by James Ellroy
"Stay scared, Dick."
I had to act like I still had a future. I had to tap the shallow showmust-go-on part of my soul and dig up some desperate ego to pass off for courage. I had to sort out the shit I stepped into and get up the guts to shaft L. Trent Woodard for the shit he slung my way.
I repo'd my accordion. I called Linda and outlined her birthcontrol options.
I called Howard. He said I was poison. No booking agent or casting boss would touch me. I was poison. I was contagious. I was the syph and the clap. L. Trent Woodard lavishly lauded me in the morning Mirror. He smeared me and slathered me pink.
I called Oscar at Mount Sinai. He sounded bombed. He didn't remember the Pharaoh Club and our double homicide. He thought we drove to Tj. We caught the mule act and played Gershwin for the mule and a queer matador. We drove back to L.A. at dawn.
I pumped him for dope on Fred O. He said Freddy ran a string of snitches for Hush-Hush. He kept the secret dirt stash that was too hot for Hush-Hush to handle and had every fag bathhouse in the swish alps wired for sound.
Freddy beat up Japs at Manzanar. Freddy killed Japs on Saipan. Freddy broke the strike at the Ford plant in Pico Rivera. Freddy popped a Mickey Cohen punk named Hooky Rothman. Jack Dragna paid him ten grand. Freddy popped a Dragna punk. Mickey paid him ten grand.
I dropped the address-book names. Oscar didn't know Johnny Stomp or Harvey the Creep. He said Steve Cochran packed the biggest schvantz in Tinseltown. He said Ida Lupino dried out at Mount Sinai last year. Freddy O snuck her Turpenhydrate. Ida loved Freddy. Ida feared Freddy. She fed him bits for Hush-Hush. Ida and the Schvantz were making a picture right now--some lox called Private Hell 36.
I hung up and called a guy at Variety. He said Private Hell 36 was shooting nights out in Duarte. Howard Duff costarred with Ida and the Schvantz.
I drove downtown and skulked around the main library. I pulled old clips and new clips and rolled microfilm. I came up with insinuating shit.
The drive-in heist was hot. Cal Dinkins took heat for Playboy. He bopped away from his stakeout post. Playboy plowed a barricade and skedaddled.
I saw a shot of Dinkins and Jack Webb. The Times called them "tight-knit." Dinkins taught Webb how to play his part on Dragnet.
The Times ran heist copy. The Herald ran context.
The stakeout was covertly co-op: the LAPD and L.A. Sheriff's. The stakeout was steeped in interagency grief. It went way back.
The Sheriff's sanctioned Mickey Cohen's Sunset Strip incursion. The LAPD hated Mickey. Mickey was bushwhacked on Sheriff's turf in July '49. He took two .12-gauge pellets and walked. His pal Neddie Herbert took a spread in the face. The case was unsolved. The LAPD was suspected. The key suspect was Officer Fred Otash.
Chief Parker hated Sheriff Biscailuz. Biscailuz hated Parker. The LAPD and Sheriff's were knocking noggins now. The state legislature had their budgets up for review. Both agencies wanted more money. Both agencies wanted a cut of the other guys' coin. The LAPD got more money now. Biscailuz wanted that money and more.
I skimmed a piece on Johnny Stompanato.
Johnny made bail on an extortion bounce. The Herald hinted at horny housewives and naughty snapshots. The D.A. declined to file charges.
The Herald ran a picture. Johnny looked like me. He was one handsome guinea side of beef.
I found a piece on Viv and Trent Woodard. Viv wrote poetry. Viv took colored kids to the Civic Light Opera. Trent lived off a trust fund. He filed suits for drunks and derelicts pistol-whipped and pounded by the LAPD.
I saw a shot of Viv. She's doing a curtsy at some debutante ball. It's '47. She's dark haired, rangy, and busty. She's coming up on 45 fast.
The picture goosed my gonads. I wanted to rip it off the microfilm roll and tape it to my bomb-shelter ceiling.
I found a piece on Private Hell 36. It said the Schvantz disrupted the shoot with two dates in court. It implied Mickey Mouse misdemeanors.
I walked to a pay phone and called Oscar. I ran it by him. He said the Schvantz beat up a hooker and got caught with a fat bag of boo. Ida Lupino told him. She said the judge shot the Schvantz a suspended sentence in exchange for a part in his next picture.
My head buzzed like a bumblebee on Benzedrine. My names bopped in a tight spread.
I pressed Oscar. I wanted more dirt. Oscar said he couldn't think. The doctors deregulated his daily dope drip.
He wanted Demerol. They gave him Dilantin. He wanted to duck down to Darktown and dig up some Dilaudid.
I pressed harder. Oscar said he talked to Barbara Payton. Babs said she had a thing with the Schvantz. She said the Schvantz measured in at 12.4 inches.
Harvey Glatman shaved my chest and taped on a microphone. I looked around his back room.
TV tubes dumped on chairs and a dusty old couch. A six-slat shelf packed with diodes and diagnostic devices. Four walls of perverted pinup pulchritude.
Women trussed with rope. Women spread-eagled. Women gagged with black rubber balls. Chaste shots of Joi Lansing on the Dragnet set.
I lingered on Joi. Harvey caught it.
"She just broke up with Jack Webb. Jack's torching. Joi's working the line at Ciro's, and Jack sits ringside every night."
Cal Dinkins knew Jack Webb. Webb was LAPD Shill #1.
"Did you take those pictures of her?"
Harvey twisted three wires and taped them above my right nipple. "I used to be Jack's unit photographer."
I took a big whiff of Harvey. I took in his peeper pix and his panty-sniffer paraphernalia. I smelled ex-con. I smelled snitch. I smelled rabid Rottweiler.
"Let me guess. Jack heard you served time. He cut you loose, and Freddy 0 picked up your option."
Harvey deadpanned me. "You should stand away from electrical appliances. They screw up the sound quality."
I said, "Jack's tight with Chief Parker. I heard the LAPD runs R & I checks on the Dragnet crew, and I'll bet they turned up a rap sheet on you."
Harvey pulled a wild hair off my chest. I yelped. Harvey dabbed a styptic pencil on the raw spot.
"I'm a certified genius. I can broadcast TV pictures from any installation to any individual TV set, which means I don't have to sit still for your insinuations."
I looked at the bondage pix. I saw yellow bands on the girls' wrists. Sybil Brand inmates wore yellow wristbands.
Cal Dinkins to Playboy:
"Recruit colored tail for the movie gig" / "Chauffeur the girls out of Sybil Brand" / "All he wants to do is take pictures."
"What did you go up for, Harvey? Statch rape? Flimflam? Some weenie-wagger beef? I think you--"
Harvey pinched a tuft of hair and ripped it off my chest. I yelped. Harvey said, "Be nice, Dick. You're an ex-convict yourself."
4
My chest stubble itched. My tape wrap stung. My tuxedo smelled like mothballs.
I parked outside the Wilshire-Ebell. I saw a sign by the door: SISTER KENNY FOUNDATION GALA. I saw the nut-ward orderly and a strapping goon parked in a tow-away zone.
I walked inside. They watched me. I flashed my invitation to a hostess and zoomed straight back to the bar.
I was early. The ballroom was almost empty. Two nuns and a priest were blasting scotch at a bar-side table. The nuns looked half-gassed. They saw me and giggled.
I ordered a quadruple martini. I told the barman to put it in a pail or a dog dish. He brought me a pitcher and a glass and cleared out fast.
I drank. I kept my back to the ballroom and heard it fill up behind me. I heard people at the bar whisper, "That's Dick Contino."
I kept my snout in my glass. The booze sparked political conversions and apostasies. I moved left and denounced Joe McCarthy. I moved right and shot Alger Hiss 2,000 volts. I freed the Scottsboro Boys and beat Helen Gahagan Douglas to death with my accordion.
The booze enlightened. The booze obfuscated. I figured I'd see Viv and respond to stimuli like Pavlov's fucking dog.
I heard a familiar voice. I recognized it. I glanced two s
tools down.
Gene Biscailuz plucked the fruit off an old-fashioned. L. Trent Woodard sucked a cherry out of his Manhattan.
I saw Woodard. He didn't see me. I eavesdropped.
Biscailuz made small talk. Polio and Sister Kenny--blah, blah, blah. Woodard said, "Sheriff, let's talk turkey. You can't let Bill Parker and the city cops bootjack all that money. You can't--"
Woodard saw me. He dropped the Sheriff in midspiel and slid two stools down. I slid to the far right and got right up in his face.
"Back off, baby doll. I'm a pistol-packing white man, and I don't like your leanings. And don't blast the LAPD and invoke me in the same breath. Those guys are the thin blue line between freedom and the fifth column."
Woodard dropped his glass. A priest spun off his stool and spilled scotch in my lap. I shouted my declaration. My chest mike must have caught every word.
I locked orbs with Woodard. An eyeball duel ensued. I broke it off and barged into the crowd. A little bit of my soul broke loose and bopped off unbidden.
People watched me pass. I heard a dozen "Dick Continos." Tuxedos and taffeta swirled around me. I caught a split-second blip of Chief William H. Parker in dress blues.
I walked out to a palm-lined portico. It was private and peaceful. I figured she'd find me and pounce.
I leaned on a railing and watched cars bomb down Wilshire. I counted up from zero. She pounced at twenty-two.
"I thought you'd at least send me an autographed picture."
I pulled a perfect pivot and spun around close enough to kiss her. I said, "I knew you'd be here."
She smiled. She smelled like Tweed or Jungle Gardenia. She was 49 or 50 and looked it. She wore a tight black gown. Her right breast was half again as large as her left. Her cleavage dipped proportionately. Her right nipple was half-exposed. It was dark and pebbled up from cold air or excitement.
I wanted to fuck her. My heart lurched to the left.
"How did you know I'd be here?"
Freddy O briefed me. He said to cite Harrison Carroll's column.
I stepped closer. Viv reached up and tossed her hair off her right shoulder. I saw a razor nick under her arm.
I said, "I read about the Sister Kenny thing, and I saw your name mentioned."
Viv stepped back. Her heels snagged on her floor-length hemline. She tottered and caught herself. My heart lurched. I wanted her to reach for me.
I looked over her shoulder. Her husband slid through the ballroom. He had one arm around a young man.
Viv said, "Can I tell you why I came on so strong?"
I nodded. I jammed my hands in my pockets. I didn't want to touch her too soon.
She said, "To begin with, I acknowledged our age difference and decided to risk the chance that you'd find me elderly, then I thought you might be lonely and vulnerable after all that time in prison and Korea, then I thought I owed you something for the injudicious way my husband has expressed his admiration for you, then I thought that anyone who's been as candid about their fear as you've been would appreciate my candor and not judge me as desperate, and then I figured I'd better act fast before I hit menopause and get indifferent to sex."
My heartbeat escalated. My chest expanded. A strip of Harvey Glatman's tape popped loose.
Viv said, "Say something. I had that speech prepared, and you're just looking at me."
I said, "Your husband's in the next room."
She said, "He's a homosexual, and he wants me to be with you."
I said, "What?"
She said, "You're an artist, so don't pretend you don't understand."
I backed into the railing. L. Trent Woodard walked by the doorway and winked at me. His young man blew me a kiss.
I said, "Jesus fucking Christ."
Viv said, "Be less vulgar, and follow me home. I'll be in the Packard Caribbean."
Viv led the way. I followed. The nut-ward guy and the goon tailed me.
We caravanned to 3rd and Muirfield. The nut-ward guy and the goon goosed my tailpipes. Viv stopped in front of her house. She pointed me into the driveway and pulled up behind me.
She boxed my dad's car in. She didn't want me to rabbit.
The pad backed up to the Wilshire Country Club. Viv walked in ahead of me and turned on some lights. The nut-ward guy and the goon disappeared down the block.
The house was big and salmon pink Spanish. I walked up and peeped the peephole. Smoked glass smeared my view. My martini-mottled mind went wild.
I saw a Commie commissar corps. I saw my mom strapped to a rack. Trent Woodard brandished a branding tool. Dig that hot hammer and sickle.
I blinked. I saw a dozen old women. They were dowager demons and sex-starved succubi. They craved my seed. They bared their geriatric genitalia.
Viv was their siren and shill. Trent couldn't get hard and hose women. They needed ME.
I blinked. A car pulled up to the curb. Somebody whispered, "Ring the bell, shithead."
I yipped and cringed. I turned around. I saw the nut-ward guy and the goon in the goonmobile.
I rang the bell. Viv opened the door. My peephole panorama went poof!
I stepped inside. Viv handed me a martini. I sniffed it for Spanish fly or knockout drops.
Viv shut the door. My drink looked kosher. I chugalugged it and ate the olive.
The living room was king-sized and leftist primitive chic.
Labor posters. Furniture fabrics finished in gold filigree. Atavistic statues with fat phalluses and pointy pudenda.
Viv tracked my eyes. "I'm eclectic. And the fertility gods are special to me."
I said, "You married a fag, so I guess you needed all the help you could get."
Viv walked to a sideboard and mixed herself a martini. My martini sent me mixed messages:
Fuck her/Don't fuck her/Fuck her rich Red pawn of a husband. Fuck the LAPD for the way they flicked you/Fack everyone and flick no one at all.
Viv said, "You shouldn't underestimate my husband. He has some powerful allies."
"I know. I saw him talking to Sheriff Biscailuz."
Viv dropped an olive in her drink. "Gene's a friend, yes. He kept Trent out of the papers when he--"
"Got picked up during a fruit roust at some joint in West Hollywood?"
Viv smiled. "You're correct. He saved Trent from a great deal of embarrassment and turned him into quite a resource."
"What do you mean?"
"That's Trent's a good lawyer, and Gene Biscailuz isn't so blinded by a hatred of homosexuals that he can't utilize his talent."
I said, "Too bad the LAPD doesn't feel that way."
Viv sipped her drink. "Yes and no. For one, Trent hates them too much to work with them. Gene hates them, too, and Trent's been working with him on this budget contretemps that the Sheriff's and the LAPD are embroiled in."
"On the Q.T., you mean."
"That's correct. Gene doesn't want it known that Trent's working with him, and Trent doesn't ever want the LAPD to learn that he's quite fond of young men. He's quite sure that the LAPD is out to compromise him any way they can, so of course he's remained quite discreet."
I looked around the room. The labor posters were laid out in gold-lacquered frames.
"Is Trent an actual Communist?"
Viv laughed. "Nobody with brains and a soul is a real Communist."
"What about Commie front groups?"
"For instance?"
I pulled names off Freddy 0's crib sheet. "The People's Committee for a Free Philippines, the Free-the-Rosenbergs Defense Fund, the National Alliance for Social Justice, the--"
Viv cut me off. "It sounds like you have those names memorized."
I shuddered. My chest mike shifted and settled off to the left.
Viv said, "Fixate on me. Don't fixate on my husband."
I got pissed. I got wild-hair-up-the-ass pissed.
"I can't get work because of your husband. He's run a big, goddamn guilt-by-association number on me."
Viv shrugged. "Then
work for social justice. Teach underprivileged Negro children to play the accordion, and I'll pay you what Las Vegas entertainers earn."
Don't blow your cool/Don't blast your cork/Don't--
"Really, Dick, you must overlook the few injudicious comments my husband has made about you. Look to the real historical source of your troubles and try to understand the big picture."
I tamped my temper down. "For instance?"
"For instance, my husband is involved in big issues."
"For instance?"
"For instance, a woman came to Trent recently. Trent wouldn't tell me her name, but he told me she broke up with her boyfriend, and she knew something about a horribly draconian LAPD plot to initiate some truly Fascistic measures, all of it tied in to TV propaganda. You see, Dick, those are the types of issues my husband deals with."
My skin prickled. My hackles hopped. The pitch tweaked and tantalized me.
"What else did your husband say about the woman?"
Viv said, "That she was a big, busty blonde."
My synapses snapped and snagged a connection.
Joi Lansing was a big, busty blonde. Harvey Glatman said she just dumped Jack Webb. Webb: LAPD lapdog. TV propaganda. Dragnet: top-rated TV fare and the LAPD'S PR lightning rod.
Viv said, "Dick, what is it? You look abstracted all of a sudden."
I moved in on her. I mixed a martini and guzzled it for guts. Viv ran a sloooow hand down my cheek.
"I'm tired of talking about my husband, and I'm tired of talking in general. Let me duck into the loo for a moment."
I kissed her hand. I made her as musk as Matchabelli's Midnight Madness. She smiled and popped into a powder room by the door.
I popped to the front window. I pulled the drapes. I doused a light behind me and looked out. A breeze blew in. I peeped and perked my ears.
Two cars at the curb. A curbside confab. The nut-ward guy and the goon. Danny Getchell and the kid who cozied up to Woodard at the gala.
Standing and smoking and staring into a book.
The goon said, "What's that?" The kid said, "It's a flicking thesaurus." Danny said, "Limp-wristed lawyer lollygags at lavender lovefest! Pinko plutocrat paralyzed as cops cop preadult playmate!" The kid said, "Cute, but remember--a C-note down and no ass action."