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(Los Angeles, 9:40 p.m., Monday, 10/29/62)
Party! Party!
Fuckhead Jack and Bobby Kennedy saved the world. The Russkies blinked, wimped, and pulled their missiles out of Cuba. It’s a “Nuclear Standoff—and WE WON!!!!!” Revue. An Anti-Dick-Nixon Show runs concurrent. The ex-veep drags ass in the governor’s race. Election day looms a week from tomorrow. Tricky Dick slips, slides, and pratfalls toward defeat. The packed-tight crowd’s here to celebrate. It’s a double dose of jerkoff jubilation.
The Losers Club. Beverly and La Cienega, West Hollyweird. The floor is jammed front-door-to-four-walls-to-bandstand. There’s no tables and chairs. There’s bombed-out standees and waitresses in red, white, and blue bikinis. They’re serving up Mushroom Cloud cocktails. Dry ice and absinthe supply the effect. The celebrants are tanked out of their skulls.
Cigarette smoke plumed thick. Revelers drowned out the name acts onstage. They warbled “We Shall Overcome” and chanted “Integration Now!”
Integration. Some hot topic. Loopy craze or potent issue? I didn’t know and didn’t care.
I stood with Daryl Gates. An integration generation banner grazed our heads. We came here to work. We scanned the crowd for known commies, comsymps, pinkos, and noted left-wing geeks. The Hat Squad and my operatives worked outside. They photo-snapped arrivals and tallied license-plate stats. We’re the shock troops in LAPD’s biiiiiiiiiig anti-red probe.
The AG ordered the probe. Ratfuck Bob Kennedy’s got a bug up his ass. He ordered a massive Intel file check on domestic CP dinks and possibly resultant field investigations. Said dinks might bust out rogue in the wake of the nuke tiff. Eddie Chacõn’s the fed overlord. He’s the AG’s pet lawyer-goon. I’m still a DA’s Bureau lieutenant. Gates and I are the lead field IOs.
So, we’re here at this soirée. So, we’re set to surveil a civil rights bash on November 2. It’s a pump primer for the Rumford Fair Housing Act. The venue’s a boss pad in Lafayette Square. The CP don’t feature integration. They’re out to subvert the civil rights groundswell and undermine the Rumford Act.
“Integration Generation.” The crowd blared stale outrage from last month. The desegregation ruckus at Ole Miss. Two dead. The crowd worked up a locomotive chant: Ole Miss, Ole Miss, Ole Miss!
I popped three Dexedrine. A cocktail waitress buzz-bombed me. I snatched a Mushroom Cloud cocktail off her tray and guzzled it. I tasted absinthe, scotch, and crème de menthe. Dry-ice shards burned my tongue. I orbed the crowd and snagged familiar faces.
Movie machers up the ying-yang. Scenesters more than red filth. Hollywood Ten humps Dalton Trumbo and John Howard Lawson. There’s Big Tom Bradley. I worked Central Division with him, back in ’49. He’s a lawyer now. He’s running unopposed for the 10th District City Council seat. There’s his pal, Gilbert Lindsay. They’re Mutt and Jeff. Tom’s six-five, Lindsay’s five-three. He’s running unopposed in the 9th. Integration Generation. Bradley and Lindsay hobnobbed with William Byron Rumford. He’s an Oakland pharmacist. He authored the Fair Housing Act.
My head swirled. The Dexies merged with the A-bomb drink and rerouted my bloodstream. I scoped the bandstand. Mixed-race Playboy Bunnies did the twist and the wah watusi. Their Bunny ears flip-flopped. Off to stage left: Playboy poseur Hugh Hefner and sleazoid Tommy Tucker. Hef and Tommy sniffed cocaine and went aaaaaaah, that’s gooooooood.
The Bunnies Watusi’d offstage. Harry Belafonte lugged two stand-up microphones on. The crowd whistled and stomped. Belafonte launched his trademark “Banana Boat Song.” The crowd cheered. A white woman braced the second mike. She cut loose and out-piped Mr. Calypso.
She was young, dark-haired, good-looking. She wore a khaki Girl Scout uniform. A merit-badge sash was cinched across her chest. She magnetized me. She was over six feet tall. She popped pills straight from a pharmacy vial and swigged Metaxa straight from the bottle. I was zonked. My booze-and-dope load enhanced her pizzazz. She nullified Harry Belafonte. Fuck him—he’s got weak pipes.
The “Banana Boat Song” crescendoed and went pffft. I blinked. Belafonte and the woman bopped offstage. Reynaldo Rey bopped on.
He’s a jazz club comic. He opens for Dizzy Gillespie and Reggie Farrington. He does anti-fuzz/anti-honky schtick and insults un-hip Negroes and self-flagellant white squares. Bam—he went straight into his “I Wuz Framed” routine.
He grabbed the left-behind mike stands. He let out a banshee howl and cut loose.
“The Man planted that motherfuckin’ dope on me!”
Call and response. The audience yelled the punchline: “I Wuz Framed!”
Rey spritzed his second chorus. He brought his voice two octaves up.
“The DA laid this stat rape beef on me. I ain’t that jailbait child’s daddy! Her mama’s more than thirteen!”
The crowd yelled, “I Wuz Framed!”
Rey cranked Chorus #3. He verged on male-soprano range.
“Nixon aims to cut my welfare check. He’s a motherfuckin’ tool of the Klan!”
The audience yelled, “I Wuz Framed!”
Rey bayed falsetto. Mike reverb assailed me. A baby spotlight strafed my face. I covered my eyes and dimmed down the glare. A waitress caught the edge of the beam.
She stumbled into Daryl Gates. She spilled two nuke-bomb cocktails on his suit coat. Rey pointed and yelled straight at me.
“Hey, Freddy O. Dope any racehorses lately? You still a dirty trickster for Chief Whiskey Bill Parker?”
The audience stomped and cheered. Gates pulled out a handkerchief and swabbed off his suit coat. I stepped out of the spotlight. Gates said, “We can’t have this. Take care of it.”
I pushed into the crowd. Partygoers shrieked. I stiff-armed them aside. They retaliated and drink-drenched me. Loudspeakers kicked on and kicked off “We Shall Overcome.” College kids did that pumped-fist thing. I pulled my belt sap and arced shots at them. It cleared a path. Party punks hit the floor. I kicked my way through them and hopped up on the stage.
Reynaldo Rey stood his ground by the mike stands. He assumed some candy-ass judo stance and bounced on the balls of his feet. I plowed straight into him. He went down. I kicked him in the balls and dragged him offstage.
He squirmed. I grabbed his wrists and dragged him. He bitch-squealed. I clamped his wrists and bounced his head off the stage-right steps. The side alley door stood open. I got him outside and pulled him up to the La Cienega sidewalk. He bleated loud.
The Hats and my men stood by the curb. The Hats traded pops off a flask and tried to look nonchalant. Phil, Nat, and Kareem rolled dice against the building. I dragged Rey up to them. They stirred and pounced.
Harry Crowder pulled his cuffs and ratchet-clamped Rey. Max Herman and Red Stromwall tossed him in the backseat of their F-car. Eddie Benson planted a bag of weed in Rey’s right pants pocket.
Daryl Gates pushed out the front door. He reeked of spilled booze, I reeked of tossed booze, the Hats piled into their F-car and U-turned due north. They weaved through thick traffic. They fender-bendered a ’55 Olds. The West Hollywood Sheriff ’s Station was three minutes off.
Ole Miss, Ole Miss, Ole Miss. It echoed all the way out on the sidewalk.
I went whew and lit a cigarette. I flashed on the tall Girl Scout with the big voice. Gates went whew and hanky-daubed his coat.
Two sawed-off punks walked up to the club. Dos pachucos, for sure. Dig their Sir Guy shirts and slit-bottom khakis. One punk tittered. One punk said, “Costume party.” They pulled on Father Coughlin masks and went through the door. They vibed WRONG. I followed them in.
Bombed-out revelry reigned. Sweat and cigarette smoke circulated a stench. College boys pawed drink girls. The Reggie Farrington Trio gigged onstage. I tracked the punks and lost them in the crowd.
A Sir Guy–shirt arm shot up high. I saw a windup, a pitch, a hurled object. I heard a splat through the bop noise. The stench went to stink. As in week-old sewage and cancer-ward farts. Somebody yelled, “Stink bomb!”
I heard shotgun slides rack. I saw muzzle flare and heard explosions. Revelers screamed and tried to run. The compressed body mass held them in. The integration generation sign blew up in shreds. Rack sounds and discharged rounds overlapped. A woman caught a blast in the back. She eeeked more than screeched. A roving spotlight caught blood trickles and crystal shards stuck to her skin.
Rock salt.
It wasn’t 12-gauge buckshot. This was a NO-KILL job. It was gadfly shit, malicious mischief, party crashers with Assault Two intent.
The stink went waaay bad. I lost sight of the punks. Party geeks plucked at their salt-pocked clothes and pushed toward the door. I pushed with them, I pushed hard, I made the sidewalk and clean air first. A big throng poured out behind me. Women were salt-sheared down to their undies. Men brushed shards out of their hair.
I got jostled out to the curb line. I caught a skewed glimpse of the punks. They piled into a ’56 Chevy. I saw Los scrolled above the right-rear wheel. The sled was super-juiced. It low-growled and laid tread southbound. It blew the light at Beverly and fishtailed through all four gears.
The party moved inside to outside. The waitresses served nuke-bomb drinks smack in the chaos. Stink wafted out the door. The Reggie Farrington Trio lugged their instruments.
There’s the Hats, Daryl Gates, and my guys. The Hats dumped Reynaldo Rey with the Sheriff ’s and doubled back quicksville. They popped out of the side alley and did a mass double take. Max Herman pointed skyward. Dig the craaaaazy fireworks.
It’s a red, white, and blue Richard Nixon. Note his blood-drenched fangs.
Gates walked up to me. Poof! Nixon/Drac burst into sparks. I heard gunshots. Pure handgun-kick explosions. I tracked the reverb north northeast. I gauged the distance at five or six blocks.
I looked at Gates.
Gates looked at me.
We ran for our F-car.
We made the spot in 3.5 minutes. Four Sheriff ’s prowl sleds beat us there. 800-something North Kilkea. Right off of Melrose and Crescent Heights. It’s a whitewashed Spanish job. Midsize adobe. All dark inside. The Sheriff ’s parked in the driveway and tire-trashed the front lawn. The house stood double-dark. No porch light, no lights inside.
Gates parked curbside. We got out and pulled our credential kits. A patrol sergeant flashlight-strafed us.
He walked over and read our particulars. He hitched his utility belt.
“There’s nobody home. A neighbor lady called it in. I’ve got three deputies out canvassing. A single man rents the place. He sounds like a fag type to me.”
Gates held his walkie-talkie handset. We reeked of spilled liquor. The sergeant skunk-eyed us.
He pointed down the driveway. Flashlights swooped through the backyard. I smelled loose dirt and gardening solvents. The chemical fumes torqued me. I’m an eidetiker. I employ Hans Maslick’s Man Cam–era techniques. I see, I hear, I smell, I imprint. The fumes hit me borderline familiar. I see, hear, or smell something once and never forget it.
The sergeant said, “There’s some kicky shit back there. My deputies are all goggle-eyed.”
We walked back. The yard was off to the left. Forensic arc lights bright-lit it. Grass strips were piled by the garage door. The yard was dirt-floored now. Four deputies stared at a big, wide hole in the ground.
The hole was dug square. Sound baffling was laid in flush against the walls. A sign was staked at the left perimeter: “Joe Shell Bomb Shelters/Shelter With Shell.”
I looked at Gates. Gates looked at me. He lip-synced holy fuck.
Shell: Noted politico. California State Assembly cheese. He lost the Republican primary to Dick Nixon. He’s a rich oilman and purported right-wing nut. He’s tied to the Minutemen and John Birch Society. Nixon trashed his ass. Pat Brown’s trashing Nixon’s ass right now.
There’s all that. Then there’s this:
A Richard Nixon dummy at the bottom of the hole. He’s face up. His head is shiny plastic. He’s laughing and sticking out his tongue. The dummy sports a Nazi SS tunic and jodhpurs. He’s dirt-smeared, head to toe. His lightning-bolt insignia and Iron Cross still gleam. His swastika armband shines bright.
I stared in the hole. I crossed myself. The deputies jabbered and cracked stupid jokes. Gates’s handset crackled. He stepped away from the hole and held the handset up to his head.
He listened and went yeah, yeah, and uh-huh. He rogered out the call and motioned me over. The doofus deputies eyeballed him. I walked up.
Gates said, “Officer down, presumed nonfatal. University Division took the squeal, and the Chief wants us there. It’s off of Jefferson and New Hampshire, right by all those USC frat pads. A 77th Street patrolman heard the call and realized he was close. He walked into a 459 in progress. We’ve got two suspects. They shot him and escaped.”
The Salt-and-Pepper bandits. The odds veered to them. One white man, one Negro man. Mixed-race burglars are rare turds. They work heeled. I’d read all the bulletins. They’ve pulled three other jobs so far.
Copyright © 2026 by James Ellroy. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
