Kemper said, “I thought you’d be in Dallas.”
Littell shook his head. “I don’t need to see it. And there’s something in L.A. I do need to see.”
“I like your suit, son. It’s good to see you dressing so nicely.”
Littell dropped the raincoat. Kemper saw the gun and cracked a big shit-eating grin.
Littell shot him. The impact knocked him off his chair.
The second shot felt like HUSH NOW. Kemper died thinking of Jack.
99
(Beverly Hills, 11/22/63)
The bellhop handed over his passkey and pointed out the bungalow. Littell handed him a thousand dollars.
The man was astonished. The man kept saying, “You just want to see him?”
I WANT TO SEE THE PRICE.
They stood by the housekeeping shed. The bellhop kept checking their blind side. He said, “Make it quick. You’ve got to be out before those Mormon guys get back from breakfast.”
Littell walked away from him. His head raced two hours ahead and locked in to Texas time.
The bungalow was salmon-pink and green. The key unlocked three deadbolts.
Littell walked in. The front room was filled with medical freezers and intravenous drip caddies. The air reeked of witch hazel and bug spray.
He head children squealing. He identified the noise as a TV kiddie show.
He followed the squeals down a hallway. A wall clock read 8:09–10:09 Dallas time.
The squeals turned into a dog food commercial. Littell pressed up to the wall and looked through the doorway.
An IV bag was feeding the man blood. He was feeding himself with a hypodermic needle. He was lying buck cadaverous naked on a crank-up hospital bed.
He missed a hip vein. He jabbed his penis and hit the plunger.
His hair touched his back. His fmgernails curled over halfway to his palms.
The room smelled like urine. Bugs were floating in a bucket filled with piss.
Hughes pulled the needle out. His bed sagged under the weight of a dozen disassembled slot machines.
100
(Dallas, 11/22/63)
The dope hit home. Heshie unclenched and eked out a smile.
Pete wiped off the needle. “It’s happening about six blocks from here. Wheel yourself to the window about 12:15. You’ll be able to see the cars go by.”
Heshie coughed into a Kleenex. Blood dripped down his chin.
Pete dropped the TV gizmo in his lap. “Turn it on then. They’ll interrupt whatever they’re showing for a news bulletin.”
Heshie tried to talk. Pete fed him some water.
“Don’t nod out, Hesh. You don’t get a show like this every day.”
o o o
Crowds packed Commerce Street from curb to storefront. Homemade signs bobbed ten feet high.
Pete walked down to the club. He had to buck entrenched spectators every inch of the way.
Jack’s fans held their ground. Cops kept herding avid types out of the street and back onto the sidewalk.
Little kids rode their dads’ shoulders. A million tiny flags on sticks fluttered.
He made the club. Barb saved him a table near the bandstand. A lackluster crowd was watching the show–maybe a dozen lunchtime juicers total.
The combo mauled an uptempo number. Barb blew him a kiss. Pete sat down and smiled his “Sing me a soft one” smile.
A roar ripped through the place–HE’S COMING HE’S COMING HE’S COMING!
The combo ripped an off-key crescendo. Joey and the boys looked half-blitzed.
Barb went straight into “Unchained Melody.” Every patron and barmaid and kitchen geek ran for the door.
The roar grew. Engine noise built off of it–limousines and full-dress Harley-Davidsons.
They left the door open. He had Barb to himself and couldn’t hear a word she was singing.
He watched her. He made up his own words. She held him with her eyes and her mouth.
The roar did a long slow fade. He braced himself for this big fucking scream.
A Note
About the Author
James Ellroy was born in Los Angeles in 1948. His L.A. Quartet novels — The Black Dahlia, The Big Nowhere, L.A. Confidential, and White Jazz — won numerous awards and were international best-sellers. He lives in Connecticut.