I shoved the punk outside and pointed him up the pathway.
He walked ahead of me.
I couldn’t feel my feet.
I couldn’t feel my legs.
I felt my heart pump blood on overdrive and wondered why I couldn’t feel my own limbs.
No windows on the north and south buildings. No pedestrians on Georgia Street.
No witnesses.
I pulled the gun from my pocket and fired over my own head. The gun kicked and lashed life back into my arms. The noise pounded a pulse to my legs.
The punk wheeled around. He moved his lips. A word came out as a squeak. I pulled my service revolver and shot him in the mouth. His teeth exploded as he fell. I placed the throw-down piece in his right hand.
He was trying to say “Please.” That’s what always gets me — every time I have this dream.
The cop lived. He’d sustained a through-and-through wound. He was back on duty in a week.
Vicious vengeance. Wrathfully wrong in retrospect. A crack in the crypt of my soul.
Harry Fremont passed the word: The Otash kid is kosher. Chief C. B. Horrall sent me a bottle of Old Crow. The grand jury sacked him a few months later. He was jungled up in a call-girl racket and much more. An interim chief was brought in.
Reform boded. I knew that. I didn’t know that future chief Bill Parker had a target pinned to my chest.
Ralph Mitchell Horvath: 1918–1949.
Ralphie: car thief, stickup man, weenie wagger. Hooked on yellow jackets and muscatel.
He left a widow. I started sending her a C-note a month, anonymously.
Calendar pages started ruffling. It’s where my dreams always get scary. They might go backwards and bypass my birth. They might go forward and announce my death. I’m fucked both ways. I’m no longer the freewheeling Fred O.
There’s a familiar thudding noise. It sounds like magazines slapping the pavement. We’re still in ’49. It can’t be Confidential — the rag didn’t hit the stands until ’53.
There’s that kid. There’s that wagon. He’s a newsboy. He’s off-loading magazines.
My eyelids rolled back. Time recalibrated. 43 years went poof! The thuds were a tall guy hitting the table. He wore a loud Hawaiian shirt and wheat jeans. He vibed GEEK.
He snarfed the remains of my Reuben sandwich. He said, “Mr. Otash, I’m James Ellroy.” The vibe solidified. Add “opportunist” to the cocksucker’s résumé.
I told him to sit down. He did it. I looked out to the street. My pals were hassling with their oxygen tanks and walkers. The sight spooked me. I reflex-popped a Digitalis and two Valium.
Ellroy slurped Julie Slotnick’s coffee. “It’s a pleasure, sir.”
I said, “Run it all by me again. Don’t be surprised when I mention money.”
Ellroy whipped out a checkbook and pen. “I’m calling the show Shakedown. It’s your life, times, and moral journey. You were a sack of shit. I’m a zealous Lutheran out to indict your sleazy misconduct and place it within the larger context of scandal-rag journalism and America in the ’50s. Moreover, the actor who portrays you will have scalding-hot love scenes with the greatest actresses of this era.”
I tapped the checkbook. “I fucked Jackie Kennedy in ’53. She was engaged to Jack then. She said I was the biggest and the best.”
Ellroy said, “I fucked Jackie Kennedy in ’54. I was six years old. She said I was bigger and better than you.”
I laffed, I roared, I howled. My gut bounced and banged the table. Ellroy wrote a check and dropped it on my plate. Ten G’s — va-va-va-voom!
He said, “I want to see your FBI file.”
I caught my breath. “It’s on the way.”
“I want to see the diaries that you’ve kept since the late ’40s.”
I went hot-hot and cold-cold. Freon Freddy, Frigid Freddy — make it sound good.
“It’s a fucking myth, kid. I was never much good at writing shit down.”
Ellroy shook his head. “Nix, boss. I spent some time with Harry Fremont the week before he died. He told me you whacked a hood named Ralph Mitchell Horvath in ’49 and started writing the diary then. He said that you wrote it on bookies’ flash paper, in case you had to burn it quick.”
I palpitated and palsied. Old age fucks with your ability to lie.
“Like I said, kid. The diaries don’t exist.”
Ellroy fondled his checkbook. “I’ll let it slide for now. And I’ll come up green if you ever want to reconsider.”
The Valium hit more — I started to go loosey-goosey.
“I want something written into my contract.”
“Tell me.”
“I want a boss guy to play me. Think of Clark Gable crossed with porno cat John Holmes.”
Ellroy yukked. We shook hands. I pocketed the check and signaled Abe Rosen at the counter.
It’s our regular deal. I grease Abe with double sawbucks. I get faux-paged for calls from big machers.
Abe hit the intercom. “Mr. Otash! President Bush is on the line!”
Memory Lane. It’s the destination for old guys.
Ellroy’s check cleared. I holed up at my pad through Labor Day. My diaries were packed in flame-retardant boxes. They were stashed with some piquant porno pics. Ellroy was back in Connecticut. We talked most nights. I went through my scrapbooks and dished the dirt on my loved ones, lewd ones, and lost ones.
The old photos had my gears going. I’m there with Frank, Dino, and Sammy. I broke legs for them. Why do they seem to be cringing at my touch? There’s pics of my bed at my old Sunset Strip penthouse. I called it the “Landing Strip.” The name derived from my three-ways with stewardesses, starlets, and stars. Liz Taylor and I swung with a stew named “Barb” on many groin-grabbing occasions. There’s pics of my true love, Joi Lansing. We had some goooooooooooood years together. She treated me gooooooooood. I treated her gooooooooood until I treated her baaaaaaaaad. I don’t know why I flip-flopped. My diaries describe that meshuggener metaphysic.
There’s my dictionary and thesaurus. They were teaching tools for the writers at Confidential. Utilize alliteration and inventive slurs. Homos are “licentious lispers.” Dykes are “beefcake butches.” Drunks are “bibulous bottle hounds” and “dyspeptic dipsos.” Vulgarize and vitalize and crazily create a popular parlance. Make it sinfully siiiiiing.
Ellroy’s noxious novels — stamped with my style. Ellroy’s pious putz personality — an odious one to me.
My pals came over on Labor Day. We grilled burgers and hot dogs and killed three quarts of Jim Beam. They left at 2 a.m. A male nurse corps wheeled them down to their limos. The process took half an hour. It was akin to the Berlin Airlift. Walkers crashed, oxygen tanks toppled and rolled. It was fucking hard to endure.
I settled in to watch a Dragnet rerun. I bought the judge in four of Jack Webb’s drunk-driving beefs. I shtupped Jack’s ex-wife, soaring songstress Julie London.
A dozen Famous Amos cookies comprised my late-night snack. I’d seen the episode before. Sergeant Joe Friday busts a hippie punk on a snootful of LSD. I missed Jack. We had some yuks together. He kicked off back in—
A sledgehammer hit my heart. A steel croquet mallet followed. A monster loomed in front of me. He’s Johnnie Ray, he’s Monty Clift, he’s politicians pounded and movie stars mauled — a kaleidoscope of condemnation.