James Ellroy - American Tabloid
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- Book:American Tabloid
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- Year:2011
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Acclaim for James Ellroys
American Tabloid
Thoroughly engrossing. A graphically violent, profane expression of personal and political corruption. The books prose is spare and minimalist, so hard-boiled you could bounce it off the sidewalk.
Houston Chronicle
American Tabloid should be read for the feel of the period, for its authors peculiarly brutal genius, and for the way his unique prose illuminates a brutal time.
San Francisco Sunday Examiner & Chronicle
One hellishly exciting ride.
Detroit Free Press
Ellroy sprays declarative sentences like machine-gun bullets, blasting to kingdom come all notions of justice, heroism, and simple decency.
Entertainment Weekly
A style so hard-boiled it scorches the pot.
New York magazine
Powerful. The plot runs on high-octane violence. One emerges breathless, shaken, and ready to change ones view of recent American history.
The Sunday Telegraph (London)
[A] frenetic, explosive thriller.
The Sunday Times (London)
James Ellroy
American Tabloid
James Ellroy was born in Los Angeles in 1948. His L.A. Quartet novelsThe Black Dahlia, The Big Nowhere, L.A. Confidential, and White Jazzwere international bestsellers. His novel American Tabloid was Time magazines Novel of the Year for 1995; his memoir My Dark Places was a Time Best Book of the Year and a New York Times Notable Book for 1996. He lives in Kansas City.
Also by James Ellroy
Hollywood Nocturnes
L.A. Confidential
The Big Nowhere
The Black Dahlia
Killer on the Road
Suicide Hill
Because the Night
Blood on the Moon
Clandestine
Browns Requiem
White Jazz
My Dark Places
Crime Wave
The Cold Six Thousand
FIRST VINTAGE BOOKS EDITION, APRIL 2001
Copyright 1995 by James Ellroy
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published in hardcover in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, in 1995. Subsequently published in paperback by Fawcett Columbine, an imprint of Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, in 1996 and 1997.
Vintage and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the Knopf edition as follows:
Ellroy, James, [date]
American tabloid: a novel / by James Ellroy.1st ed.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-307-79843-5
I. Title.
PS3555.L6274A8 1995
813.54dc20 94-42898
CIP
www.vintagebooks.com
v3.1
To
NAT SOBEL
America was never innocent. We popped our cherry on the boat over and looked back with no regrets. You cant ascribe our fall from grace to any single event or set of circumstances. You cant lose what you lacked at conception.
Mass-market nostalgia gets you hopped up for a past that never existed. Hagiography sanctifies shuck-and-jive politicians and reinvents their expedient gestures as moments of great moral weight. Our continuing narrative line is blurred past truth and hindsight. Only a reckless verisimilitude can set that line straight.
The real Trinity of Camelot was Look Good, Kick Ass, Get Laid. Jack Kennedy was the mythological front man for a particularly juicy slice of our history. He talked a slick line and wore a world-class haircut. He was Bill Clinton minus pervasive media scrutiny and a few rolls of flab.
Jack got whacked at the optimum moment to assure his sainthood. Lies continue to swirl around his eternal flame. Its time to dislodge his urn and cast light on a few men who attended his ascent and facilitated his fall.
They were rogue cops and shakedown artists. They were wiretappers and soldiers of fortune and faggot lounge entertainers. Had one second of their lives deviated off course, American History would not exist as we know it.
Its time to demythologize an era and build a new myth from the gutter to the stars. Its time to embrace bad men and the price they paid to secretly define their time.
Heres to them.
SHAKEDOWNS
November-December 1958
H e always shot up by TV light. Some spics waved guns. The head spic plucked bugs from his beard and fomented. Black & white footage; CBS geeks in jungle fatigues. A newsman said, Cuba, bad jujuFidel Castros rebels vs. Fulgencio Batistas standing army.
Howard Hughes found a vein and mainlined codeine. Pete watched on the slyHughes left his bedroom door ajar.
The dope hit home. Big Howard went slack-faced.
Room service carts clattered outside. Hughes wiped off his spike and flipped channels. The Howdy Doody show replaced the newsstandard Beverly Hills Hotel business.
Pete walked out to the patiopool view, a good bird-dog spot. Crappy weather today: no starlet types in bikinis.
He checked his watch, antsy.
He had a divorce gig at noonthe husband drank lunch alone and dug young cooze. Get quality flashbulbs: blurry photos looked like spiders fucking. On Hughes timecard: find out whos hawking subpoenas for the TWA antitrust divestment case and bribe them into reporting that Big Howard blasted off for Mars.
Crafty Howard put it this way: Im not going to fight this divestment, Pete. Im simply going to stay incommunicado indefinitely and force the price up until I have to sell. Im tired of TWA anyway, and Im not going to sell until I can realize at least five hundred million dollars.
Hed said it pouty: Lord Fauntleroy, aging junkie.
Ava Gardner cruised by the pool. Pete waved; Ava flipped him the bird. They went back: he got her an abortion in exchange for a weekend with Hughes. Renaissance Man Pete: pimp, dope procurer, licensed PI goon.
Hughes and him went waaay back.
June 52. L.A. County Deputy Sheriff Pete Bondurantnight watch commander at the San Dimas Substation. That one shitty night: a nigger rape-o at large, the drunk tank packed with howling juiceheads.
This wino gave him grief. I know you, tough guy. You kill innocent women and your own
He beat the man to death barefisted.
The Sheriffs hushed it up. An eyeball witness squealed to the Feds. The L.A. agent-in-charge tagged Joe Wino Joe Civil Rights Victim.
Two agents leaned on him: Kemper Boyd and Ward J. Littell. Howard Hughes saw his picture in the paper and sensed strongarm potential. Hughes got the beef quashed and offered him a job: fixer, pimp, dope conduit.
Howard married Jean Peters and installed her in a mansion by herself. Add watchdog to his duties; add the worlds greatest rent-free doghouse: the mansion next door.
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