If Stephen King is the friendly uncle in my head who encourages me to write, James Ellroy is the domineering godfather I imagine never being satisfied. Urbanism and large-scale crime go together like small towns and sex offenders in public schools, so tonight's taste of city life is courtesy of the great old man himself.
Astounding lines were being crossed. "You were making deliveries for Fleur-de-Lis five years ago, right?"
"I ain't seen Lamar in years, you can't pin Lamar's shit on me!"
Ed grabbed the spare chair, brandished it. "I don't want to. Give me an answer on this, and if I like it I'll owe you a solid. It's a test and you're a test pilot, so you should do well. Who shot at Jack Vincennes outside the Hollywood drop back in '53?"
Yorkin cringed. "Me. Pierce told me to clip him. I shouldn't of done it by the drop. I fucked up and Pierce got pissed."
Patchett nailed: attempted murder on a police officer. "What did he do to you for that?"
"He tested me bad. He gave me all these bad compounds he said he had to eliminate. He made me take these bad fucking flights."
"So you hate him for it."
"Man, Pierce ain't like regular people. I hate him, but I dig him too."
Ed pushed the chair away. "Remember the Nite Owl shootings?”
"Sure, years ago. What's that got to do-"
"Never mind, and here's the important thing. You fill this in for me, I'll give you a written immunity statement and put you in protective custody until Patchett's down. Smut, Chester. You remember those orgy books Fleur-de-Lis was running years ago?"
Yorkin bobbed his head yes.
"The ink blood on the pictures, do you remember that?”
Yorkin smiled-snitching eager now. "I know that story good. Pierce is going down for real?"
"Then fuck him for all those bad flights."
-LA Confidential, James Ellroy.
