cocksucker. Robbie resisted and refuseniked. He put up his paws in a punk fighter’s pose and bop-de-bop danced on his toes. Vice Cop #1 nabbed his neck and whacked his head against the wall. Vice Cop #2 kicked him in the balls and cuffed his hands behind his back.
Robbie baby-bawled and bitch-squealed. Don grabbed his greasy hair and pulled him inside the Lily Pad Lounge. I scoped Door #9. I saw craaaazy Chrissy crash in and crotch-dive Art Pepper. Man — it’s a deep-focus door shot, delicioso!!!!!
The door slammed shut. I signaled Ward and Race and pointed to my wristwatch. The second hand tick-tocked toward fuckus interruptus. Tick, tick, tick — it tapped the two-minute mark. Donkey Don said, “Banzai.”
We ran to Door #9. Ward and Race rolled film. Donkey Don worked the sound gizmo. The Vice cops ran up and stood behind us. They put on palm-weighted sap gloves and got het up to hurl some hurt.
Ward counted down. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one — zero.”
I flat-foot kicked the door-doorjamb juncture. It juked the door hard off its hinges. The door flew back and in. It dumped a nightstand and pulped Pepper’s sax.
Man — it’s suckus interruptus.
Chrissy gobbled Ardent Art. Ardent Art geezed Big “H” in caustic concurrence. I got my shot. My boys rolled fuckee film. Chrissy went eeeek. Art Pepper said, “Oh shit.” The Vice cops charged the bed.
The Hats hard-nosed Robbie Molette. I observed. The City Hall DB/sweatbox row/two-way-mirrored walls and outside-corridor speakers.
I perv-peeped the action. Sweatbox #3 snap, crackled, popped. I goosed the wall volume dial and caught every nasty nuance.
Robbie sat in a bolted-down chair. Note the bolted-down table and fat phone book. The Hats hovered. Max Herman waved Robbie’s green sheet. Red Stromwall riffled Robbie’s wallet. Harry Crowder crowded Robbie and caused a case of the sweltering sweats. Eddie Benson tapped the table and looked meeeaaan.
Max said, “Pandering. Pleaded down at arraignment, March ’52. You’re the most raggedy-ass-looking pimp I’ve ever seen, Robbie. Successful pimps take considerable care with their appearance.”
Es la verdad. Robbie dressed pure pachuco. He wore a see-thru Sir Guy shirt and slit-bottom khakis. Pointy-toe fruit boots cinched the enchanting ensemble. Robbie evinced bad hygiene. Dandruff debris dusted the table. Robbie picked his nose and noshed the nuggets.
Red said, “459 PC. Three counts. Tossed at prelim, January ’53.”
Robbie said, “I quit pimping, and I quit burglarizizing. Actually, I don’t know what the beef here is. You boys and those magazine shitheels kicked my ass, when all I was doing was lounging in the vicinity of a room where my underage sister was about to get devirginizized by a notorious junkie and degenerate.”
Harry laffed. “Your sister’s three weeks and one day under the age of consent. The DA will never file Stat Rape on Pepper.”
Eddie laffed. “He’ll file for possession of narcotics, and leave it at that. And your sister lost her virginity back in the Coolidge administration.”
Robbie laffed. “Yeah — just like your mama.”
Eddie phone-booked him. Whap — a real noggin-knocker. It scoured his scalp and raised blood blisters. His dentures dipped to the floor.