Ellroy Was Here

JAMES ELLROY LIGHTS UP THE 60S

Ellroy had done L.A. Done it once; done it twice. Hell—he'd done it four times. Ellroy knew from no ir. Ellroy knew from cops. Ellroy knew from white powder. From no ir to white—the colors that counted. But there was another white. The Great White. The big whale of the 60s.

J.F.K. in Dallas. Brains on the seat. L.BJ. whacking off for Veet-Nam. M.L.K. whacked on the balcony. Fidel the beard. Little Bobby with his bugs. J. Edgar—that fat little cross-dresser with his schemes and weaves.

Can't dodge that whale. Got to catch that wave. Common theme? The Mob. Vegas money. Names like Rosselli. Giancana. Molls and guns and mucho white powder. Low friends in high places. Howard Hughes.

Wayne Tedrow Jr. Some name for a Vegas cop. Wayne takes the six grand up frontcold. Wayne has a job to do. Wayne can take orders. Wayne has to waste some spade in Dallas. Wayne picks the big day. Jack Ruby. Officer Tippit. Lee Harvey Oswald.

Dallas is too hot. Go south, young man. Dixie is hotter. Churches burn. Hoods are worn. Cops are bent. Tracks get covered. Fall guys are required again. Patsies too.

Vietnam is hot also. Gooks creep. Grunts kill. Grunts torture and burn. Asia has poppies. Poppies become powder. It's blowback time. The war comes home. The Mob war in Cuba came home, too.

Wayne comes home. Wayne's got poppy powder. It's five years on. Time for Little Bobby to eat it.

Ellroy stopped. Ellroy thought—who's gonna tell it? The Feds? Never. The historians? Right. This is a job for a novelist. Fade to noir.

CHRISTOPHER HITCHENS