by James Ellroy
I shut my eyes and crossed my legs at the ankles; I wanted the doctor to ogle me and gauge my suitability for the Red Queen’s cell. We were both police informants. I knew that he was; he did not know that I was. I had the upper hand.
The office was pleasantly cool. I blew smoke rings and burrowed into the couch. I said, “The unifying theme is sex.”
A long silence percolated. I had preannounced my faux narrative off the doctor’s first query. Lesnick gave the Feds intimate dirt on Claire De Haven. His informant role surely suffused him with self-loathing. I represented a quid pro quo. He could vouch me to the Red Queen and recoup on his perfidy.
The silence extended. I pictured the doctor enjoying my college-girl-recumbent pose. Sex equals social consciousness equals politics. I’ll tie it all up inextricably. He’s astonishingly arrogant. He’s every intelligent man who’s not really brilliant and must convince the world that he is. He’ll tell Claire De Haven all about me. He’ll turn my pre-scripted monologues into disengaged ramblings. He’ll tell the Queen that he rapidly deduced the key to my soul.
He said, “Describe your dreams.”
I put out my cigarette and laced my hands behind my head. I said, “Five men from my life pass through my dreams, interchangeably. I’ve given them archetypal names, based on my survey of Jung. There’s ‘the Chaste Lover,’ ‘the Boxer,’ ‘the Unruly Boy,’ ‘the Authoritarian’ and ‘the Japanese.’ I live with ‘the Chaste Lover.’ We’ve had a few dashed sexual encounters and have settled into an arid domesticity. The Chaste Lover is a policeman, and I’m incongruously very much a part of his world. The Unruly Boy is a recent conquest, who may be going off to the war. The Boxer is a local celebrity, and a man I’ve been drawn to for some time. The Authoritarian and the Japanese are men I am in no way sexually compelled by, but they are the most gifted of the men, and gifted men compel me more than any other male type.”
Lesnick said, “You think in types, then? Your survey of Jung has led you to organize your internal life in that manner?”
I said, “Yes. I think in types. I grew up in the Depression, and I’ve seen how the inability to think clearly and act decisively has hobbled our leaders and sustained oppressive conditions in this country. I made up my mind not to be that way. Thinking in archetypes has helped me grasp political situations as well as personal ones.”
Another silence followed. My incomplete response laid the bait. Nail me, Doctor.
He said, “Your critique of oppression is quite incomplete. Especially so, given that button you’re wearing.”
He took the bait. I let him win. I made him think, This callow child, she’s so young.
“I was only citing an example of how I think. I organize my external life rigorously, but my internal life and dream life are quite something else.”
“It’s very rare to have a patient begin analysis with their dreams. They usually begin by describing a current crisis or with a short autobiography.”
I shifted on the couch. I was off in a stage performer’s calm. I said, “My dreams undermine my self-confidence in the world. That’s why I decided to begin a course in analysis. My external state remains static, but my unconscious state is currently in upheaval.” He said, “Do you see the exterior world as a manifestation of your thoughts?”
“My personal world or the world at large?”
“Both.”
“My personal world, certainly. The world at large, quite often.”
“Would you explain ‘the world at large,’ please?”
I seized the moment. We had unconsciously colluded; it had forged his archetype of me. I was the Child Megalomaniac.
“I’ve comported in the world erratically and come to a point of self-knowledge that has given me uncanny insight. There are certain people who carry fire in the world and cause the world to shift in dramatic, inexplicable and rarely detectable ways. People like that, like me, create political shifts and effect changes of the social climate. So you see, Doctor, that is why the contradictions of my dream life are so disturbing.”
Lesnick shifted in his chair. I sensed him keying up. He said, “Tell me about your dreams, then. Why is sex the unifying theme?”
This was my time to soliloquize. Lesnick’s snitch duty had secured his daughter’s prison release. Wayward Andrea Lesnick, wayward Katherine Lake. A drunken girl drives her car into a car filled with Rotarians. A South Dakota girl steals money and catches a bus to L.A. Politics, dreams, sex. Newly revealed megalomania. A clock was ticking toward the end of my fifty-minute hour. I performed with brevity.
I went straight to my archetypes and stitched them up. They were all policemen and policeman manqués. Why am I so drawn to men who rule by hobnailed boot? I’m a megalomaniac, but I’m confused.
I’m a woman in a man’s world. They won’t let me in. I tried to join the Marines on Sunday; I was smeared with red paint and rebuffed. I’m surrounded by atrocity and am enraged that I cannot make it stop. I carry fire in the world and sense my own complicity in the horror we all live as one soul united. My inner and outer worlds have merged. I make love with and fixate on all these men because it’s all women have to make the horror stop.
I interpreted my own interpretations. I exuded megalomaniacal self-absorption. I described my girlhood, my sojourn with Bobby De Witt, my relationship with Lee Blanchard. Get it, Doctor? My external life is chaotically disordered and has led me to a point of intransigent mental resolve. Aren’t people like me malleable at their core? Don’t you think that Claire De Haven will go for me and see how faithfully I will serve the Red Cause?
Captain Parker was there, expurgated. I portrayed him as a police-world acquaintance and ghastly rightist theocrat. Hideo Ashida exposited my enlightened racial stance and outrage over the roundups. Scotty Bennett gave me raw sexual details; I merged them with some choice Bucky Bleichert fantasies. I held my voice to a monotone. It told Dr. Lesnick that this intimate revelation in no way discomfited me. I give good value, don’t I, Doctor? You don’t know that it’s all by design and all for effect.
Lesnick interrupted me. He said, “Our time has concluded, Miss Lake.”
I stood up. Lesnick stood and faced me. I couldn’t read his expression.
“I’d like to schedule another appointment.”
He said, “Please call my secretary.”
I said, “Thank you, Doctor,” and opened the door. Claire was sitting in the waiting room.
She had a new upswept hairdo and wore a tan twill suit. Her eyeglasses subverted her patrician look. One man in twenty would get her—and she always knew who those men were.
She looked up from her magazine. I caught a blink. Oh, really—it’s you.
I dug in my purse, pulled out my cigarettes and looked in mock vain for matches. I pretended not to see her stand or to sense her shadow. Then she pounced with a gold lighter and a ready flame.
I accepted the light. She smiled just as I looked up and started to thank her. She caught my Scottsboro Boys button.
“I saw you at the Robeson concert. You brought down the house.”
I blushed on cue. A drama teacher taught me the trick. Think mortifying thoughts and hold your breath.
I said, “I ended up in jail. I had a cell all to myself. The other cells were filled with Japanese women. They were too embarrassed to use the toilet. I watched them squirm all night.”
The Queen lit her own cigarette. “Until the morning? When your parents bailed you out?”
I said, “No. Until my cop lover came to the station and the jailer told him his crazy Bolshevik girlfriend was in the you know what again.”
She smiled and slipped the glove off her right hand. I extended my hand as she extended hers; it was gorgeously synchronized. She said, “Claire De Haven.” I said, “Kay Lake.”
She said, “Robeson sang ‘Ol’ Man River’ again, after they carried you out. The standing ovation acknowledged you more than him.”
I said, “It was foolish of me. No political g
ood came of it.”
Claire De Haven shook her head. “It was provocative and theatrical. You raised a valid grievance and may have caused people to consider it.”
She’s older and more worldly. Social class divides you. Feign subservience.
I studied my scuffed saddle shoes. Cheerleader Kay, Phi Delt fuckup. Claire De Haven said, “I’m having some people to my house tonight. It’s the white Colonial at Roxbury and Elevado. 9:00 would be lovely, and I do hope you’ll come.”
I smiled. “Will Mr. Robeson be there?”
She smiled. “Not if you are, dear.”
The doctor’s door opened. Claire De Haven touched my elbow and walked away. I stepped out to the hallway; a tall man was leaving the office next door. I recognized him. It was Preston Exley, the policeman turned construction king. He smiled and stepped aside. I walked downstairs and outside.
It all caught up with me and sent me giddy. Preston Exley walked to the curb and talked to another tall man. I looked up at Dr. Lesnick’s window and saw the curtains part.
Claire De Haven scanned the sidewalk. She saw me and studied me. I resisted the urge to blow her a kiss.
2:54 p.m.
Parker primped in the bathroom. He wore his best suit. Call-Me-Jack said, “I want you looking sharp, Bill. Roosevelt’s lezbo wife will be there.”
Fletch B. wangled the Presidential Suite. It was football-field big. The bathroom adjoined the main room. The door was cracked. Chitchat drifted in.
Sheriff Gene told DA McPherson not to snore in his seat. Eleanor Roosevelt gabbed with Fletch. Franklin’s raising the draft age to forty-three. He wants six million men.
Parker ducked into a powder room and snatched the phone. The suite lines bypassed the switchboard. He dialed Thad Brown at City Hall.
“Homicide, Lieutenant Brown.”
“Bill Parker, Thad. I’m calling from the Plaza.”
Brown whistled. “Be convincing, boss. The Feds think we’ll screw up the blackout.”
Parker buffed his shoes with a Kleenex. “Pass this on to Horrall. Roosevelt’s raising the draft age to forty-three. Per manpower, it’s twice as bad as we thought. We’re going to have to recruit draft-exempt men and go to the reject files.”
Brown said, “Jack’s got the Dudster on it already. And, he’s setting up an ‘Auxiliary Police Program,’ to augment the sworn personnel.”
Parker cleaned his glasses on his necktie. “Winos, derelicts and pensioners with nothing to do. We don’t have the personnel to run security checks.”
Someone tapped the door. “You’re on, Captain.”
Brown coughed. “What goes with the Watanabe job? Can we trust Dudley not to short-shrift it?”
“He’s on for the whole ride, and Horrall trusts him. That said, I don’t think Pinker and Ashida will rig evidence just to give Dud a solve. Nancy Watanabe had a recent abortion, which is the only fresh lead we’ve got.”
Brown said, “Sayonara, Bill.”
Parker said, “Banzai, Thad.”
Applause rippled. Parker quick-primped and stepped into the room. Eighty people looked up.
Bigwigs hogged the first row. The First Lady, Mayor Fiorello La Guardia, L.A. city hotshots. American flags flanked the lectern. Parker positioned himself.
Fletch B. tapped his watch. Gene Biscailuz yawned. Bill McPherson looked sleepy.
Parker introduced himself. He notched mild applause and plagiarized Bob Hope.
Get this, folks:
A Jap submarine drifts into the Silver Lake Reservoir. The crew disembarks. They battle pachucos in Echo Park. They march to Griffith Park. Giant Bengal tigers escape from the zoo and eat them. “Wars are won with the resources on hand—remember Pearl Harbor, folks!”
The audience dead-eyed him. He got no smiles, no chuckles, no punch-line yuks.
Parker segued to preparedness. Motorist safety, pedestrian safety, power-outage tips. Blackout rules, driver etiquette. Plans to suppress vandalism. Mobilization strategy for air and sea attack.
It’s our duty, ladies and gentlemen. Citizen support spells V for Victory!
Mild applause, bored applause. The First Lady, with her hand up.
“Yes, Mrs. Roosevelt?”
“On a related topic, Captain. Are you confident that everything possible is being done to safeguard the civil liberties of the Japanese people being detained in Los Angeles?”
Parker gripped the lectern. He saw that cop sandpaper those kids.
“Yes, Mrs. Roosevelt. I am confident.”
3:22 p.m.
He ran.
He backed away from the lectern and ducked out. He nixed the handshake line and a schmooze with Frau FDR. He took service stairs down to the bar.
He ordered just-one-bourbon and snagged a window booth. He watched the world drift down Vine Street.
Autograph hounds lurked outside the Brown Derby. Newsboys ducked into traffic and hawked papers. Four Navy women piled out of a cab. They wore the winter blues with officers’ braiding.
Parker hugged the window glass. He checked their rank braids and studied their faces. Two ensigns, two full lieutenants. No lieutenant j.g.’s, no tall redheads, no possible Joans.
“What are you looking at?”
Hurricane Kay—fucking unsummoned.
“I thought I saw someone I knew.”
“Those Navy women?”
“Yes.”
“I sense a story here.”
“It isn’t much of one, and I’m not going to tell it to you.”
She sat down. She snatched the cherry out of his drink.
“Dr. Lesnick is smitten. I met the Queen, right on schedule. She invited me to a party at her house tonight.”
Parker studied her. “Your outfit is too broad and satirical. I’ll tell you how to dress from here on in.”
She sipped his drink. She lipstick-smeared the glass.
“Suppose I don’t have the clothes you require?”
“Then I’ll buy them for you.”
His cigarettes were there on the table. She helped herself.
“How should I behave at the party tonight?”
Parker sipped his drink. “Act like you’re not impressed by the glamour, but betray that you really are. Don’t create another scene, under any circumstances. Keep track of conversations pertaining to upcoming meetings, rallies and political functions. Sneak into rooms and check the closets and drawers. I’m assuming that you’ll visit the house on subsequent occasions, so I’ll get you a concealable camera. I want photographic evidence of seditious literature or anything of a perverse nature that you might come across.”
Kay Lake smoked and drank. His cigarettes, his liquor.
“I borrowed your persona for my session with Dr. Lesnick. We discussed archetypes and susceptibility. He has to tell the Queen that I’m malleable. She has to think that she’s using me, or none of this will work.”
Parker nodded. “I want you to wear a black cashmere dress tonight. I’ll buy it and have the shop deliver it. Wear the stacked-heel pumps that I’ve seen you in.”
Kay Lake blew smoke rings. “I’m a four. Make sure the waist is properly darted.”
Her eyes deflect light. She’s immune to doubt. It’s her strength as a snitch and her flaw as a cognizant being.
“Were you flattered that I made you an archetype?”
“Don’t flirt with me, Miss Lake.”
“If I flirt with you, you’ll know it.”
Her eyes are so dark brown that they’re black.
3:56 p.m.
Il Duce. Mussolini, molto bene. The scowl and huge head.
Harry Cohn lugged Duce to a closet. The bust weighed eighty pounds. Jewboy Harry was fat and had a bum pump. His office was fascist moderne. A fairy set decorator dolled it up, Führeresque.
Dudley said, “You’re a bright lad, Harry. I admire the dandy dago as much as you do, but it’s best to keep him cloistered until this unnecessary world conflict concludes.”
Harry glowed s
clerotic. He dumped the Duce. The floor reverberated. He huffed back to his chair and lit a cigarette.
“Tell me what you want and give me the dirt. You never visit me just to schmooze.”
Dudley settled into his chair. It was Pontiff size. It featured a built-in ashtray.
“You owe Ace Kwan nineteen thousand, Harry. You owe Ben Siegel an additional forty-eight. I can get you the nineteen tonight. I have a business opportunity pending.”
Harry glowed. His standard fuchsia went to claret. The man radiated poor health.
“You mick cocksucker. You never come just to schmooze.”
Dudley slapped his knees. “Jack Kennedy’s coming to town. I’m sure you know what the lad has in mind.”
Harry scratched his balls. His desk resembled Pharaoh’s tomb. A perch permitted starlets to kneel and blow him.
“I’ve got some hot numbers that Jack will appreciate. Remember Joe the K and the T.J. smut days? Dot and Ruth Mildred got in a beef over that WAC major. Those were some rollicking times.”
Dudley said, “I have some grand ideas along those lines.”
“You always have grand ideas, Dud. But I produce quality motion pictures for a motion-picture public that demands quality, so you won’t see me peddling one-reelers of diseased twat and pimply guys with big schlongs.”
Dudley smiled. “Our friendship is based on extortion, Harry. We’ve never issued ultimatums, because we both understand that. I should add that you produced a nearly forgotten documentary on Herr Mussolini in 1931, and that I possess celluloid evidence. Don’t you think that the current world situation would serve to cast disapproval on your fawning tribute to that dago beast?”
Harry throbbed. His neck veins pulsed. See those arteries swell?
“I’ll consider your ‘idea,’ you mick cocksucker.”
“Grand. And since we’re engaged in the process of barter, what can I do for you?”
Harry chained cigarettes. “I’ve been getting strike threats. My slaves are getting antsy, and I might need some hard boys to quell all this Red-inspired grief.”
Dudley said, “I’ll be seeing Ben Siegel tomorrow. He’ll be released from jail soon, and he’ll set you up with some stellar strikebreakers.”