by James Ellroy
They shared a look. Dudley winked. Hideo nodded back.
Dudley walked inside. Harry hogged a window booth. He wore his shrunken head and slurped wonton soup.
Dudley joined him. Harry scooped floating pork.
“I need an extension with Ace. And don’t mention your farkakte smut racket, because my answer remains nyet, Comrade.”
Dudley said, “Comrade, your new answer will have to be ‘da.’ You will supply equipment upon command. You will let us employ the sets from your grand Frank Capra movies that extoll the human spirit, and you will provide beautiful gowns for our female performers, who will have been surgically cut to resemble your own brightest stars. You will do all of this, and much more, without complaint.”
Harry waved his spoon. “Or what, bubelah? It’s that, or you kill me? It’s like I’m some schvartzer heist man you put the boots to to keep L.A. safe and clean?”
Dudley said, “No. But I’ll release my sneak photographs of you cavorting with two fourteen-year-old girls in Hitler Youth outfits.”
Harry went red. His arteries constricted. Dudley lit a cigarette and blew smoke in his face.
“Nod yes and enjoy your soup, Harry. Ace has embellished it, especially for you.”
Harry coughed. Harry slurped soup. Harry lit a cigarette.
“ ‘Yes,’ you mick cocksucker.”
“You’ll be in august company, Harry. Our pals Joe and Ben are investing, and I’m certain that Bette Davis will be, as well.”
Harry waved his shrunken head. “A curse on you, you mick cocksucker. May giant circus elephants shit on your lawn. May bug-eyed gargoyles eat your young.”
A taxi pulled up. There—a yellow smudge lights the window.
Dudley ran out. He buttoned his suit coat over his gun and squared his necktie. Fair Beth stepped up on the curb.
She was seventeen, now. She was taller. Her hair had gone to his shade.
Beth said, “Hello, Dad.”
Dudley said, “My dear lass.”
They embraced. Beth was overcoat warm. He kissed the top of her hat.
“What’s going on out there? I’m blind, but I’ve got a nose for things.”
Dudley laughed. Beth laughed. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed her dad’s beak. They bundled into the cab and scrunched up beside Tommy.
He was a pudgy Irish boy. He worked for Packard Bell and built radios by touch.
Dudley pumped his hand. “It’s good to see you, lad. You look delightfully fit for our grand L.A. adventure.”
Tommy grinned. He wore dark glasses and a swell suit. Beth groomed him. He missed shaving spots. Beth squared him away for the world.
“I can’t see you, Uncle Dud. I can hear you, though. And you know you can’t fool me. If you try to pass off a fake Bette Davis, Beth will see and I’ll hear.”
Dudley laughed. Beth laughed. Dudley winked at her and tapped the driver.
“Brentwood, please. Take Sunset out to Mandeville Canyon.”
The driver U-turned. Beth leaned into Dudley. Tommy leaned into her. She looked out at L.A. She saw Chinatown choked with police cars. She said, “It’s a dream.”
The San Diego papers inked the oceanside snuffs. The Camp Pendleton cops caught the squawk. The early consensus was Baffler. It might be the Santa Monica sniper. It might be those escaped Japs.
Tommy rolled down his window. He wrinkled his nose and caught scents. Beth said, “There’s a high cement retaining wall to your right. There’s sycamore trees at the top.”
Tommy said, “I can smell them. The limbs are full of oil. It’s darker than eucalyptus.”
Beth squeezed Dudley’s hand. “It’s dark, like my dad’s Irish heart.”
Dudley roared. Beth laughed and nuzzled into him. They passed a stretch of Mex eateries. Tommy said, “I smell fried pork.”
The cab clocked westbound. Beth described Hollywood and the Sunset Strip. “There’s a billboard for airplane flights to Palm Springs.” “There’s a man walking a spotted Great Dane.” “There’s the world-famous Mocambo. Maybe Miss Davis will take us there.”
They hit Beverly Hills. Tommy said, “It’s more green now. There’s more oxygen in the air.”
Dudley faked a cough and popped three bennies. Beth described Will Rogers Park. Dudley welled up. His fair child and fifty-foot palm trees. Such inexplicable love.
They passed the Bel-Air gates. Sunset went hairpin. The cab dipped and swerved. Beth and Tommy giggled. It was a fun-house ride for the blind lad. He took joy where he could.
Such gratitude. “I’m grateful.” His sweet Claire said that.
Brentwood, Mandeville Canyon. There’s a Tudor house. There’s a Spanish house. There’s a château. Dad, they’re so big.
He saw the Airedale first. Bette stood on her lawn and tossed him a ball. The cab pulled into the driveway. Bette shouted something. Beth covered her mouth—Oh my God.
He got out. Bette skipped up to him. She wore gabardine slacks and a blue sweater. She went Not in front of the neighbors and embraced him. She ran a hand down his leg.
Beth helped Tommy out. She calmed herself. It was très decorous. It was more Smith than Short.
Bette went to them. It was hugs, two-hand greetings, skipped heartbeats. The Airedale jumped on Dudley. He stroked him head-to-tail and kissed his snout.
La Grande Bette. She’s playing herself. She’ll rebuff Miss Davis this, Miss Davis that.
She said, “Bette, please. I wouldn’t dream of calling you Miss Short or Mr. Gilfoyle.”
Beth and Tommy swooned. Bette pointed to a Rolls limo, curbside. She passed the cab man a wad and went Shoo!
The cab U-turned. Bette tucked the Airedale behind the gate and walked back over. She drew them in. She touched all three of them. She looked at Dudley, she looked at Beth.
She went Mmmmmmmmmm. She drew it out to nine thousand syllables. She said, “Yes, I see the resemblance.”
Dudley roared. Beth doubled over. Tommy squealed and plucked at Bette’s sleeve. She laced their fingers up.
“I know you can’t see it, Tommy. But don’t you think there’s Ireland all over these two?”
Tommy leaned into Bette. “I don’t know what Ireland looks like, but Uncle Dud and Beth both smell green.”
Dudley welled up. Beth said, “Dad’s more emotional than he lets on.”
Bette jiggled Dudley’s wrist. “Yes, and I can attest to that, in a rather intimate manner. So, before I lapse into the bawdy, I think we should go to the movies. I haven’t seen Citizen Kane, and it’s playing second-run in Hollywood. A Monday matinee shouldn’t be too crowded, and I can observe Beth’s narration technique.”
Beth looked at Dudley. Can we? Should we impose?
Bette said, “How about it, Dad? The kids and I are in.”
Dudley said, “Then I shall make it a quorum.”
Bette stuck her fingers in her mouth and whistled. It was pure stagecraft.
The limo pulled up. Dudley got the door. Beth helped Tommy in. Dudley winked at Bette.
She said, “How many hearts have you broken with that one thing?”
He eased her inside. Tommy sniffed the air. The lad was a scent hound. Hold for his diagnosis.
“The prior inhabitant wore lime cologne and had a flask. He spilled brandy on the seat cushions.”
The decree drew applause. Bette whistled. It was poor stagecraft. She whistled shrill. She was laying the hoi polloi on too thick.
The limo pulled out. They sat bundled and retraced Sunset, east. Beth redescribed the landscape.
Bette studied Beth. She would know Beth’s every tic by suppertime. She would deftly mimic Beth by dessert.
He loved Beth more than his full-fledged daughters. She possessed the skewed will that they lacked. She affirmed his bent for the illicit. She did not plague him with the mundane.
They passed the Strip, eastbound. Beth described the Trocadero. Bette did not smile at him or touch him. He saw her there that first time. They made love upstairs. She said, “Kill
a Jap for me.”
Claire was outwardly harsh. She was tall and patrician and used it to brusque effect. She fully succumbed to touch. Bette thought she did but did not.
Miss Davis remained Miss Davis, portraying raw appetite. It was about the future memory, recalled. Bette’s passion was a recollective device.
They hit the Hawaii Theatre. Beth described the marquee. Star-studded Citizen Kane, late shows nitely. Palm-tree accents. REMEMBER PEARL HARBOR! signs by the ticket booth.
Bette donned dark glasses. It was a Miss Davis move. Dudley got out a five-dollar bill. Beth took charge of Tommy. It was a maneuver.
They stormed the booth and got their tickets. The blind man supplied a diversion. They got through the lobby. The place was near empty. The trailers had just ended. They steered Tommy out in front of them and got to their seats.
Bette went Whew. Tommy made a blind man’s face. Dudley took the aisle seat and stretched his legs. Bette sat beside him. Beth sat next to her. Tommy took the end seat.
The lights redimmed. Dudley tucked close to Bette. She tucked away from him and tucked close to Beth.
The movie began. Beth tucked close to Tommy and whispered. She ran down the credits. She described a deathbed prologue. The film proper kicked in.
It was the late nineteenth century. Beth captured that. Deft girl, in soft sync.
Dudley ran his hand up Bette’s leg. She smiled at him and turned back to Beth. The movie unfurled. Daylight scenes threw brightness. Beth whispered. She eyed the screen and squeezed Tommy’s hands. The music got to him. Stringed crescendos made him cry.
Dudley watched them. Bette kept her head turned. He took his hand off Bette’s leg. He thought she’d pull it back. She straightened the crease in her slacks.
The movie rankled. It was idiot muckraking and invasive technique. Beth caught the style and conveyed it, frame-to-frame. Dudley’s mind raced. He drove to Mexico with Comrade Claire. He invaded Mexico with his boys.
This moronic motion picture. His Bette, dumbstruck. The chubby wunderkind, Orson Welles. Harry Cohn knew young Welles. Young Welles scrounged coon maids off Beverly Hills bus stops. He bamboozled them with maryjane and magic tricks. He plied them with his cricket dick and drove them home to coontown.
Dudley popped two bennies. He tapped his feet. He felt stretched. He got woman pangs. He panged Bette, Claire, Bette. He got daughter pangs. He panged for long talks with Beth.
The movie dragged on. It was Old Testament length.
Bette kept her back turned. Dark sequences hit. He couldn’t see Bette, he couldn’t see Beth. He was marooned on Mars.
It ended. The great Kane falls. His life was one hopped-up dance on a dunghill. It all pertained to a fucking child’s sled.
His companions stood and clapped. Bette reprised her hoi polloi whistle. Dudley walked out to the lobby and lit a cigarette.
He was sweating. Benzedrine in a hot box. That tortuous movie. Rubber-hose me—I’ll confess.
Bette and Beth walked Tommy out. They wore glazed culture looks. Bette cold-eyed him. Party pooper. Don’t you know how great that was?
She suggested the Brown Derby. Beth and Tommy swooned. Dudley held an arm out. Bette linked up with him.
It felt perfunctory. She withheld her eyes. She gave them to Tommy and Beth.
Tommy kept going “Gee whiz, Uncle Dud.” He heard Claire say “I’m grateful.” Beth took his free arm. He went instantly buoyant. They tumbled out to the limo, linked up.
The backseat was airless. Bette dropped his arm and threw chitchat at Beth. Orson’s a genius, you must meet him, he understands so much.
Dudley undid his necktie. Vine Street was just west. The ride traversed eons. Fat Orson, boy genius. No air in the fucking backseat.
They hit the Derby. Bette removed her dark glasses. She walked ahead of them. She led them. She came as Herself.
Hurricane Bette.
The homo maître d’ fawns and shags them a booth. It’s the Brown Derby. Beth steers Tommy and describes every inch. Tommy bumps a table. Bruce Cabot glares. He was the male ingénue in King Kong. Central Vice has a blue sheet on him. He enjoys underaged snatch.
Hurricane Bette.
She calls out to her filmland chums and blows kisses. She strides ahead of them. Heads turn: It’s Bette! It’s Bette! She walks ahead of the big man. He’s the blind man’s keeper. Who’s that pretty girl in that cheap dress? My, what a procession! It’s the Shanty Irish Dispossessed!
They made the booth. The homo seated them and swished off. Dudley squeezed in beside Bette.
He cupped her knee. She slid away and buttonholed Tommy. Her tone went arch. She had a foil and cued up deep compassion. Her voice went TOO GODDAMN LOUD.
Tell me, dear—how does one assemble radios without the gift of sight?
Tommy laid it out. His hands plucked at the tablecloth. He made blind man’s faces. He glowed with Bette-Davis-is-being-nice-to-me love.
Beth was way across the booth. He couldn’t touch her or tell her sweet things. She dabbed at Tommy’s face and studied Bette. She’d wear Bette’s hairdo tomorrow. She’d restitch her frocks for a more-Bette look.
Bette owned the room. People looked over. That’s Gary Cooper. He’s wearing a disabled vet’s boutonniere.
A waiter came by. Dudley snagged him first. He ordered bonded bourbon, four shots. Menus appeared. Beth read Tommy’s, aloud. Dudley inched closer to Bette. Bette inched closer to Tommy. Tell me how you wire the antenna disks, dear.
The drinks arrived. Beth had ginger ale. Tommy’s Scotch Mist came with a straw. He slurped it. The sound echoed. Bette sipped a martini and scanned the room.
She trawled for recognition. She bestowed smiles and blew kisses. She doted on Tommy and one eye–cased the joint.
Dudley bolted his drink. He touched Bette’s back. She reached around and patted his hand. The waiter reappeared. Dudley held four fingers up.
The waiter took orders. Bette ordered for Beth and Tommy—the New York steak, rare. Dudley ordered a well-done hamburger. Bette deadpanned the joke.
Dudley killed his drink. The refill appeared. He chugged half of it. The room resettled. His nerves smoothed out. He concocted small talk.
Be risqué for your brood. Orson Welles fucks nigger maids. Mr. Hearst will fuck him—and soon.
He cleared his throat.
Bette squeezed Tommy’s hand and squeezed out of the booth.
Conquistadora.
She swirled, booth-to-booth. She snagged a waiter’s pen and demanded war-bond pledges. Everybody coughed up. Bette wrote the names and amounts on her arm. Gary Cooper coughed up. Jean Arthur coughed up. An Army colonel wrote her a check. Bette curtsied and blew the ink dry.
Dudley killed his drink. It sent him gaga. He got a surge up his legs. He watched Bette swirl. He willed her to look his way and give him something.
She swirled. She fixed on her audience. She covered her arm in blue ink.
His tumbler vanished. A new one appeared. He slugged down two fingers and watched Bette swirl. John Wayne grabbed her wrist and kissed her arm above the ink line. Dudley pulled out his gun.
He felt something in his hand. He looked down and wondered how it got there. Beth saw it. Nobody else did. Bette had the room.
Beth looked at him. She made a little gesture. It meant Dad, please. He tucked his piece back in his holster. John Wayne released Bette’s arm. Bette swirled away.
Dudley shut his eyes. Beth whispered something. Tommy’s knees bumped the table. Dudley opened his eyes. Beth steered Tommy around a waiter.
His tumbler was back at four shots. He bolted half of it. The room blurred and cleared. He saw Bette, swirling his way.
She sat down. There’s three of her, two of her, one. She smiled. She displayed her arm. Her sleeve was hiked up to her shoulder. Ink marks covered every inch.
She said, “For the war.” “Kill a Jap for me” echoed.
He reached for her wrist. She jerked her arm back.
; She said, “No, don’t.”
He killed his drink. There’s three, two, one of her.
She said, “You’re looking at a hundred thousand dollars for the war, from fifteen minutes of work.”
Dudley gripped his tumbler. “I can make you five times that for a fifty-thousand-dollar investment that you won’t even miss. It’s smut movies, darling—of a level of artistry and perverted significance that will put that dithering piece of cinema we just witnessed to shame. Don’t pretend that you don’t love filth in the guise of art. Don’t pretend that I don’t understand that part of you. Don’t pretend that you don’t want me to fuck you tonight, and don’t pretend that you won’t write that check.”
Bette slid close to him. Bette lowered her head. Lovers’ tête-àtête.
“How dare you inflict such vile presumption upon me at a time such as this? How dare you attribute your own basest urges to me? How dare you advance this obscene proposition with your daughter and her dear friend twenty feet away, on what is surely the most splendid night of their lives? How dare you think that you and I are anything more than a trivial and titillating footnote to this horrible moment in time, and that you can impose your brutal will upon me in such a cruel and casual manner?”
Dudley gripped the tumbler. His hand spasmed. The glass shattered.
Bourbon spilled. Shards crumbled. He held pure shrapnel and made a tight fist. Glass tore his hand. High-test booze scalded him.
Bette got up and walked out. Blood seeped through his fingers and drenched the tablecloth. People looked over. His suit coat was unbuttoned and wide open. His holster was out in plain view.
He stared at his hand. Blood covered it. The liquor burned, wicked bad. He saw three rooms, two rooms, one. He snatched up the table napkins. He wrapped his hand and watched the red seep through.
People looked at him. Movie stars gawked. Beth helped Tommy out of the washroom. Bette herded them toward the door.
Dudley Liam Smith. You took a spill. Take your leave, now.
He fished out two C-notes and dropped them on the table. He got up and squeezed out of the booth. His hand burned and throbbed. The pain gave him legs.
He trailed blood out to the sidewalk. He got in the limo. They all looked away from him.