Shakedown: Freddy Otash Confesses

1

Nate & Al’s Deli

Beverly Hills

8/12/92

“I was working Central Vice in ’51. We got word on a nigger whorehouse operating out of a pad at the Villa Elaine. I hotfooted it over there.”

My booth at the deli. My audience: four showbiz hebes in worse shape than me. Walkers, canes, and oxygen tanks clogging the aisles to the kitchen. Fractious Freddy O., holding court.

It’s summer ’92. I’m 70 and in bad fucking shape. I’ve consumed a fifth of Scotch and three packs a day since kindergarten. I’ve got emphysema and a bum pump. I’m counting on my native panache to get me to 80. I know it’s a lunar-looped long shot.

Sol Sidell said, “Get to it, Freddy. You roll to the pad and then what?”

Sinful Sol: a jailbaiter from jump street. He produced beach-blanket flicks in the ’60s. I pulled him out of the shit in ’57. He was smoking Mary Jane and poking two underage twists.

I said, “Okay, I roll to the crib and peep a side window. Shit — there’s Sam Spiegel, the cat that produced Lawrence of Arabia and The Bridge on the River Kwai. He’s muff-diving a black chick on the rag. That was a boss beef, back in ’51. I told Sambo that it’s dues time. A morals bust or a monthly donation to the Fred Otash Retirement Fund.”

My pals yuk-yukked. I took a big bite of my Rueben sandwich and felt a twinge in my chest. I chased a Digitalis tablet with coffee and watched Jules Slotnick suck on his oxygen mask. Julie produced socially conscious turkeys about wetback farmworkers and oppressed schvartzes. It was pure atonement. He made all his live-in maids blow him. He held their green cards as a hedge against their refusal to bestow daily head.

Sid Resnick said, “Give us another one, Freddy.”

The Sidster was Mr. Holocaust Heartache. He produced schlock-umentaries for the B’nai B’rith. Soulman Sid: A chubby chaser/shine shtupper combo. Currently captivated by a Congo cutie weighing 285.

I plumbed my brain stash for a tale my pals hadn’t heard. Two elderly fruits sashayed by the booth and evil-eyed me. That gave me my cue.

I pointed to them. “I got tipped to an all-male pajama party in ’56. I paid some LAPD hard boys a yard apiece to bust it and brought my camera along. Those cats were piled up in a five-way with Rock Hudson, Sal Mineo, and a dude with giant acne cysts. Confidential wrote it up. Universal paid me ten G’s to keep the Rockster’s name out of the story.”

The whole booth roared. Julie Slotnick gasped for breath and oxygenized. Al Wexler yukked out a bagel chunk and said, “Tell us your motto again, Freddy. Man, it’s a gasser.”

Alky Al owned six porno bookstores, fourteen fag bars, and a nose-job clinic. He plowed a truck full of migrant Mexican workers and left six dead. I got it mashed down to a Mickey Mouse misdemeanor. Al owed me.

I killed my sandwich. Here it is, Freddy O.’s credo, intoned like the Gettysburg Address:

“I’ll work for anyone but Communists. I’ll do anything short of murder.”

Boffo: My boys clapped and guffawed. Heads turned one booth over. An older guy flashed an LAPD retirement badge. I made him: Lieutenant Mike Matthews, a pious aide to my old foe, Chief William H. Parker, a.k.a. Whiskey Bill.

He stepped out of the booth. He said, “Freddy shot an unarmed man in cold blood. Has he told you that one?”

The cocksucker nailed me.

The cocksucker winked at my pals and ambled out to the street.

Sol said, “Come on, Freddy.”

Julie said, “Give, boychik.”

Sid said, “Give it up, living legend. Don’t be a CT.”

Al said, “You’ve been holding back, Freddy. You know that’s not nice.”

Another twinge hit my heart. I dipped a fistful of French fries in gravy and snarfed them. I popped another Digitalis and stared down my pals. Woooooo — that Fred Otash don’t-fuck-with-me glare.

They twitched, flinched, and looked down. I waited a moment and let their submission simmer. I said, “I’m meeting a cat named James Ellroy here in half an hour. He wrote some shitty novels, and he wants to turn my life story into a TV show. If his money’s green, I’ll play along. I’ve requested my Freedom of Information Act file from the feds. It’s full of good dirt the putz will cream for.”

Sol looked up first. “It’s 1992. The ’50s are stale bread.”

Al looked up next. “The ’50s are a drug on the market. You can’t sell that shit to anyone but white stiffs in Des Moines.”

Sid looked up third. “Your story’s too ugly. It’s the Age of Aquarius, bubi. The wetback dishwashers are unionized, and the fruits want their rights. I predict a jig president one day. The only way Ellroy’s story will fly is to indict your evil, camel-fucker ass.”

Julie said, “Fuck your life story. How about a show about a movie producer who extorts blow jobs on a daily basis? It’s got pizzazz and social significance. You call it Head Man and run it on one of those cable channels that feature immoral content.”

I laffed. It built into howls and roars. I felt my corned beef and sauerkraut on the rise. I got floaty. I popped a bread crust out on my plate. Fuck — this again.

The booth tumbled. My pals vaporized. My vision went black. Ruffling calendar pages flew backwards. Decades disappeared and devolved. Please stop somewhere — I don’t know if I’m dead or in a dream—

Robbery Division Squad Room

LAPD Detective Bureau

6th Floor, City Hall

2/4/49

There I am. I’m primping in front of a hallway mirror in full uniform. Fred Otash at 27: beefcake, boss, and bangin’ them bonaroo bitches.

I exemplify greasy good looks. I’m full-blooded Lebanese — a camel cad from the get-go. I was a Marine Corps DI during the Big War. I joined the LAPD in late ’45. I went on the grift faaaaaast. I put together an ex-jarhead burglary ring. My downtown footbeat provided me with a road map of exploitable biz fronts. My gang hit pawnshops that fenced contraband, pharmacies that pushed narcotics, bookie joints behind storefront churches. I fingered the jobs. My gang clouted cash and merchandise. They were 2 a.m. creepers. I knew when the graveyard-shift prowl cars were elsewhere and passed the word along.

I’ve always been corruptible and tempted by the take. I don’t know where it came from. I had a squaresville home life in Bumfuck, Massachusetts. My mom and dad loved me. Nobody buttfucked me in my crib. The tree limb bent early in my case. I’ve got a sketchy semblance of a code. There’s shit I’ll do, there’s shit I won’t do. The line wavered on that cold day back in ’49.

I combed my hair and adjusted my necktie. The squad room buzzed heavy all around me. A shootout just went down at 9th and Figueroa. A traffic cop traded shots with a heist man. The cop was hit baaaaad and was not expected to live. The heist man was grazed and was expected to live. Both men were at Georgia Street Receiving right now.

The squad room buzzed. The squad-room phones rang incessant. I thought about the business cards I carried and handed out to women. They were understated and oozed high class. My name and phone number were printed in the middle. Right below: “Mr. Nine Inches.”

I heard heavy footsteps. I got bombed by booze breath.

“If you’re through looking at yourself, I’ve got something.”

I turned around. It was a Robbery bull named Harry Fremont. Harry had a vivid rep. He allegedly stomped two pachucos to death during the Zoot Suit Riots. He allegedly pimped transvestite whores out of a he-she bar. He was non-allegedly shitfaced drunk at noon.

“Yeah, Harry?”

“Be useful, kid. There’s a cop killer at Georgia Street. Chief Horrall thinks you should take care of it.”

I said, “Take care of what? The cop isn’t dead.”

Harry dropped a key fob in my hand. “4-A-32. It’s in the watch commander’s space. Look under the backseat.”

I steadied myself on the wall and lurched back to the bullpen. I zombie-walked downstairs. I couldn’t feel my feet find the pavement. I swear this is true.

A K-car was parked in that space. The key fit the ignition. I couldn’t feel my hands on the steering wheel. The garage was dark. Overhead pipes leaked. Water drops turned into sharp-toothed goblins.

I recall pulling out onto Spring Street. I recall driving slow. I might have prayed for nothing to be under the backseat.

The heist man was being held in the jail ward. He had to be fit for a transfer to the city lockup soon. It was 43 years ago. It’s still etched in Sin-emascope and Surround Sound. I can still see the faces of passersby on the street.

There — Georgia Street Receiving.

The jail ward was on the north side. The ward for square-john folks was to the south. A narrow pathway separated the buildings. It hit me then:

They know you’ll do it. They’ve sized you up as that kind of guy.

I reached under the backseat. Right there: transfer papers for one Ralph Mitchell Horvath and a .32 snub-nose.

I put the gun in my front pocket and grabbed the papers. I walked down the pathway and went through the jail-ward door. The deskman was LAPD. His eyes drifted to a punk handcuffed to a drainpipe. The punk wore a loafer jacket and slit-bottomed khakis. One arm was bandaged. His lips were covered with chancre sores. He looked insolent.

The deskman did the knife-across-throat thing on the QT. 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.

I felt my heart pump blood on overdrive and wondered why I couldn’t feel my own limbs.

No windows on the north and south buildings. No pedestrians on Georgia Street.

No witnesses.

I pulled the gun from my pocket and fired over my own head. The gun kicked and lashed life back into my arms. The noise pounded a pulse to my legs.

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 as he fell. I placed the throw-down piece in his right hand.

He was trying to say “Please.” That’s what always gets me — every time I have this dream.

The cop lived. He’d sustained a through-and-through wound. He was back on duty in a week.

Vicious vengeance. Wrathfully wrong in retrospect. A crack in the crypt of my soul.

Harry Fremont passed the word: The Otash kid is kosher. Chief C. B. Horrall sent me a bottle of Old Crow. The grand jury sacked him a few months later. He was jungled up in a call-girl racket and much more. An interim chief was brought in.

Reform boded. I knew that. I didn’t know that future chief Bill Parker had a target pinned to my chest.

Ralph Mitchell Horvath: 1918–1949.

Ralphie: car thief, stickup man, weenie wagger. Hooked on yellow jackets and muscatel.

He left a widow. I started sending her a C-note a month, anonymously.

Calendar pages started ruffling. It’s where my dreams always get scary. They might go backwards and bypass my birth. They might go forward and announce my death. I’m fucked both ways. I’m no longer the freewheeling Fred O.

There’s a familiar thudding noise. It sounds like magazines slapping the pavement. We’re still in ’49. It can’t be Confidential — the rag didn’t hit the stands until ’53.

There’s that kid. There’s that wagon. He’s a newsboy. He’s off-loading magazines.

My eyelids rolled back. Time recalibrated. 43 years went poof! The thuds were a tall guy hitting the table. He wore a loud Hawaiian shirt and wheat jeans. He vibed GEEK.

He snarfed the remains of my Reuben sandwich. He said, “Mr. Otash, I’m James Ellroy.” The vibe solidified. Add “opportunist” to the cocksucker’s résumé.

I told him to sit down. He did it. I looked out to the street. My pals were hassling with their oxygen tanks and walkers. The sight spooked me. I reflex-popped a Digitalis and two Valium.

Ellroy slurped Julie Slotnick’s coffee. “It’s a pleasure, sir.”

I said, “Run it all by me again. Don’t be surprised when I mention money.”

Ellroy whipped out a checkbook and pen. “I’m calling the show Shakedown. It’s your life, times, and moral journey. You were a sack of shit. I’m a zealous Lutheran out to indict your sleazy misconduct and place it within the larger context of scandal-rag journalism and America in the ’50s. Moreover, the actor who portrays you will have scalding-hot love scenes with the greatest actresses of this era.”

I tapped the checkbook. “I fucked Jackie Kennedy in ’53. She was engaged to Jack then. She said I was the biggest and the best.”

Ellroy said, “I fucked Jackie Kennedy in ’54. I was six years old. She said I was bigger and better than you.”

I laffed, I roared, I howled. My gut bounced and banged the table. Ellroy wrote a check and dropped it on my plate. Ten G’s — va-va-va-voom!

He said, “I want to see your FBI file.”

I caught my breath. “It’s on the way.”

“I want to see the diaries that you’ve kept since the late ’40s.”

I went hot-hot and cold-cold. Freon Freddy, Frigid Freddy — make it sound good.

“It’s a fucking myth, kid. I was never much good at writing shit down.”

Ellroy shook his head. “Nix, boss. I spent some time with Harry Fremont the week before he died. He told me you whacked a hood named Ralph Mitchell Horvath in ’49 and started writing the diary then. He said that you wrote it on bookies’ flash paper, in case you had to burn it quick.”

I palpitated and palsied. Old age fucks with your ability to lie.

“Like I said, kid. The diaries don’t exist.”

Ellroy fondled his checkbook. “I’ll let it slide for now. And I’ll come up green if you ever want to reconsider.”

The Valium hit more — I started to go loosey-goosey.

“I want something written into my contract.”

“Tell me.”

“I want a boss guy to play me. Think of Clark Gable crossed with porno cat John Holmes.”

Ellroy yukked. We shook hands. I pocketed the check and signaled Abe Rosen at the counter.

It’s our regular deal. I grease Abe with double sawbucks. I get faux-paged for calls from big machers.

Abe hit the intercom. “Mr. Otash! President Bush is on the line!”

Memory Lane. It’s the destination for old guys.

Ellroy’s check cleared. I holed up at my pad through Labor Day. My diaries were packed in flame-retardant boxes. They were stashed with some piquant porno pics. Ellroy was back in Connecticut. We talked most nights. I went through my scrapbooks and dished the dirt on my loved ones, lewd ones, and lost ones.

The old photos had my gears going. I’m there with Frank, Dino, and Sammy. I broke legs for them. Why do they seem to be cringing at my touch? There’s pics of my bed at my old Sunset Strip penthouse. I called it the “Landing Strip.” The name derived from my three-ways with stewardesses, starlets, and stars. Liz Taylor and I swung with a stew named “Barb” on many groin-grabbing occasions. There’s pics of my true love, Joi Lansing. We had some goooooooooooood years together. She treated me gooooooooood. I treated her gooooooooood until I treated her baaaaaaaaad. I don’t know why I flip-flopped. My diaries describe that meshuggener metaphysic.

There’s my dictionary and thesaurus. They were teaching tools for the writers at Confidential. Utilize alliteration and inventive slurs. Homos are “licentious lispers.” Dykes are “beefcake butches.” Drunks are “bibulous bottle hounds” and “dyspeptic dipsos.” Vulgarize and vitalize and crazily create a popular parlance. Make it sinfully siiiiiing.

Ellroy’s noxious novels — stamped with my style. Ellroy’s pious putz personality — an odious one to me.

My pals came over on Labor Day. We grilled burgers and hot dogs and killed three quarts of Jim Beam. They left at 2 a.m. A male nurse corps wheeled them down to their limos. The process took half an hour. It was akin to the Berlin Airlift. Walkers crashed, oxygen tanks toppled and rolled. It was fucking hard to endure.

I settled in to watch a Dragnet rerun. I bought the judge in four of Jack Webb’s drunk-driving beefs. I shtupped Jack’s ex-wife, soaring songstress Julie London.

A dozen Famous Amos cookies comprised my late-night snack. I’d seen the episode before. Sergeant Joe Friday busts a hippie punk on a snootful of LSD. I missed Jack. We had some yuks together. He kicked off back in—

A sledgehammer hit my heart. A steel croquet mallet followed. A monster loomed in front of me. He’s Johnnie Ray, he’s Monty Clift, he’s politicians pounded and movie stars mauled — a kaleidoscope of condemnation.

They railed at me. J’accuse, j’accuse, j’accuse!!!!! They hurled ingots at my chest. I gasped. My left arm exploded. I hit the medical-emergency button on my phone.

Then some pinpoint fades to black. Then my pad turns topsy-turvy. Then a big crash and my door shattered like my left arm. Then the mask on my mouth and a fraction of my sight back. Then the gurney, the white-coat men, and the swoop aloft.

One coat guy looked like James Ellroy — but I knew it couldn’t be. An image came to me. It was bright, vivid, old. I saw a little red wagon. I saw words on a strip of red paint. Everything started to fade then. The white-coat man morphed into Ellroy. I still knew it couldn’t be.

Ellroy said, “Hey, Freddy. What’s shaking?”

My breath rasped. I knew I only had two words left.

I said, “Red Ryder.”