Hollywood Nocturnes by James Ellroy Page B

low-fat cheese like Jane DePugh could ream me, steam me, dry clean me and get me off this B-movie treadmill to Nowheresville that has had me exploiting aggrieved schvartzes and taco benders to glom the cash to make these lox epics that have given me three heart attacks and a spastic colon. Dick, I own this factory. I hired illegal aliens to sew cut-rate garments until the INS nailed me for harboring wetbacks, because I let them sleep here on the premises in exchange for a scant one-half of their pay deducted from their checks. The INS nailed me and fined me and shipped most of my slaves--I mean workers--back to Mexico, so I glommed some Border Patrol cars for buppkis at a police auction and decided to make _Wetback!_ to atone for my exploitation sins and defer the cost of my fine. Now the Feds want to crucify me for my egalitarian tendencies, so I won't be able to shoot _Wetback!_ I've got these Mex prelim boxers lined up to play illegals, but they're _really_ illegals, so if I shoot the movie, the INS will round them up and put them on the night bus to Tijuana. Dick, all I want to do is make serious movies that explore social issues and turn a profit, and slip the schnitzel to Jane DePugh. Dick, I am at a loss for words. What do _you_ recommend?"
      My head whizzed. I ate a cracker to normalize my blood sugar. Sol Slotnick stared at me.
      I said, "I've got a date with Jane tonight, and I'll put in a good word for you. And I know an FBI man pretty well. I'll tell him that you're not making _Wetback!_, and ask him to pass the word along."
      "_You're_ friends with one of J. Edgar Hoover's minions?"
      "Yeah, Special Agent Pete Van Obst. His wife's the President of my National Fan Club."
      "What's the current membership? We might make a picture together, and statistics like that impress financial backers."
      "The current membership is sixty-something."
      "So you add a few zeros and hope they don't check. Dick, be a gentleman with Jane tonight. Tell her I think she has movie star potential. Tell her you've heard rumors that I'm hung like Roy Rogers' horse Trigger."
      Dismissal time--Sol looked exhausted. I grabbed a few crackers for the road.

      *   *   *

              Kay Van Obst brought three .45 autos--FBI issue, "borrowed" from husband Pete. Nancy Ankrum brought a sawed-off loaded with rat poison--dipped buckshot--Caryl Chessman told her where to find one. Add my dad's .12 gauge pumps and call the pad "Fort Contino"--L.A.'s cut-rate Alamo.
      Ammo boxes on the coffee table.
      Front and back window eyeball surveillance--four women in rotating shifts.
      Four women packing kitchen knives in plastic scabbards--Kay hit a toy store on her way over.
      Time to kill before my "Date"--I took a snooze.
      Ink-smeared dreams:
      COWARD REDEEMED; KIDNAPPERS STILL AT LARGE!
      CONTINO FOILS FIENDS; SAVES BACK-UP SINGER FROM TORTURE AND RAPE!
      L.A. FUZZ NIX PUBLICITY STUNT SPECULATION: "THIS CAPER WAS REAL!"
      Chris held down by salivating psycopaths.
      Cops swarming the kidnap shack.
      Chief William H. Parker holding up scalps.
      CONTINO KIDNAP PLOT REVEALS BIZARRE LINKS TO UNSOLVED MURDERS!!!
      REDSKIN RESERVATIONS RAIDED IN SEARCH FOR KIDNAPPERS!!!
      APACHE CHIEF SAYS, "HEAP BAD BUSINESS! ME SEND UP SMOKE SIGNALS TO TRAP SCALP KILLER!"
      Chris woke me up. "You should get ready. I told Leigh you were jamming with some studio guys, so take your accordion."
      A last headline flickered out:
      CONTINO CONQUEST CONTINUES! KIDNAP TOPS LINDBERGH SNATCH IN POPULAR POLL!

      *   *   *

              "I'm sure you must think that I'm just a naive young thing. You must think that any girl who hasn't narrowed her career choices down any better than doctor, lawyer, movie star or recording star must be rather silly."
      Jane picked the restaurant: a dago joint off Sunset and Normandie. The Hi-Hat Motel stood cattycorner--"Vacancy" in throbbing neon made me sweat.
      I drank wine.