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.
I laffed. “Is that it? I’m getting the better end of the deal here.”
“No, not quite. I’ve decided that that Fat Boy Mazmanian is good for the murder of Janey Blaine, and I would like you to assist the Hats in wiping the egg off my face that Miss Nettleton put there.”
Why not? Montego Bay and Manhattan moved into sight. Lois rabbited, ratted me, and ran. To forgive is divine. I had that hot hole card. The Chessman/Dean letters would light Lois up. I’m locking them up as of now.
Stage Door Freddy. He’s back. He’s finessing fuckups and finalizing favors at full speed. Rat, fink, sovereign suck-up. The man who shook down John F. Kennedy. Call me bold, brave, and stupid. Lois Nettleton could do worse.
Parker said, “Fat Boy. Are you in?”
I said, “Yes, sir, I am.”
Outside the Chateau Marmont
West Hollyweird
5/22/55
Dope raid. Preselected bungalows. Nick Ray’s hip hutch. The cast and crew crawl pad. The B-level bedrooms of the Nick’s Knights Kar Klub.
It was 7:50 p.m. Rodent Robbie ran the dope by at 7:20. Nazi Nick had assembled the Juvie Jugend at his place. He’ll pitch one more motivation message. The flick wraps three days hence.
We perched on the access road. Four Sheriff’s plainclothes cars, eight Narco cops, plus me. The Hats were off elsewhere. They had Fat Boy Mazmanian 94.6 percent pinned. That quashed our Janey Blaine job. Fat Boy punched the ticket for Rape/Murder One. He’d go down soonsville.
We were looping up loose ends. The shoot would wrap. Ernie Roll would run the evidence and finalize filings. The panty raid. The liquor store 211/Arson. The four burglary counts to keester Nick Adams and Jimmy Dean. The Hats thumped Nick and Jimmy and cut them loose. We were playing and plying a loooooooooong game here. Call it collusive convergence — cops and Fourth Estate.
The Confidential smear job and the issued indictments must hit concurrent. The big bonanza lay there. I ran rapaciously rogue through all this Rebel rigamarole. I would confess all at the Confidential v. State of California trial.
“Two years, Freddy. We’ll be in court then. What you and I hath wrought.”
Parker said it. I believed it. It vouched my visions of Lois and fifty grand. It stamped Caryl Chessman’s insisted innocence Null and Void. I believed it. I had to believe it. So why hasn’t she called?
The radio rumbled. The squawk box squawked. That meant go, goon squad—
We got out and barged up to bungalow row. We’re heat on the hoof — eight cops up against hip hopheads and dizzy dilettantes. We hit the Führer Bungalow at a sprint. We prepeeped the door kick. Here’s the big window view:
Nick Ray in white robe and sandals. He’s serving up the Sermon on the Mount. His addlepated acolytes are attired likewise. That’s Nick Adams, Jimmy, Natalie Wood, and Sal Mineo.
Reefer smoke smogged the air. The acolytes noshed home fries and Googie’s burger bits. It’s the Last Supper. Jimmy beat his bongo drums. Natalie and Sal made like Muslims and ululated to Allah. Nihilist Nick held up a cheesy chalice of cheap wine. He said, “Art is self-sacrifice in the fight against Squaresville America. Come, drink from my blood.”
He’s serving Commie Communion. T-Bird wine and burger bits for wafers. Natalie whipped off her white muumuu and stood starkers. No shit — she’s the altar!!!
We kicked the door in. I went straight for Nick Ray. I elbow-popped his face and gnashed his nose in. His cheesy chalice flew. I kicked him in the balls and jackknifed him to the floor. I double-cuffed his hands to his ankles. I bow-bent him back ninety degrees. The fucker scree-screeched.
The acolytes made like Mahatma Gandhi. They went supine and sang Sufi songs to unnerve the fuzz. The cops shackle-chained Jimmy, Nick A., and Sal. They fondle — felt up Natalie and let her linger nude. They grabbed pill vials and reefer wrappers off the floor.
I ran down the row. I hit the crawl crib and crashed in the door. Four grimy grips groused and ground themselves deep in their bedrolls. I noticed no dope evidence extant. I ran down the row to the B-level bedrooms. I beat down the door to room #29.
It’s a two-bed flop. There’s nobody home. My roust sheet listed the occupants: Chester Alan Voldrich and fotog Arvo Jandine.
I eyeballed the room. A glossy glint gleamed on the dresser. I checked it out.
It was a black-and-white snapshot. Dig the built babe in a bikini. I’d seen her before. I knew where. Robbie Molette’s girl book. This studette starred in his stable.
Outside Fat Boy Mazmanian’s Hideout
2892 South Budlong
5/23/55
He’s back there. It’s a back garage setup. He’s paying furtive fugitive rates for three hots and a cot. The front house is a sweltering sweatshop. A kiddie korps sews Sir Guy shirts and sicknik silks for L.A. gang goofballs. Ten cents an hour, muchachos. You’re overpaid at that.
He’s George “Fat Boy” Mazmanian. He’s survived his pustulant pal, Richie “the Dutchman” Van Deusen. We’ve got him for the steakhouse/211-sex assaults. That mandates death by cop, all in itself. We’ve got him for the Janey Blaine homicide. He didn’t kill Janey Blaine. Nobody’s perfect — least of all him, or US.
We evacuated the sweatshop. The Hats bought los muchachos Eskimo Pies off a Good Humor truck. The kids gassed on the LAPD’s largesse. We weren’t LAPD or the Hat Squad plus Fred Otash today. We were the Men from Mars.
Dig it. We’re spiffily space age. We’re wearing spangle-sparkly bulletproof vests. The PD purchased a big batch of Chicom surplus supplies. They’re hiiiiigh-density and heat-resistant. They’ll deflect H-bombs and silver bullets. They glow candy apple green in the dark.
We reconnoitered behind the sweatshop. We adjusted our vests. We loaded our Ithaca pump shotguns with rat poison — laced buckshot. We slipped on our headgear. Dig: L.A. Rams football helmets rigged with antiradiation rays and Plexiglas face shields. Wobbly whip antennae for that space-monster look.
We were ready. We were armed and attired. Uno, dos, tres — vamanos, muchachos—
We blasted the door off its hinges. Double-aught buck punctured pinewood to pulp. Fat Boy fired. I caught two shots. Max and Red caught two shots. They singed synthetic fabric and fell off our vests. Fat Boy popped four more shots. Harry and Eddie took them. Ricochets riddled my football helmet and zinged off of me.
We advanced. We were the Men from Mars. We feared no man or beast. We stood in point-blank range and let fly. I pumped my five rounds straight at his head. He was my voodoo-doll substitute. I saw Caryl Chessman’s face as I killed him.
Googie’s All-Nite Coffee Shop
West Hollyweird
5/24/55
I tallied table tips. I autographed a.m. Heralds. Here’s the headline: Men From Mars Battle Call Girl Killer!!!!!
Not quite — but I’ll take it.
I logged lowdown. It was all bullshit. I didn’t care. Let’s celebrate and gloat.
The Rebel wrap party was here tonite. The dope-raid arrestees had bailed out. Parker wanted it that way. Let’s postpone the parade of criminal indictments. We’ll sync them to the film’s release.