L. A. Confidential

James Ellroy

L. A. Confidential

The third book in the L.A. Quartet series, 1990

TO MARY DOHERTY ELLROY

A glory that costs everything and means nothing

Steve Erickson

PROLOGUE

February 21, 1950

An abandoned auto court in the San Berdoo foothills; Buzz Meeks checked in with ninetyfour thousand dollars, eighteen pounds of high-grade heroin, a 10-gauge pump, a.38 special, a.45 automatic and a switchblade he'd bought off a pachuco at the border-right before he spotted the car parked across the line: Mickey Cohen goons in an LAPD unmarked, Tijuana cops standing by to bootjack a piece of his goodies, dump his body in the San Ysidro River.

He'd been ru

Meeks ditched his car in a pine grove, hauled his suitcase out, scoped the set-up:

The motel was horseshoe-shaped, a dozen rooms, foothills against the back of them-no rear approach possible.

The courtyard was loose gravel covered with twigs, paper debris, empty wine bottles-footsteps would crunch, tires would crack wood and glass.

There was only one access-the road he drove in on-reco

Or they could be waiting in one of the rooms.

Meeks grabbed the 10-gauge, started kicking in doors. One, two, three, four-cobwebs, rats, bathrooms with plugged-up toilets, rotted food, magazines in Spanish-the ru

A cheesecake calendar tacked to the wall; Meeks turned to April and looked for his birthday. A Thursday-the model had bad teeth, looked good anyway, made him think of Audrey: ex-stripper, ex-Mickey inamorata; the reason he killed a cop, took down the Cohen/Dragna "H" deal. He flipped through to December, cut odds on whether he'd survive the year and got scared: gut flutters, a vein on his forehead going tap, tap, tap, making him sweat.

It got worse-the heebie-jeebies. Meeks laid his arsenal on a window ledge, stuffed his pockets with ammo: shells for the.38, spare clips for the automatic. He tucked the switchblade into his belt, covered the back window with the mattress, cracked the front window for air. A breeze cooled his sweat; he looked out at spic kids chucking a baseball.

He stuck there. Wetbacks congregated outside: pointing at the sun like they were telling time by it, hot for the truck to arrive-stoop labor for three hots and a cot. Dusk came on; the beaners started jabbering; Meeks saw two white men-one fat, one ski

The men waved: big smiles, no harm meant. Meeks checked the road-a green sedan parked crossways, blocking something light blue, too shiny to be sky through fir trees. He caught light off a metallic paint job, snapped: Bakersfield, the meet with the guys who needed time to get the money. «The robin's-egg coupe that tried to broadside him a minute later».

Meeks smiled: friendly guy, no harm meant. A finger on the trigger; a make on the ski

Meeks swung the shotgun around, triggered a spread. Fat Man caught buckshot and flew, covering Lunceford-knocking him backward. The wetbacks tore helter-skelter; Meeks ran into the room, heard the back window breaking, yanked the mattress. Sitting ducks: two men, three triple-aught rounds close in.

The two blew up; glass and blood covered three more men inching along the wall. Meeks leaped, hit the ground, fired at three sets of legs pressed together; his free hand flailed, caught a revolver off a dead man's waistband.

Shrieks from the courtyard; ru

Thumps in the room; two rifles in grabbing range. Meeks yelled, "We got him!," heard answering whoops, saw arms and legs coming out the window. He picked up the closest piece and let fly, full automatic: trapped targets, plaster chips exploding, dry wood igniting.

Over the bodies, into the room. The front door stood open; his pistols were still on the ledge. A strange thump sounded; Meeks saw a man spread prone-aiming from behind the mattress box.

He threw himself to the floor, kicked, missed. The man got off a shot-close; Meeks grabbed his switchblade, leaped, stabbed: the neck, the face, the man screaming, shooting-wide ricochets. Meeks slit his throat, crawled over and toed the door shut, grabbed the pistols and just plain breathed.

The fire spreading: cooking up bodies, fir pines; the front door his only way out. «How many more men standing trigger?»

Shots.

From the courtyard: heavy rounds knocking out wall chunks. Meeks caught one in the leg; a shot grazed his back. He hit the floor, the shots kept coming, the door went down-he was smack in the crossfire.

No more shots.

Meeks tucked his guns under his chest, spread himself deadman style. Seconds dragged; four men walked in holding rifles. Whispers: "Dead meat"-"Let's be reeel careful"-"Crazy Okie fuck." Through the doorway, Mal Lunceford not one of them, footsteps.

Kicks in his side, hard breathing, sneers. A foot went under him. A voice said, "Fat fucker."

Meeks jerked the foot; the foot man tripped backward. Meeks spun around shooting-close range, all hits. Four men went down; Meeks got a topsy-turvy view: the courtyard, Ma! Lunceford turning tail. Then, behind him, "Hello, lad."

Dudley Smith stepped through flames, dressed in a fire department greatcoat. Meeks saw his suitcase-ninety-four grand, dope-over by the mattress. "Dud, you came prepared."

"Like the Boy Scouts, lad. And have you a valediction?"

Suicide: heisting a deal Dudley S. watchdogged. Meeks raised his guns; Smith shot first. Meeks died-thinking the El Serrano Motel looked just like the Alamo.