L.A. CONFIDENTIAL
by James Ellroy
L.A. CONFIDENTIAL
by James Ellroy
TO MARY DOHERTY ELLROY
A glory that costs everything and means nothing–
Steve Erickson
PROLOGUE
February 21, 1950
An abandoned auto court in the San Berdoo foothills; Buzz Meeks checked in with ninetyfour thousand dollars, eighteen pounds of high-grade heroin, a 10-gauge pump, a .38 special, a .45 automatic and a switchblade he’d bought off a pachuco at the border–right before he spotted the car parked across the line: Mickey Cohen goons in an LAPD unmarked, Tijuana cops standing by to bootjack a piece of his goodies, dump his body in the San Ysidro River.
He’d been running a week; he’d spent fifty-six grand staying alive: cars, hideouts at four and five thousand a night–risk rates–the innkeepers knew Mickey C. was after him for heisting his dope summit and his woman, the L.A. Police wanted him for kiffing one of their own. The Cohen contract kiboshed an outright dope sale–nobody could move the shit for fear of reprisals; the best he could do was lay it off with Doc Englekling’s sons–Doc would freeze it, package it, sell it later and get him his percentage. Doc used to work with Mickey and had the smarts to be afraid of the prick; the brothers, charging fifteen grand, sent him to the El Serrano Motel and were setting up his escape. Tonight at dusk, two men–wetback runners–would drive him to a beanfield, shoot him to Guatemala City via white powder airlines. He’d have twenty-odd pounds of Big H working for him stateside–if he could trust Doc’s boys and they could trust the runners.
Meeks ditched his car in a pine grove, hauled his suitcase out, scoped the set-up:
The motel was horseshoe-shaped, a dozen rooms, foothills against the back of them–no rear approach possible.
The courtyard was loose gravel covered with twigs, paper debris, empty wine bottles–footsteps would crunch, tires would crack wood and glass.
There was only one access–the road he drove in on–reconnoiterers would have to trek thick timber to take a potshot.
Or they could be waiting in one of the rooms.
Meeks grabbed the 10-gauge, started kicking in doors. One, two, three, four–cobwebs, rats, bathrooms with plugged-up toilets, rotted food, magazines in Spanish–the runners probably used the place to house their spics en route to the slave farms up in Kern County. Five, six, seven, bingo on that–Mex families huddled on mattresses, scared of a white man with a gun, “There, there” to keep them pacified. The last string of rooms stood empty; Meeks got his satchel, plopped it down just inside unit 12: front/courtyard view, a mattress on box springs spilling kapok, not bad for a last American flop.
A cheesecake calendar tacked to the wall; Meeks turned to April and looked for his birthday. A Thursday–the model had bad teeth, looked good anyway, made him think of Audrey: ex-stripper, ex–Mickey inamorata; the reason he killed a cop, took down the Cohen/Dragna “H” deal. He flipped through to December, cut odds on whether he’d survive the year and got scared: gut flutters, a vein on his forehead going tap, tap, tap, making him sweat.
It got worse–the heebie-jeebies. Meeks laid his arsenal on a window ledge, stuffed his pockets with ammo: shells for the .38, spare clips for the automatic. He tucked the switchblade into his belt, covered the back window with the mattress, cracked the front window for air. A breeze cooled his sweat; he looked out at spic kids chucking a baseball.
He stuck there. Wetbacks congregated outside: pointing at the sun like they were telling time by it, hot for the truck to arrive–stoop labor for three hots and a cot. Dusk came on; the beaners started jabbering; Meeks saw two white men–one fat, one skinny–walk into the courtyard. They waved glad-hander style; the spics waved back. They didn’t look like cops or Cohen goons. Meeks stepped outside, his 10-gauge right behind him.
The men waved: big smiles, no harm meant. Meeks checked the road–a green sedan parked crossways, blocking something light blue, too shiny to be sky through fir trees. He caught light off a metallic paint job, snapped: Bakersfield, the meet with the guys who needed time to get the money. _The robin’s-egg coupe that tried to broadside him a minute later_.