Brown's Requiem - James Ellroy [64]
Ciudad Juarez, the main drag of Ensenada, was a miniature version of L.A.’s 2nd and Broadway: giant outlet stores featuring cheap clothing, cheap radios, cheap appliances, and an incredible selection of cheap watches. I tore through the record bins, past piles of Mexi-Rock, Mexi-Disco, Mexi-Folk, Punk Rock in English, and scores of old albums by such washed-up superstars as Perry Como, Tony Bennett and Nat “King” Cole. At my third outlet store, I hit my first jackpot — a battered copy of “The Planets” by Gustav Hoist, Sir Adrian Boult conducting the BBC Philharmonic. It was a collector’s item; it said so right there on the album cover. It set me back thirty-five cents. I inquired with the English-speaking salesgirl about record shops and she gave me detailed instructions to another one four blocks away. She repeated herself several times, no doubt on the valid assumption that drunks are bad listeners.
I really did smell like a still. I would have to clean up when I got back to my room with my booty. I found the record store. It was the most profound advertisement I had ever seen toward advancing the concept of the “ugly American.” Every wall was festooned with bigger-than-life-size posters of current American rock and pop stars. The women looked vapid and challenging at the same time. They seemed to be challenging their male counterparts—equally vapid teenagers with tight pants, blow-dried hair, and pouts that looked like an incipient offer of a head job to an electronic thrill-out featuring seven amplifiers, eight biofeedback machines, thirty-seven dildos, cocaine, quaaludes, angel dust, and that porno guy with the fourteen-inch dick.
A hard rock record was playing at peak decibel. There was a strobe light flashing at two in the afternoon. I was behind the times; I thought strobe lights were out. A pretty, buxom Mexican girl wearing a T-shirt with Mick Jagger sticking his tongue out of it approached me like a long lost music lover. I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I turned around and walked back out the door, not looking back. It was too much, too soon.
I persisted in my quest and was rewarded down the street: “La Mer” and “Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun” by Debussy—Szell and the Cleveland. Also the “Petrouchka Suite” by Stravinsky—Ozawa and the Boston Symphony—and the grand prize: a boxed set of the Bartok “String Quartets” by the Guarneri Quartet. These cost me a fast three scoots. The Stravinsky was badly scratched, but the other records were in passable condition.
It was enough to begin my journey, but I wasn’t satisfied. I hit a few more bargain bazaars and came up with “Kostelanetz Plays Gershwin,” a disc of dubious merit. The only thing now missing was a stereo. I walked back to the first jumbo outlet store and for $149.63 bought a Panasonic “Zoom” Stereo System—two dinky three-inch speakers, a turntable with an automatic changer and a cheapshit, built-in amplifier. It hardly compared with my state-of-the-art system back in L.A., but it would be enough to rock my tiny fleabag room.
I hailed a taxi and loaded my merchandise in the back seat. On the way out of town I had the cabbie stop at a liquor store where I loaded up on goodies: three half-gallons of Scotch, two six-packs of ginger ale, three bags of ice and a variety of canned meats and processed cheese food. I was storing up for what might be a long process of evolution.
My musical metamorphosis didn’t happen. I listened and I drank for two solid days, fighting off anger, fear, and paranoia. I couldn’t think of the case. When I tried to, my mind shut off and I reached for a drink or turned up the volume on the stereo in fatuous hope of speeding up my thought processes. The music didn’t help at all. I didn’t like it.