Hollywood Nocturnes by James Ellroy Page B

trigger--I decided to give the Alamo a thorough crawling.
      Armed with my flashlight and two pieces, I cut diagonally across vacant lots toward my target's back yard. In the far distance I could see fireworks lighting up the sky, but down here no one seemed to be celebrating--their war of just plain living was still dragging on. When I got to the Alamo's yard wall, I took it at a run and kneed and elbowed my way over the top, coming down onto soft grass.
      The back of the house was dark and quiet, so I risked flashing my light. Seeing a service porch fronted by a flimsy wooden door, I tiptoed over and tried it--and found it unlocked.
      I walked in flashlight first, my beam picking up dusty walls and floors, discarded lounge chairs, and a broom-closet door standing half open. Opening it all the way, I saw army officers' uniforms on hangers, replete with campaign ribbons and embroidered insignias.
      Shouted voices jerked my attention toward the house proper. Straining my ears, I discerned both white- and negro-accented insults being hurled. There was a connecting door in front of me, with darkness beyond it. The shouting had to be issuing from a front room, so I nudged the door open a crack, then squatted down to listen as best I could.
      ". . . and I'm just tellin' you we gots to find a place and get us off the streets," a negro voice was yelling, "cause even if we splits up, colored with colored and the whites with the whites, there is still gonna be roadblocks!"
      A babble rose in response, then a shrill whistle silenced it, and a white voice dominated: "We'll be stopping the train way out in the country. Farmland. We'll destroy the signaling gear, and if the passengers take off looking for help, the nearest farmhouse is ten fucking miles away--and those dogf aces are gonna be on foot."
      A black voice tittered, "They gonna be mad, them soldiers."
      Another black voice: "They gonna fought the whole fucking war for free."
      Laughter, then a powerful negro baritone took over: "Enough clowning around, this is money we're talking about and nothing else!"
      "Cepting revenge, mister union big shot. Don't you forget I got me other business on that train."
      I knew that voice by heart--it had voodoo-cursed my soul in court. I was on my way out the back for reinforcements when my legs went out from under me and I fell head first into darkness.

      *   *   *

              The darkness was soft and rippling, and I felt like I was swimming in a velvet ocean. Angry shouts reverberated far away, but I knew they were harmless; they were coming from another planet. Every so often I felt little stabs in my arms and saw pinpoints of light that made the voices louder, but then everything would go even softer, the velvet waves caressing me, smothering all my hurt.
      Until the velvet turned to ice and the friendly little stabs became wrenching thuds up and down my back. I tried to draw myself into a ball, but an angry voice from this planet wouldn't let me. "Wake up, shitbird! We ain't wastin' no more pharmacy morph on you! Wake up! Wake up, goddamnit!"
      Dimly I remembered that I was a police officer and went for the .38 on my hip. My arms and hands wouldn't move, and when I tried to lurch my whole body, I knew they were tied to my sides and that the thuds were kicks to my legs and rib cage. Trying to move away, I felt head-to-toe muscle cramps and opened my eyes. Walls and a ceiling came into hazy focus, and it all came back. I screamed something that was drowned out by laughter, and the Lizard Man's face hovered only inches above mine. "Lee Blanchard," he said, waving my badge and ID holder in front of my eyes. "You got sucker-punched again, shitbird. I saw Jimmy Bivins put you down at the Legion. Left hook outta nowhere, and you hit your knees, then worthless-shine muscle puts you down on your face. I got no respect for a man who gets sucker-punched by niggers."
      At "niggers" I heard a gasp and twisted