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.
Robbie reached down and replaced them. Bill Parker walked up to me. He weaved a tad. I knew the signs. El Jefe was half in the bag.
I said, “Hola, Chief.”
Parker passed me his flask. I gargled Old Overholt and popped two Dexedrine on the sly.
“The kid’s dirty. I’ve got a theory. I think he wanted to catch Pepper in the kip with his sister, and extort him with it.”
Parker yukked. “Never let it be said that Freddy Otash doesn’t know from shakedowns.”
I passed the flask back. Parker yodeled Old Overholt. I rescoped the sweatbox hullabaloo.
Max said, “There’s a few items we’d like to discuss with you, Robbie.”
Robbie shrugged. Robbie said, “Okay.”
Red said, “Here’s the first item. There’s a note from the Boys Vice Principal at Hollywood High attached to your green sheet. He states that you were seen at last year’s Hollywood-Fairfax football game, attempting to pass yourself off as a ‘talent scout’ and recruit high school girls for your stable of underage prosties.”
Robbie stut-stuttered. He blanched and blew spit bubbles. They pop-pop-popped.
“That’s a humbug accusation. I’ve gone straight. I’m gigging as a busboy at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Talk to the desk manager. He’ll tell you I’m revered by both my fellow employees and all the guests.”
Max said, “Here’s the second item. An hour ago, we sent two plainclothesmen from the Highland Park Station to the house where you live with your mom and dad, and your sister. They tossed your room and found a stack of forty-two beaver photos of Chrissy, all of which were marked ‘$1.00’ on the back. Robbie, you would spare yourself a lot of grief, in this room and beyond, if you admitted that you were peddling those photographs, and that you and Chrissy were engaged in an attempt to extort Art Pepper, based on his somewhat specious relationship with Chrissy herself.”
Robbie sputtered and stuttered. His dentures popped out. He crammed them back in.
“That is a no-good, goddamn lie. The cops planted those pix, and—”
Harry phone-booked him. Whap — a real cranium-crunch. Robbie’s head bounced on the table. Ashtrays hopped, cigarette butts flew.
Parker said, “You called it on the extortion.”
I said, “The Hat Squad. Accept no substitutes.”
Robbie quivered and quaked. He shook, shimmied, and mewed for his mama. Max pulled his pocket flask and whipped it on him. Robbie suckled and siphoned it. His Adam’s apple bob-bobbed.
He drained the flask dry. Max tossed him a pack of cigarettes and a matchbook. Robbie lit up and surged with a sudden savoir faire.
“I’ll concede that I’m quite the racketeer, and that you’d do well to utilizize me as your personal secret informant. I’ve been known to provide young stuff to the guests at the hotel, so they might utilizize this young gash for what you might call ‘casting-couch sessions,’ which ain’t illegal the last time my high-priced Jew lawyer checked. Also, ‘Rapid Robbie,’ as I’m known in the trade, has been known to supply maryjane to the geeks working at film locations, throughout the southland. I’ll be candid here. I utilizize the inside scoop on the locations off of tips the guests feed me.”
Max said, “You’re a criminal mastermind.”
Red said, “I’ve never doubted it.”
Harry said, “People dismiss you as a dipshit kid, in over his head. They fail to see the real, dynamic you that lurks beneath the façade.”
Eddie said, “Keep going, hotshot. You’ve got us utilizized.”
Robbie blew smoke rings. “Right now, I’m moving maryjane to the gang on Rebel Without a Cause. That’s this juvenile delinquency lox being shot all over L.A. This jamoke Nick Ray’s directing it. He’s got the hots for all these rough-trade boys he’s hired to stand around and look tough in crowd scenes. I’m doing high-volume biz here. Nick the Dick’s signed up an all-hophead cast, and—”
Parker hit the speaker switch. Rapid Robbie ran his mouth and made mute-mime gestures. Nick the Dick. That shitbird. He holds swishy sway over Jimmy. I should look into—
“I’m working up a brainstorm, Freddy.”
“I’m listening, boss.”
“I want you to build a derogatory profile on the filming of Rebel Without a Cause. Deploy your pal James Dean and your usual gang of thugs, and sell Bob Harrison on the notion of a big spread in the magazine. You see where this is going? The piece is written. You improperly vet it. That leaves your shit rag that much more open to slander and libel charges, and in the meantime, you’ll be passing whatever hard criminal dirt accrues on to me through the Hats.”
I orbed the two-way mirror. Rapid Robbie mute-motormouthed. The Hats har-har’d and haw-hawed. Max Herman mugged at the mirror. He rolled his eyes and made the jack-off sign.
Parker passed the flask. I doused my dexie dose. Yeah! — a blistering blast of straight rye.
I said, “This gig packs potential. Cut dipshit loose, and I’ll see what I can do.”
Max made the meet. 6:00 p.m. at Ollie Hammond’s. He’ll be there, Freddy. It’s an ass kicking, otherwise.
I arrived early. I worked the pay phones for two hours flat. I called Bondage Bob Harrison first.
Bondage Bob bemoaned the Art Pepper fiasco. All that shakedown shit for one dope bounce? Bob bitched: The demonizing — dope fiends craze has crapped out. It’s muerto, you dig? I said, Au contraire, Daddy. It’s seditiously segued into the jejune juvenile delinquency craze. To withering wit: the filming of teen turkey Rebel Without a Cause.
I laid it aaalll out. Jimmy Dean’s my “in” on the shoot. Nick Ray’s a carcinogenic Comsymp. There’s sure to be horny hijinx with all the hot hunks and honeys on the set. Dig, Daddy: I’ll dive for the dirt, you’ll deliver the dish. Ten thousand words in the nuke-bomb November ’55 issue.
Bob bought it, big. We seamlessly segued to the Rock Hudson — Phyllis Gates mock-marriage mishegas. Universal instigated it. Rock was one gallivanting gay caballero, and Lew Wasserman wanted all ripe rumors quashed. He hired me to find Rock a wife. My first candidate ran rogue and ransacked Rock’s pad for cash and Krugerrands. Phyllis Gates seemed like a safe and sedate second bet. She was Rock’s agent’s secretary. She seemed to catch a secret scent of Rock’s man-lust modus operandi — but would most likely keep her mouth shut. Confidential planned to publish a dizzy-disingenuous piece. How’s this fly? “Rock’s Trippy Triangle — With Two Women!!!!!” How’s that for yuks and fucks/lies and sighs?
Bob said, You’ve got to find the other woman first. I said, Yeah — and I’m meeting Phyllis and Jimmy Dean at Googie’s tonite to discuss it. Bob signed off, per usuaclass="underline" L’chaim, boychik.
I called Jimmy’s pad and got no answer. I called his answering service and left a message: Nine tonite/Googie’s. I called Phyllis and told her to make the meet. She gassed on the tricky triad scenario. She said it should culminate in a catfight at the Mocambo.
I hung up and scoped the barside crowd. Shit — there’s Robbie Molette. He’s hard-hustling a high-toned blonde and causing an undulating upscut.
Shit—
I fast-walked over and grabbed him. Rodent Robbie squirmed and squeaked. I frog-marched him to a back booth and shoved him in. I said, “Behave.” Robbie sulked submissive. The barside babe blew me a kiss.