Blood on the Moon by James Ellroy Page B

elderly man at the front of the room raised his hand and said, “Yeah, I got a question. What are you gonna do about the niggers?”
    The man at the lectern went beet red beneath his silver coiffure and said, “Well, I don’t think that’s germane to the issues at hand. I think—”
    â€œWell, I do!” the old man bellowed. “You people took this building over from the Moose, and you got a civic responsibility to address yourself to the nigger problem!” The old man looked around for support and got nothing but embarrassed shrugs and hostile looks. The man at the lectern snapped his fingers and two burly, blazer-clad teenagers entered the room.
    The old man ranted on. “I was a member of the Moose Lodge for thirty-eight years, and I rue the day we sold out to you bimbos! I’m gonna call for a meeting of the zoning board, and get an ordinance passed to keep all niggers and religious crackpots south of Wilshire. I’m a member in good…” The teenagers grabbed the old man by his arms and legs and carried him, kicking, biting, and screaming, out of the room.
    The man at the lectern called for quiet, raising his hands in a supplicating gesture to quell the relieved hubbub that followed in the old man’s wake. Running a hand through his silver hair, he said, “Now there’s someone with a low karma synergy! Racism is low chakra! Now …”
    Linda Deverson raised her hand forcefully and said, “I have a question. It relates to that old man. What if his inner self is bad and all his native force fields are so twisted with fear and anger that meanness is all he can relate to? What if he has just one germ of kindness, of curiosity, and that’s what brought him here tonight? He paid to attend this meeting tonight, he—”
    â€œHis money will be refunded,” the man at the lectern interjected.
    â€œThat’s not what I’m talking about!” Linda shouted. “That’s not what I mean! Don’t you understand that that man can’t be dismissed with a cheap crack about low chakra? Don’t you …” Linda slammed her hands into her cushion, then got to her feet and rushed to the front door.
    â€œLet her go!” the group leader said. “Her misery will be refunded if she leaves our program. Let her pay for her chakra!”
    Barely containing his excitement, he got up to follow her and was almost knocked over by a tall buxom woman in a corduroy pantsuit. When he got outside to the parking lot, he found her conferring with Linda, who was smoking a cigarette and brushing angry tears out of her eyes. Shielded by a tall hedgerow, he could hear their conversation plainly.
    â€œShit, shit, shit,” Linda was muttering.
    â€œJust forget about it,” the woman answered. “You win a few, you lose a few. I’ve been searching for a few years longer than you; listen to the voice of experience.”
    Linda laughed. “You’re probably right. God, could I use a drink!”
    â€œI wouldn’t mind one myself,” the woman said. “Do you mind scotch?”
    â€œNo, I love it!”
    â€œGood. I’ve got a bottle of Chivas at home. I live in the Palisades. Did you bring your car?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWant to follow me?”
    Linda nodded and ground out her cigarette. “Sure.”
    He was right behind them as they drove the twisting roads of Santa Monica Canyon up to a quiet block of large houses fronted by broad lawns. He watched as the first car hit its right-hand directional and pulled into a long circular driveway. Linda followed suit, parking directly behind. He drove on and parked at the corner, then walked casually over to the house the woman had entered.
    The lawn extended around both sides of the house, with towering hibiscus plants forming its perimeters. He threaded his way along them, staying in the shadows, making a complete circuit of the house before