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.
A waiter waltzed up. I ordered two double Old Crows, quicksville. Robbie smirked smug. The waiter dropped our drinks off and vamoosed.
Robbie said, “I know about you. My dad’s a grip at Metro. He called you ‘Mr. Fear.’ He said you’re the king of the shakedown.”
I lit a cigarette. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“That we’re two peas in a pod. That you should consider taking me on as a protégé. You could teach me the tricks of the trade and make me the new you. You could retire and ride off into the sunset then, knowing that you’ve got a vital young stud to fulfill your legacy.”
I cringed. “Let’s change the subject.”
“How about boxing? Ray Robinson versus Bobo Olson. I think Ray’s stale bread. Bobo’s a vital young stud, and it won’t go four rounds.”
“How about Rebel Without a Cause? Lay the full dish on me. If I like what I hear, I’ll let you run loose for a while. If I don’t, I’ll send you back to the Hats. You can play the role of the vital young stud in the queens’ tank at Mira Loma.”
Robbie cringed. “What’s to tell? Nick Ray’s a switcheroo man. He likes it young and hung, and ripe and saucy. The word is he stakes out one quiff of each gender on all his flicks. On Rebel, he’s got Jimmy Dean for the brown eye, and Natalie Wood on the distaff side. Natalie’s sixteen, in case you were curious. She’s also a nympho with lezbo tendencies, for what that’s worth.”
Rodent Robbie. Reptile Robbie. He delivers the dish. He’s cruel-credible so far.
“Keep going.”
Robbie chugalugged his drink. “So, I drop off the maryjane and toke with the actors. I observe the gestalt, and to my way of thinking, this actor Nick Adams is Nick Ray’s head honcho on the set. He’s the court jester and the instigator, the boss pimp and the guy who drops the hammer and fulfills Nick Ray’s skeevy hopes and dreams.”
I killed my drink. “What hopes and dreams?”
Robbie went tee-hee. “Getting all these punk, fruitcake, hophead actor kids to ‘fly without a parachute,’ ‘work without a net,’ and all that other movie horseshit, when all he really wants is limitless young woof-woof, and to manipulate people in the guise of his jive, so-called art.”
I clapped. I went Ole!!! I wolf-whistled and went Woo-woo!!!
“You’re not stupid, Robbie. That’s the only attaboy you’re ever likely to get from me, so enjoy it while you can.”
Robbie beamed biiiiiiiiiiig. “Nick Ray’s got all these hood-type extras under his thumb. He says he’s testing their ‘motivation.’ He’s sending them out on ‘chickie runs,’ like in the flick. Nick Adams is straw-bossing these deals, and Jimmy Dean’s along for the ride. I don’t know what’s actually happening, but Jimmy calls them ‘panty raids.’ ”
I chained cigarettes. “Where do you drop the dope off?”
“The set, the location, or Nick Ray’s bungalow at the Chateau Marmont.”
I peeled off five C-notes and slid them across the table. Reptile Robbie rolled his eyes and went Oooh-la-la.
“I’m in the White Pages. Call me at home or page me at Googie’s the next time you’ve got a delivery.”
Robbie scooped up the cash. “Two for the road? A couple of aperitifs to keep your whistle wet?”
I sighed. “All right.”
“Hey, he’s acting bored and vexed already.”
“Robbie...”
“Okay, okay. Here’s aperitif number one, straight from Nick Ray’s mouth. Jimmy goes to leather bars and has guys put out their cigarettes on him. He is therefore known as the ‘Human Ashtray.’ Aperitif number two’s more predictable. Jimmy’s putting the moves on this kid actor, Sal Mineo. Pretty good, huh? Especially from a guy you only met a few hours ago.”
I flashed back. Jimmy at Googie’s. Little Band-Aids on his arms and neck. A solvent scent wafting my way.
Robbie stood up. I grabbed his waistband and slammed him back down to the table. He yelped and flailed. I held the table candle up to his face. Flame flutters scorched his pachuco pompadour and fried it to frazzled split ends.
“Jimmy and I go back. I’ll concede my soft spot. Watch what you say about him.”
Googie’s All-Nite Coffee Shop
West Hollyweird
5/11/55
The 8:00 p.m. rush. Prosaic-predictable. Folks tumbled tables, noshed and shot the shit. Niteclub action accelerated around 9:30. Ditto, late-show movies. The Strip/the Boulevard. Ciro’s, the Mocambo, the Crescendo. Grauman’s Chink and the Egyptian. Googie’s bopped close to all.
I took my table. Tipsters tagged the Tattle Tyrant as fair game. They salaamed and sucked up. They delivered the dubious dish.
Orson Welles sliced the Black Dahlia. That choice chestnut. Here’s five scoots — please go away.
Here’s a ripe wrinkle. Orson Welles sliced the Black Dahlia. Yeah — I know, it’s day-old bagels at half price. Yeah, but dig this: Rita Hayworth held the Dahlia’s legs while Orson sawed her in half.
Okay, here’s ten scoots — now go away.
Van Johnson’s at it again. The old semen demon’s always up for a taste. He siphoned Tab Hunter’s python in a back row at the Admiral Theatre.
No, I can’t prove it. Yeah, I need gelt. There’s a sneak peek at the Iris, and I’m short on the freight.
Here’s twenty scoots. Uncle Freddy’s a soft touch. The popcorn’s on me.
A guy peddled Carole Landis morgue shots. Yawn. A guy peddled pix of Marlon Brando with a dick in his mouth. Shit — I thought I cornered that market, back in ’53. A call girl tossed me a tip on the steakhouse rape-o/robbers. They were holed up in a hot-sheet flop on 54th and Vermont. They were geezing Nazi-made morphine and meth speedballs. I slid her forty scoots. She slipped me her phone number. I told her to tattle the tip to the Hat Squad. She told me she banged Red Stromwall at an Elks Club smoker, back in ’46.
Juan the fry cook passed me a message. Jimmy was 86’ing the Phyllis Gates meet. Nick Ray culled the cast and called for a script read. Nick Ray ran regular “Motivational Missions,” as in tonite. Sorry, babe — give Phyl my love.
Neuter Nick Ray. “Motivational Missions.” Robbie Molette’s mad monologue. My pal Jimmy. The “Human Ashtray.” I felt god-awful gut-punched.
It was 8:55. A late nite loomed. I had a batch of bilious back issues to study for Big Bill Parker. Nasty Nat’s Soul Patrol popped the airwaves at 1:00. Miss Blind Item might call in. She’d castigate and condemn Confidential. She’d evince righteous rage per Red Light Bandit Caryl Chessman. The deal instantly intrigued me. Chessman was sure as shit guilty. I wanted him to burn, baby, burn.
My dexie dose fizzled, drizzled, and withered to wisps and gnashed nerves. I popped two more and awaited the aaaaahhhh. Phyllis walked in. I stood up and bowed. She walked up and curtsied cute. She wore twill slacks and a cashmere cardigan. She radiated rectitude and a reserved ring-a-ding.
A waitress brought menus. Phyllis sat across from me. She went Where’s Jimmy?
I said, “He couldn’t make it. Something about a script rehearsal.”
The waitress whipped back. Phyllis ordered a dry martini. I held up two fingers. The waitress scrammed. Phyllis said, “Drat.”