Shakedown Read online

  Shakedown

  Freddy Otash Confesses

  By James Ellroy

  BYLINER FICTION

  Copyright © 2012 by James Ellroy

  All rights reserved

  Cover illustration by Jonathan Carlson

  ISBN: 978-1-61452-047-4

  Byliner Inc.

  San Francisco, California

  www.byliner.com

  For press inquiries, please contact [email protected]

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  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  About the Author

  About Byliner

  Byliner Originals & Byliner Fiction

  Prologue

  Cell 2607

  Penance Penitentiary

  Reckless-Wrecker-of-Lives Block

  Pervert Purgatory

  6/16/2012

  I’ve spent twenty years in this fucking hellhole. Now they tell me I can memoir-map my misadventures and write my way out.

  All that religious shit I disdained as a kid is true. There’s heaven for the good folks, hell for the beastfully baaaaaad. There’s purgatory for guys like me—caustic cads that capitalized on a sick system and caused catastrophe. I’ve pondered my sins for two decades. I’ve relived my earthly transit in dystopian detail. My cunning keepers are currently dangling a deal:

  Record your jaundiced journey, and you may hit heaven on a high note. Baby, it’s time to CONFESS.

  Purgatory is Shitsville. You’re stuck with the body you had on earth when you died. You eat nothing but coach-class airplane food. There’s no booze, no jazzy intrigue, no women. My earthly victims visit my cell unpredictably. They remind me of my misdeeds and jab me in the ass with red-hot pokers. Fags flit down from heaven and scold me for outing them back in the fag-fragging ’50s. Fuck—there’s that limp-wristed lisper Johnnie Ray. The prongs of his pitchfork are white-hot. Johnnie had a righteous run from ’53 to ’56. His record “Cry” sold mega-millions. Confidential cornholed him. The piece was titled “Men’s Room Mishegas: Jittery Johnnie Strikes Again!” Johnnie threatened to sue the magazine. I kicked his ass as a deterrent.

  Fuck, Johnnie—those prongs are hot!!!!! How many times do I have to tell you I’m sorry?

  Dig this, earthlings: You pay for your sins in the afterlife. I am telling it like it is.

  My ass is always sore. Ava Gardner jabbed me last week. Ava was a noxious nympho with a delirious devotion to dark meat. I set her up with a Jungle Johnny packing studly steel. My boys kicked the door in and snapped photos. Confidential ran insidious ink.

  April ’54: “Ava Gardner: Mud Shark Mama!”

  It was wrong. I’m ashamed. I’ve stewed in my evil shit for twenty years. Earthlings, I’m sorry.

  My keepers have supplied me with pen and paper and a complete run of Confidential. My synapses are sizzling with a million malignant memories. Fred Otash, 1922–1992: rogue cop, private eye, shakedown artist. Soldier of fortune and demonic deus ex machina. The hellhound who held Hollywood captive. The man with all the sicko secrets you irksome earthlings want to hear.

  Confidential presaged the infantile Internet. Our gobs of gossip were repugnantly real. Today’s blowhard bloggers and their tattle texts? Pussyfooting punks all. We stung the studios and popped the politicians. We voyeur-vamped America and got her hooked on the devilish dish. We created today’s tell-all media culture.

  Yeah, I’m sorry. Yeah, I want to get paroled to that cloud bank upstairs. But—I more urgently want to groove my wild ride once again.

  My keepers have given me back my 1950s-vintage body. It’s a Machiavellian move to make me recall. They want to prime my prose and mold my moral vision. They’ve put me in telepathic touch with an earthling writer named James Ellroy.

  Ellroy’s a dipshit. I knew him in my waning months alive. I’ve been granted tell-all telepathy. I will know that cocksucker cold.

  He ripped off my persona for a character in his overhyped novel L.A. Confidential. The book and major movie chewed Chihuahua dicks. I met Ellroy in the summer of ’92. He wanted to turn my life story into a boffo TV series. He paid me some gelt for my FBI file—but I kicked off before he could glom it from me. I don’t trust the motherfucker. He’s a right-wing religious nut and a backer of Mitt Romney’s current White House bid. I’m an Obama man—I dig the notion of a coon president. My keepers are setting up a purgatory-to-L.A. telepathy call. My most fitful fear so far? That Ellroy located my secret diaries. Man, did I dish the dirt on myself! I’m afraid that Ellroy is still beating the dead horse of an Otash TV show.

  Fuck—I need to get upstairs. Montgomery Clift pitchforked me yesterday. Confidential lampooned the lavender Lilliputian as “Princess Tiny Meat.” JFK followed Monty. He had Jackie in tow. It was a 1953 stink. I circulated a tape of Jack bringing the brisket to Ingrid Bergman. Frank Sinatra played the tape to Jackie and created some surging tsuris. Aaaaaaaargh—those pitchfork pokes hurt!!! Marilyn Monroe was the next penance poker. Baby, you did blow half the pharmacists in Beverly Hills in trade for Nembutal and Dilaudid! Maybe I shouldn’t have spilled the beans, but I was within my First Amendment rights!

  Brain blip—dipshit Ellroy’s in my head. Reciprocal re-blip—now I’m in his.

  It’s my story, not his. He’s only here to negate my nihilism and noodle my narrative.

  Let this mind-bending march down memory lane begin …

  1

  Nate & Al’s Deli

  Beverly Hills

  8/12/92

  “I was working Central Vice in ’51. We got word on a nigger whorehouse operating out of a pad at the Villa Elaine. I hotfooted it over there.”

  My booth at the deli. My audience: four showbiz hebes in worse shape than me. Walkers, canes, and oxygen tanks clogging the aisles to the kitchen. Fractious Freddy O., holding court.

  It’s summer ’92. I’m 70 and in bad fucking shape. I’ve consumed a fifth of Scotch and three packs a day since kindergarten. I’ve got emphysema and a bum pump. I’m counting on my native panache to get me to 80. I know it’s a lunar-looped long shot.

  Sol Sidell said, “Get to it, Freddy. You roll to the pad and then what?”

  Sinful Sol: a jailbaiter from jump street. He produced beach-blanket flicks in the ’60s. I pulled him out of the shit in ’57. He was smoking Mary Jane and poking two underage twists.

  I said, “Okay, I roll to the crib and peep a side window. Shit—there’s Sam Spiegel, the cat that produced Lawrence of Arabia and The Bridge on the River Kwai. He’s muff-diving a black chick on the rag. That was a boss beef, back in ’51. I told Sambo that it’s dues time. A morals bust or a monthly donation to the Fred Otash Retirement Fund.”

  My pals yuk-yukked. I took a big bite of my Rueben sandwich and felt a twinge in my chest. I chased a Digitalis tablet with coffee and watched Jules Slotnick suck on his oxygen mask. Julie produced socially conscious turkeys about wetback farmworkers and oppressed schvartzes. It was pure atonement. He made all his live-in maids blow him. He held their green cards as a hedge against their refusal to bestow daily head.

  Sid Resnick said, “Give us another one, Freddy.”

  The Sidster was Mr. Holocaust Heartache. He produced schlock-umentaries for the B’nai B’rith. Soulman Sid: A chubby chaser/shine shtupper combo. Currently captivated by a Congo cutie weighing 285.

  I plumbed my brain stash for a tale my pals hadn’t heard. Two elderly fruits sashayed by the booth and evil-eyed me. That gave me my cue.

  I pointed to them. “I got tipped to an all-male pajama party in ’56. I paid some LAPD hard boys a yard apiece to bust i
t and brought my camera along. Those cats were piled up in a five-way with Rock Hudson, Sal Mineo, and a dude with giant acne cysts. Confidential wrote it up. Universal paid me ten G’s to keep the Rockster’s name out of the story.”

  The whole booth roared. Julie Slotnick gasped for breath and oxygenized. Al Wexler yukked out a bagel chunk and said, “Tell us your motto again, Freddy. Man, it’s a gasser.”

  Alky Al owned six porno bookstores, fourteen fag bars, and a nose-job clinic. He plowed a truck full of migrant Mexican workers and left six dead. I got it mashed down to a Mickey Mouse misdemeanor. Al owed me.

  I killed my sandwich. Here it is, Freddy O.’s credo, intoned like the Gettysburg Address:

  “I’ll work for anyone but Communists. I’ll do anything short of murder.”

  Boffo: My boys clapped and guffawed. Heads turned one booth over. An older guy flashed an LAPD retirement badge. I made him: Lieutenant Mike Matthews, a pious aide to my old foe, Chief William H. Parker, a.k.a. Whiskey Bill.

  He stepped out of the booth. He said, “Freddy shot an unarmed man in cold blood. Has he told you that one?”

  The cocksucker nailed me.

  The cocksucker winked at my pals and ambled out to the street.

  Sol said, “Come on, Freddy.”

  Julie said, “Give, boychik.”

  Sid said, “Give it up, living legend. Don’t be a CT.”

  Al said, “You’ve been holding back, Freddy. You know that’s not nice.”

  Another twinge hit my heart. I dipped a fistful of French fries in gravy and snarfed them. I popped another Digitalis and stared down my pals. Woooooo—that Fred Otash don’t-fuck-with-me glare.

  They twitched, flinched, and looked down. I waited a moment and let their submission simmer. I said, “I’m meeting a cat named James Ellroy here in half an hour. He wrote some shitty novels, and he wants to turn my life story into a TV show. If his money’s green, I’ll play along. I’ve requested my Freedom of Information Act file from the feds. It’s full of good dirt the putz will cream for.”

  Sol looked up first. “It’s 1992. The ’50s are stale bread.”

  Al looked up next. “The ’50s are a drug on the market. You can’t sell that shit to anyone but white stiffs in Des Moines.”

  Sid looked up third. “Your story’s too ugly. It’s the Age of Aquarius, bubi. The wetback dishwashers are unionized, and the fruits want their rights. I predict a jig president one day. The only way Ellroy’s story will fly is to indict your evil, camel-fucker ass.”

  Julie said, “Fuck your life story. How about a show about a movie producer who extorts blow jobs on a daily basis? It’s got pizzazz and social significance. You call it Head Man and run it on one of those cable channels that feature immoral content.”

  I laffed. It built into howls and roars. I felt my corned beef and sauerkraut on the rise. I got floaty. I popped a bread crust out on my plate. Fuck—this again.

  The booth tumbled. My pals vaporized. My vision went black. Ruffling calendar pages flew backwards. Decades disappeared and devolved. Please stop somewhere—I don’t know if I’m dead or in a dream—

  * * *

  Robbery Division Squad Room

  LAPD Detective Bureau

  6th Floor, City Hall

  2/4/49

  There I am. I’m primping in front of a hallway mirror in full uniform. Fred Otash at 27: beefcake, boss, and bangin’ them bonaroo bitches.

  I exemplify greasy good looks. I’m full-blooded Lebanese—a camel cad from the get-go. I was a Marine Corps DI during the Big War. I joined the LAPD in late ’45. I went on the grift faaaaaast. I put together an ex-jarhead burglary ring. My downtown footbeat provided me with a road map of exploitable biz fronts. My gang hit pawnshops that fenced contraband, pharmacies that pushed narcotics, bookie joints behind storefront churches. I fingered the jobs. My gang clouted cash and merchandise. They were 2 a.m. creepers. I knew when the graveyard-shift prowl cars were elsewhere and passed the word along.

  I’ve always been corruptible and tempted by the take. I don’t know where it came from. I had a squaresville home life in Bumfuck, Massachusetts. My mom and dad loved me. Nobody buttfucked me in my crib. The tree limb bent early in my case. I’ve got a sketchy semblance of a code. There’s shit I’ll do, there’s shit I won’t do. The line wavered on that cold day back in ’49.

  I combed my hair and adjusted my necktie. The squad room buzzed heavy all around me. A shootout just went down at 9th and Figueroa. A traffic cop traded shots with a heist man. The cop was hit baaaaad and was not expected to live. The heist man was grazed and was expected to live. Both men were at Georgia Street Receiving right now.

  The squad room buzzed. The squad-room phones rang incessant. I thought about the business cards I carried and handed out to women. They were understated and oozed high class. My name and phone number were printed in the middle. Right below: “Mr. Nine Inches.”

  I heard heavy footsteps. I got bombed by booze breath.

  “If you’re through looking at yourself, I’ve got something.”

  I turned around. It was a Robbery bull named Harry Fremont. Harry had a vivid rep. He allegedly stomped two pachucos to death during the Zoot Suit Riots. He allegedly pimped transvestite whores out of a he-she bar. He was non-allegedly shitfaced drunk at noon.

  “Yeah, Harry?”

  “Be useful, kid. There’s a cop killer at Georgia Street. Chief Horrall thinks you should take care of it.”

  I said, “Take care of what? The cop isn’t dead.”

  Harry dropped a key fob in my hand. “4-A-32. It’s in the watch commander’s space. Look under the backseat.”

  I steadied myself on the wall and lurched back to the bullpen. I zombie-walked downstairs. I couldn’t feel my feet find the pavement. I swear this is true.

  A K-car was parked in that space. The key fit the ignition. I couldn’t feel my hands on the steering wheel. The garage was dark. Overhead pipes leaked. Water drops turned into sharp-toothed goblins.

  I recall pulling out onto Spring Street. I recall driving slow. I might have prayed for nothing to be under the backseat.

  The heist man was being held in the jail ward. He had to be fit for a transfer to the city lockup soon. It was 43 years ago. It’s still etched in Sin-emascope and Surround Sound. I can still see the faces of passersby on the street.

  There—Georgia Street Receiving.

  The jail ward was on the north side. The ward for square-john folks was to the south. A narrow pathway separated the buildings. It hit me then:

  They know you’ll do it. They’ve sized you up as that kind of guy.

  I reached under the backseat. Right there: transfer papers for one Ralph Mitchell Horvath and a .32 snub-nose.

  I put the gun in my front pocket and grabbed the papers. I walked down the pathway and went through the jail-ward door. The deskman was LAPD. His eyes drifted to a punk handcuffed to a drainpipe. The punk wore a loafer jacket and slit-bottomed khakis. One arm was bandaged. His lips were covered with chancre sores. He looked insolent.

  The deskman did the knife-across-throat thing on the QT. I handed him the papers and uncuffed and recuffed the punk. The deskman said, “Bon voyage, sweetheart.”

  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 t
o 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.”