My Dark Places - James Ellroy [63]
I had twenty days of this coming. An inner voice hipped me to the basic gestalt.
You are big—but not tough. You commit crimes—but are not a real criminal. Watch how you act. Watch what you say. Be careful, be calm and hold your breath for twenty days.
I fed myself that message instinctively. I did not verbalize the thought. I didn’t know that my mere presence shouted: fool, chump, geek, ineffectual kid.
I kept my mouth shut. I programmed myself to be stoic. I tried not to betray my fear overtly. My fellow inmates laughed at the plain sight of me.
Most of them were felons awaiting trial in Superior Court. They understood and disdained male weakness.
They laughed at my twitchy walk and shortened my two names to the hated “Leroy.” They called me “the Nutty Professor.” They never put their hands on me. They considered me beneath that kind of contempt.
Lloyd visited me. He said he called my aunt and told her I was in jail. My insurance money was running out. The old girl was set to advance me 200 scoots anyway. Lloyd knew a flop I could get for 80 a month—the Versailles Apartments on 6th and St. Andrews.
I counted off my 20 days. A probation officer came to see me. He said Judge Waters was set to release me. I would get a suspended sentence and three years’ formal probation. I would have to get a job.
I said I’d look for work pronto. I promised that I’d walk the straight and narrow.
I kept my mouth shut on the tier—and listened. I learned that Romilar-CF cough syrup gave you a righteous high and that strips of tape along window panes denoted alarm systems. The guy at Cooper’s Donuts knew all the hot black hookers. You could score dope at three Norm’s Coffee Shops. The place at Melrose and La Cienega was called Fag Norm’s. The place at Sunset and Vermont was called Normal Norm’s. The place on the south side was called Nigger Norm’s.
Marijuana grew wild in certain parts of Trancas Canyon. Ma Duncan’s son was now a hot criminal lawyer. Doc Finch was up for parole soon. Carole Tregoff turned lez in the joint. Caryl Chessman was a punk—all the guys at Quentin hated him. That Susan Hayward flick I Want to Live was bullshit. Barbara Graham really did beat Mabel Monahan to death.
I listened and learned. I read a beat-up copy of Atlas Shrugged and came to the unsound conclusion that I was a superman. I stayed booze- and dope-free and added ten pounds of jail-food muscle.
Mary Waters released me two days before Christmas. I boosted some inhalers on my way back to Burns Park.
I got a one-room pad at the Versailles and signed up with a temp agency. They sent me out on some mailroom jobs. My probation officer found my work life satisfactory. He liked my short hair and Ivy League threads. He told me to avoid hippies. They were all strung out on mind-altering substances.
So was I.
I worked my temp gigs Monday to Friday. I killed a half-pint of scotch for breakfast and chased it with Listerine mouthwash. Cruise control got me through to lunch and some wine and/or weed. I got drunk every night and took inhaler trips on the weekends.
Romilar was a good B&E drug. It made common things seem surreal and full of hidden truth. I went on a righteous burglary run behind it. I hit Kathy’s house, Kay’s house and Missy’s house—and concentrated on the medicine chests. I popped every inviting pill I saw on top of my cough syrup. I blacked out and woke up on my bed two times out of three.
I liked appearing clean-cut and cosmetically wholesome. Every freak in ’69 L.A. was a fuzz magnet. They wore long hair and fruitcake clothes and sent out “Bust Me” vibes. I didn’t. I bopped around in my co-existing worlds with relative impunity. I was good at giving people what they wanted to see.
I turned 21 in March. I gave up my pad and moved to a cheap hotel in Hollywood. I got a long-term temp job at KCOP-TV
I worked in the mailroom. People responded to ads for shit like