Crime wave: reportage and fiction from the underside of L.A. by James Ellroy

Author:James Ellroy
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: , Criminals, Crime & mystery, Social Science, Los Angeles (Calif.) - Fiction, Hard-Boiled, Crime, Women Sleuths, Criminals - Fiction, Crime - Fiction, Crime & Thriller, Murder, True Crime, California, Los Angeles, Short Stories, Mystery & Detective - General, Detective and mystery stories, American, Criminals - California - Los Angeles, Fiction, Detective, Los Angeles (Calif.), Action & Adventure, Mystery & Detective, American Mystery & Suspense Fiction, Fiction - Mystery, General, Criminology
ISBN: 9780375704710
Publisher: Random House, Inc.
Published: 1999-01-25T16:00:00+00:00

We surreptitiously surveilled Teitelbaum Furs. We sat in Chris's Chrysler and sunk down to the dash. We wore distinct disguises.

I played a Shinto shaman. Dig it: a multicolored monk's robe and sharp shades to shield my eyes. Sammy posed as a pachuco in peg pants and a cheap cholo chirt.

We restlessly reconnoitered Rodeo Drive. We learned the layout. We laid lazy eyes on the fur shop and watched two lowlifes in a late-model Lincoln loop around it themselves.

They looked larcenous. They looked lizardlike. They loop-thelooped and licked their lips and surveilled every surface in sight.

They surveilled serpentlike. We surveilled them serviceably. They lizard-lunched at Lmnny's Delicatessen. We noshed knockwurst at the next table and tallied their talk for two days.

The lizards loved liver and onions. They ordered it and ooh-lala'd and went over their plans plenty loud. They conclusively confirmed Demon Dot: the heist would hatch at 6:oo P.M. -- 12/27.

We suspended our surveillance on Christmas Eve. Christlike Chris threw a party to praise the Prince of Peace.

Bogie got bombed on his peach-pit potion and peppermint schnapps. He chugalugged it and chanted Chinese chants to beat the Big C. Huxley hooked down hallucinogens. He held forth and heaped judgment on Jesus. He praised that prize prick Pontius Pilate and his "Paranoid Paradigm." It pissed off Oscar Levant. Oscar opted to ossify some "Existential Eggnog." He tossed in herbs, hash hunks, and Hungarian wine. The shit sheared Crazy Chris. He spouted aphorisms and spun around aphrodisiacal. The marines lurched from his libidinous assaults and went AWOL.

Sammy stayed stone sober and steamed over satanic Sinatra. He reissued his old indignities in insistently intimate detail and insisted that I listen. He flogged and flayed his own flesh bare. He catalogued catastrophic cruelties and cringed at his own compliance. He christened his crucifier the "Christmas Anti-Christ" and called him on Chris's phone.

Sammy crawled to the creep. He cradled the phone and crossed himself. He would have waved wolfsbane if he'd had it.

He said, "Frank says he'll meet you. You pick the time and place."

I said, "The motel by the Club Diablo. Midnight on the twentyseventh."

Sammy mumbled into the mouthpiece. I mused on my moment to meet Satan on his own torrid turf.

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