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Overview
Ninteen-fifties Hollywood! This is PURE Ellroy territory. Mystery, crime, HollyWEIRD Babylon all wrap themselves into a literary knockout fever dream that only Ellroy could dream up. If you’re looking for us, we’ll be located at a booth in Musso & Frank Grill with a scotch in one hand and Widespread Panic in the other. And when you're done here, there’s more Hollywood gone awry in The Disappearing Actby Catherine Steadman.
Fred Otash is the man in the know and the man to know in Tinseltown. He operates with two simple rules—he'll do anything but murder, and he'll never work with commies.
Fred is a corrupt L.A. cop on the skids. He executed a cop killer named Horvath and it gores him. So Captain "Whiskey" Bill Parker cans him. Now, Freddie dons an array of new hats—sleazoid private eye, shakedown artist, matchmaker for Rock Hudson, pimp for President John F. Kennedy—and, most notably—the lead tipster and head strongarm goon for Confidential magazine. Confidential presaged the idiot internet—and delivered the dirt, the dish, the insidious ink and the scurrilous skank on the feckless foibles of misanthropic movie stars, sex-soiled socialites, and putzo politicians. Freaky Freddy outs them all!
In Widespread Panic we traverse the depths of '50s L.A. and internalize the inner workings of Confidential. Dig: You'll go to Burt Lancaster's lushly appointed torture den. . . You'll gas on overhyped legend James Dean as Freddy's chief stooge. . . You'll be there for Freddy's ring-a-ding rendezvous with Liz Taylor. . . You'll be front and center as Freddy runs roughshod over the stars of the silver screen and the demimonde of the Hollywood hills.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780593414576 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Diversified Publishing |
| Publication date: | 06/29/2021 |
| Edition description: | Large Print |
| Pages: | 480 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.10(w) x 8.80(h) x 1.20(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Harry said, “Be useful, kid. There’s a cop killer at Georgia Street. Chief Horrall thinks you should take care of it. This is an opportunity you don’t want to pass up.”
I said, “Take care of what? The cop he shot isn’t dead.”
Harry rolled his eyes. He passed me a key fob. He said, “4-A-32. It’s in the watch commander’s space. Look under the backseat.”
I got it. Harry locked on my look. He went Nooowww, he gets it. He winked and waltzed away from me.
I steadied myself and stood still. I loaded up on that lynch-mob gestalt. I lurched through the squadroom and zombie-walked downstairs. I hit the garage.
I found the watch commander’s space. There’s 4-A-32. The key fits the ignition. The garage was dark. Ceiling pipes leaked. Water drops turned wiggy colors and morphed into wild shapes.
I gunned the gas and pulled out onto Spring Street. I drove sloooooow. The heist geek was jacked in the jail ward. It was a lockup-transfer ruse. It was forty-three years ago. It’s still etched in Sinemascope and surround sound. I can still see the passersby on the street.
There it is. There’s Georgia Street Receiving.
The jail ward sat on the north side. The squarejohn ward sat to the south. A narrow pathway bisected the buildings. It hit me then:
They know you’ll do it. They know you’re that kind of guy.
I reached under the backseat. I pulled out transfer papers for Ralph Mitchell Horvath. I grabbed a .32 snubnose revolver.
I put the gun in my front pocket and grabbed the papers. I slid out of the sled. I popped down the pathway and went through the jail-ward door.
The deskman was PD. He pointed to a punk cuffed to a drainpipe. The punk wore a loafer jacket and slit-bottomed khakis. He sported a left-arm splint. He was acne-addled and chancre-sored. He vibed hophead. He looked smack-back insolent.
The deskman did the knife-across-throat thing. I handed him the papers and uncuffed and recuffed the punk. The deskman said, “Bon voyage, sweetheart.”
I shoved the punk outside and pointed him up the pathway. He walked ahead of me. I couldn’t feel my feet. I couldn’t feel my legs. My heart hammered on overdrive. I lost my limbs somewhere.
There’s no telltale windows. There’s no pedestrians on Georgia Street. There’s no witnesses.
I pulled the gun from my pocket and fired over my own head. The gun kicked and lashed life back in my limbs. My pulse topped 200 rpms.
The punk wheeled around. He moved his lips. A word came out as a squeak. I pulled my service revolver and shot him in the mouth. His teeth exploded. He dropped. I placed the throwdown piece in his right hand.
He tried to say “Please.” This dream’s a routine reenactment. The details veer and vary. The “Please” always sticks. I’m alive. He’s not. That’s the baleful bottom line.
The cop lived. He sustained a through-and-through wound. He was back on duty inside a week.
Vicious vengeance. Wrathfully wrong in retrospect. A crack in the crypt of my soul. Harry Fremont passed the word. Freddy O. is kosher. Chief C. B. Horrall sent me a jug of Old Crow. The grand jury sacked him two months later. He got caught up in a call-girl racket. An interim chief was brought in.
Ralph Mitchell Horvath. 1918–1949. Car thief/stickup man/weenie wagger. Hooked on yellow jackets and muscatel.
Ralphie left a widow and two kids. I got the gust-wind guilts and shot them penance payoffs. Money orders. Once a month. Fake signatures. All anonymous. Dig—Ralphie’s dead, and I’m not.