THE BIG NOWHERE by James Ellroy

So Desmond recruited his gangly kid brother, figuring his whippet thinness would get him inside the places he was now afraid to B&E, get him the things he wanted: Joe Stinson’s tennis racquet, Jimmy Harris’s crystal radio set, Dan Klein’s elk’s teeth on a string and all the other good stuff he couldn’t stand to see other kids enjoying. Little Malcolm, who couldn’t stop blaspheming even though the Reverend told him that now that he was fourteen the penalty was a whipping–not the dinner of pine tar soap and castor oil he was used to. Little Mally would become his stealer, or the Reverend would get an earful of Jesus doing it with Rex the Wonder Dog and Mary Magdalene jumping Willy, the old coon who delivered ice to their block on a swayback nag–stuff the Reverend knew Des didn’t have the imagination to come up with.

So he stole, afraid of Desmond, afraid of the Reverend, afraid to confide in Mother for fear she’d tell her husband and he’d kill Des, then go to the gallows and leave them to the mercy of the cheapshit Presbyterian Charity Board. Six feet and barely one-ten, he became the San Francisco Phantom, shinnying up drainpipes and popping window latches, stealing Desmond sporting junk that he was too afraid to use, books he was too stupid to read, clothes he was too big to wear. He knew that as long as Des kept the stuff he had the goods on him–but he kept playing the game.

Because Joe Stinson had a snazzy sister named Cloris, and he liked being alone in her room. Because Dan Klein had a parrot who’d eat crackers out of your mouth. Because Jimmy Harris’ roundheels sister caught him raiding the pantry on his way out, took his cherry and said his thing was big. Because en route to swipe Buff Rice’s National Geographics he found Biff’s baby brother out of his crib, chewing on an electrical cord–and he put him back, fed him condensed milk and maybe saved his life, pretending it was his kid brother and he was saving him from Des and the Reverend. Because being the San Francisco Phantom was a respite from being a stick-thin, scaredy-cat school grind with a crackpot father, doormat mother and idiot brother.

Until October 1, 1924.

Desmond had sent him on a second run to Jimmy Harris’ place; he squeezed in through the woodbox opening, knowing roundheels Annie was there. She was there, but not alone: a cop with his blue serge trousers down to his ankles was on the living room carpet pumping her. He gasped, tripped and fell; the cop beat him silly, signet rings lacerating his face to shreds. He cleansed his wounds himself, tried to get up the guts to break into Buff Rice’s place to see if the baby was okay, but couldn’t get up the nerve; he went home, hid Desmond’s burglary stash and told him the tables were turned: ripped tendons or not, the ringleader had to steal for the thief or he’d spill the beans to the Reverend. There was only one thing he wanted, and then they’d be quits–one of Annie Harris’ negligees–and he’d tell him when to pull the job.

He staked the Harris house out, learning that Annie serviced Officer John Rokkas every Tuesday afternoon when the rest of the family worked at the Harris’ produce stall in Oakland. On a cold November Tuesday, he picked the lock for Des; Des went in and came out twenty minutes later, beaten to a pulp. He stole Desmond’s booty and secreted it in a safe deposit box, establishing a parity of fear between the two Considine brothers. Desmond flunked out of Union Theological Seminary and became a big shot in the used-car racket. Mal went to Stanford, graduated and lollygagged through a year of law school, dreaming of back-alley adventure, prowling for loose women and never really enjoying the capture. When law school became excruciatingly boring, he joined the Los Angeles Police Department, not knowing how long he’d last as a cop–or if he even could last. Then he went home for Christmas, twenty-three years old and a rookie running scared in LA niggertown. He wore his uniform to Christmas dinner: Sam Browne belt, silver-plated whistle, .38 revolver. Car king Desmond, still bearing the scars of Officer John Rokkas’ beating, was terrified of his new persona. He knew he’d be a policeman until the day he died.

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