Two years ago I hosted a dinner party at The Four Seasons for another ‘5os icon, 7 1-year-old Tony Curtis, who arrived wearing a ruffled white shirt, a tuxedo jacket without lapels, a medal from the French government on his chest, and his stunning 2 6-yearold, 6’1″ girlfriend, Jill Van Den Berg, on his arm. James was there as were Tom Junod, who had written a brilliant profile of Curtis for GQ, and an editor whose name will come to me in a moment. When I suggested that Tony be seated away from the other diners, James thought it would be better if he sat near them. James, of course, was right. All evening, middle-aged suburban matrons fawned over Tony, pleaded for his autograph, touched him, told him he was the handsomest movie star ever.
We drank some surpassingly good wine, laughed a lot, and listened raptly to Tony and James, back and forth like a shuttlecock, tell ribald tales of Hollywood in the ‘5os. It became clear to me that no one alive knows more than James about that particular time in that particular place. He seems to know everything about the famous, the near-famous, and the infamous. Especially their penis size. His novels, like his conversation, abound with references to it. Some of his characters are “hung like a donkey,” others “like a cashew.” Why he is so obsessed is best left to Freudians, but for Ellroy, more than any other writer, anatomy is truly destiny.
Ellroy’s destiny was to be a moralist. But he doesn’t ride his moralism like some hobbyhorse. When he is outraged by some wrongdoing, he gets really juiced. Shortly after 0. J. Simpson committed the double-slash of ex-wife Nicole and her friend, Ron Goldman, I asked James if he’d write an essay on the Crime of the Century. Yes, indeed, he replied. The result made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. “Sex, Glitz, and Greed: The Seduction of 0. J. Simpson” is a passionate, powerful piece that skewers Simpson and the horrific Hollywood celebrity culture that spawned him. Several months ago, James was in moral high dudgeon again, this time outraged at Bill Clinton’s sexual dalliance with Monica Lewinsky and his rather bizarre pronouncement that a blow job really isn’t sex. James was itching to rip Bubba, and I, perhaps unwisely, declined.
This white-hot morality and a singular narrative gift aside, I think James has become one of the finest writers of our time because he is the most disciplined scrivener I have ever known. He rises early and spends io hours every day writing. He has never been blocked. He seems always to be juggling a novel, short fiction, and his magazine work. Astonishingly, he has never missed a deadline. He possesses the concentration–and the confidence–of a cat burglar; the outline of his novel-in-progress runs 343 pages.
Genius has its rewards. Ellroy now commands advances robust enough to dine regularly at The Four Seasons. Last October he flew from his home in Kansas City to New York where, resplendent in black tie (James is some bespoke dandy), he accepted GQ’s Man of the Year Award for Literature, for which he was selected by our ferociously intelligent readers. The two previous winners are Norman Mailer and John Updike. Mr. Mailer and Mr. Updike should feel flattered.
BODY DUMPS
DETECTIVE DIVISION/HOMICIDE BUREAU/LOS ANGELES COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT (EL MONTE PD ASSISTING). VICTIM: SCALES, BETTYJEAN. DOD: 1/29/73. DISPOSITION: MURDER/187 PC. FILE #073-01946-2010400 (UNSOLVED)
I
The victim was a 24-year-old white female. She lived at 2633 Cogswell, El Monte. The city was downscale. The racial mix was white trash and low-rent Latin.
The victim was married to William David Scales–a 26-year-old white male. They had a 4-year-old daughter and a 3-monthold son. The victim was unemployed. Her husband installed insulation.
8:00 P.M. Monday, 1/29/73:
The victim leaves her apartment. She’s alone. Her stated intention: to deposit some checks at a bank night drop and shop at Durfee Drugs and Crawford’s Market. She takes off in her husband’s Ford pickup. Scales stays home. He watches the kids and checks out the Laugh-In TV show.
The bank is a block from the market. Durfee Drugs is one mile west. Their apartment sits equidistant.