Buzz doused the walls and shelves and tables and stacks of paper with gasoline. He soaked the Sleepy Lagoon Committee photos. He ripped down Ed Satterlee’s graphs, emptied the cans on the floor and made a gas trail out to the porch. He lit a match, dropped it and watched the white whoosh into red and explode.
The fire spread back and upward; the house became a giant sheet of flame. Buzz got in his car and drove away, red glow lighting up the windshield.
He took back streets northbound until the glow disappeared and he heard sirens whirring in the opposite direction. When the noise died, he was climbing into the foothills, Los Angeles just a neon smear in his rear-view mirror. He touched his future there on the seat: sawed-off, heroin, a hundred and fifty grand. It Side 199
Ellroy, James – Big Nowhere, The didn’t feel right, so he turned on the radio and found a hillbilly station. The music was too soft and too sad, like a lament for a time when it all came cheap.
He listened anyway. The songs made him think of himself and Mal and poor Danny Upshaw. Hardcases, rogue cops and Red chasers. Three dangerous men gone for parts unknown.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
James Ellroy was born in Los Angeles in 1948. He is the author of seven previous novels, including the Edgar-nominated _Clandestine_, _Suicide Hill_, and _The Black Dahlia_–called “high intensity prose” by Elmore Leonard and “an absolute masterpiece” by Jonathan Kellerman.
Ellroy lives near New York City and is at work on his next novel.
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