Free Hollywood Nocturnes by James Ellroy

make on a roomful of visiting Soviet spies! Big Pete arrives on the scene, lures the spies outside with accordion music and guns them down! The movie ends with a citizenship swear-in: all the wetbacks that fought the Reds are issued green cards!
      We finished the script at 6:00 A.M.--Benzedrine blasted, exultant. Jane called her dad to say she was a movie star--Sol just offered her five hundred scoots to play Maggie Martell.
      I wondered how "Dad" would react.
      Jane cupped a whisper. "Dick, Dad wants to talk to you."
      I grabbed an extension; Jane hung up. DePugh came on the line. "I approve, Contino. But I want this Slotnick clown to up the payoff to _six_ hundred. Plus: no gratuitous cleavage during her nightclub scenes. Plus: no heavy make-out scenes with you. Plus: I say we tie the kidnapping in to the movie. I say we do it just as the movie starts shooting. I've got some Teamster guys to play the kidnappers, and I think you should audition them. Dick, this caper is tied to Janie's career now, so I want to do this right. We want a realistic abduction backed by eyewitness testimony. We want--"
      Rabid dog stage-daddy--whoa!
      "We want--"
      I said, "Dave, I'll call you," and hung up. Sol was taking his bennie-jacked pulse--at 209 when I walked over.
      "Can you stand some more excitement?"
      "Just barely. The way Jane re-wrote that love scene is gonna get us Auschwitz'd by the Legion of Decency."
      I whispered. "I'm getting kidnapped right before we start shooting. It's a put-up job with some pro muscle working back-up."
      Sol whispered. "I like it, and you can count on me to keep mum. What about Jane as your co-victim? Add cheesecake to beefcake for a _real_ publicity platter."
      "That spot's already filled."
      "Shit. Why are we whispering?"
      "Because amphetamines induce paranoia."
      The warehouse door slid open; two pachucos struck lounging poses. Slit-bottom khakis, Sir Guy shirts--bantamweight punks on the stroll.
      "Hey, Mr. Sol. You got trabajo?"
      "When we get our movie work? Hey, Mr. Sol, what you got for us?"
      Sol flipped. "I'm doing a new picture! No trabajo! No work! Get your green cards and you can play robots in _Border Patrol!_ Amscray! Get out of here, I'm having a heart attack!"
      The punks split with middle finger farewells; Sol broke out the saltines, took his pulse and noshed simultaneously. My fair co-star: dozing in a Border Patrol car.
      I walked outside for some air. _Heralds_ in a curbside newsrack-- "New Whipcord Slayings!" on page one. Photos of the dead couple--the woman looked oddly like Chris Staples.
      My bennie jag was wearing down--I stifled a yawn. A carload of pachucos cruised by; one vato eyeballed me mean. I walked back in to give the script a last look.
      Sol had a saltine Dagwood going: peanut butter, lox spread, sardines. Jane was sCoping her chipped tooth in a compact. I said, "Get your dad to set you up with a good dentist."
      "No. I've decided it will be my trademark. Dick, we were so close when that car hit us. We were so close that you couldn't have refused me."
      Sol sprayed cracker crumbs. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
      Noise: front door scrapes, a bottle breaking. Then KAAAWHOOOOOOSH--fire eating sewing machines, garment racks, air.
      Rushing at us, oxygen fed--
      Sol grabbed his Cheez Whiz and ran. Jane's knees went; I picked her up and stumbled toward the back exit. Big time heat behind us--I caught an over-the-shoulder glimpse of mannequins sizzling.
      Sol hit the exit door--cool air, sunshine. Jane moaned in my arms and actually smiled. I risked a look back--flames torched the Border Patrol cars.
      BOOM--an air clap hit me. Jane and I went topsy-turvy airborne.

      *   *   *

              A dim voice:
      ". . . yeah, and we held it back from the press. Right. . . we had an eyeball witness on the last Whipcord snuffs. No, he only saw the killer's vehicle. No license numbers, but the guy got