THE BIG NOWHERE by James Ellroy

He pushed it open and saw a little den all done up cozy, more bookshelves, chairs arranged around a leather ottoman, another desk with another cluttered blotter. He checked the clutter– mimeographed movie scripts with hand scrawl in the margins– opened drawers and found stacks of Claire De Haven stationery, envelopes, rolls of stamps and an old leather wallet. Flipping through the sleeves, he saw expired Reynolds Loftis ID: library card, membership cards to Pinko organizations, a ‘36 California driver’s license with a tag stuck to the back side, Emergency Medical Data–allergic to penicillin, minor recurring arthritis, O+ blood.

HIM?

Danny closed the drawers, unlocked the bathroom door, wiped a towel across his face and slow-walked back to the screening room. The lights were on, the screen was blank and Claire was sitting on the couch. She said, “I didn’t think a tough boy like you would be so squeamish.”

Danny sat beside her, their legs brushing. Claire pulled away, then leaned forward. Danny thought: she knows, she can’t know. He said, “I’m not much of an aesthete.”

Claire put a warm hand to his face; her face was cold. “Really? All my friends in the New York Party were mad for New Drama and Kabuki and the like. Didn’t the movie remind you of Cocteau, only with more of a sense of humor?”

He didn’t know who Cocteau was. “Cocteau never jazzed me. Neither did Salvador Dali or any of those guys. I’m just a square from Long Island.”

Claire’s hand kept stroking. It was warm, but the to-die-for softness of last night was all gone. “I used to summer in Easthampton when I was a girl. It was lovely.”

Danny laughed, glad he’d read Considine’s tourist brochure. “Huntington wasn’t exactly Easthampton, sweetie.”

Claire cringed at the endearment, started to let her hand go, then made with more caresses. Danny said, “Who filmed that movie?”

“A brilliant man named Paul Doinelle.”

“Just for friends to see?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because it’s smut. You can’t release films like that. It’s against the law.”

“You say that so vehemently, like you care about a bourgeois law that abridges artistic freedom.”

“It was ugly. I was just wondering what kind of man would enjoy something like that.”

“Why do you say ‘man’? I’m a woman, and I appreciate art of that nature. You’re strictured in your views, Ted. It’s a bad trait for people in our cause to have. And I know that film aroused you.”

“That’s not true.”

Claire laughed. “Don’t be so evasive. Tell me what you want. Tell me what you want to do with me.”

She was going to fuck him just to get what he knew, which meant she knew, which meant–

Danny made Claire a blank frame and kissed her neck and cheeks; she sighed–phony–sounding just like a Club Largo girl pretending stripping was ecstasy. She touched his back and chest and shoulders–hands kneading–it felt like she was trying to restrain herself from gouging him. He tried to kiss her lips, but her mouth stayed crimped; she reached between his legs. He was frozen and shriveled there, and her hand made it worse.

Danny felt his whole body choking him. Claire took her hands away, reached behind her back and removed her sweater and bra in one movement. Her breasts were freckled–spots that looked cancerous–the left one was bigger and hung strange and the nipples were dark and flat and surrounded by crinkled skin. Danny thought of traitors and Mexicans sucking them; Claire whispered, “Here, babe,” a lullaby to mother him into telling what he knew, who he knew, what he lied. She fondled her breasts toward his face; he shut his eyes and couldn’t; thought of boys and Tim and HIM and couldn’t–

Claire said, “Ladies’ man? Oh Teddy, how were you ever able to pull that charade off?” Danny shoved her away, left the house slamming doors and drove home thinking: SHE CANNOT KNOW WHO I AM. Inside, he went straight for his copy of the grand jury package, prowled pages to prove it for sure, saw “Juan Duarte– UAES brain trust, extra actor/stagehand at Variety Intl Picts” on a personnel sheet, snapped to Augie Duarte choking on his cock on a morgue slab, snapped to the three Mexes on the Tomahawk Massacre set the day he questioned Duane Lindenaur’s KAs, snapped on Norm Kostenz taking his picture after the picket line brawl. Snap, snap, snap, snap to two final snaps: the Mex at the morgue who eyed him funny was a Mex actor on the movie set, he had to be an Augie Duarte relative, Juan Duarte the spic Commie actor/stagehand. The crossout on the meeting ledger had to be his name, which meant that he saw Kostenz’ picture and told Loftis and Claire that Ted Krugman was a police detective working on Augie’s snuff.

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