Also by JAMES ELLROY

  THE L.A. QUINTET

  Perfidia

  This Storm

  THE UNDERWORLD U.S.A. TRILOGY

  American Tabloid

  The Cold Six Thousand

  Blood’s A Rover

  THE L.A. QUARTET

  The Black Dahlia

  The Big Nowhere

  L.A. Confidential

  White Jazz

  MEMOIR

  My Dark Places

  The Hilliker Curse

  SHORT STORIES

  Hollywood Nocturnes

  JOURNALISM/SHORT FICTION

  Crime Wave

  Destination: Morgue!

  OTHER NOVELS

  Brown’s Requiem

  Clandestine

  Blood on the Moon

  Because the Night

  Suicide Hill

  Killer on the Road

  Widespread Panic

  THE LOSERS CLUB

  Beverly and La Cienega

  Groovy Locale of

  THE ENCHANTERS

  April 1962

  THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK

  PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

  Copyright © 2023 by James Ellroy

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto.

  aaknopf.com

  Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Ellroy, James, 1948– author.

  Title: The enchanters : a novel / James Ellroy.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Alfred A. Knopf, 2023.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2023005542 | ISBN 9780593320440 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593320457 (ebook) | ISBN 9781524712563 (open market)

  Subjects: LCGFT: Detective and mystery fiction. | Novels.

  Classification: LCC PS3555.L6274 E53 2023 | DDC 813/.54—dc23/eng/20230427

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2023005542

  Ebook ISBN 9780593320457

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover images, left to right, top to bottom: (Marilyn Monroe) Archivio GBB/Alamy; (Daryl F. Gates) George Brich/AP Images; (Patricia Kennedy Lawford) Magite Historic/Alamy; (Natasha Lytess) J. R. Eyerman/The LIFE Picture Collection/Shutterstock; (U.S. Attorney General Robert Kennedy) Glasshouse Images/Alamy; (Roddy McDowall) Getty Images; (Lois Nettleton) Getty Images; (Carole Landis) The Hollywood Archive/Alamy; (William H. Parker) Getty Images; (Fred Otash) Getty Images

  Cover design by Chip Kidd

  ep_prh_6.1_144870803_c0_r0

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by James Ellroy

  The Losers Club

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Confidential Memorandum

  Part 1: Bait Girls

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Man Camera: Recall/Imprint/Rewind—

  Part 2: Bug Job

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Part 3: Truth Juice

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Part 4: Shrink Wrap

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Part 5: Wife Swap

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Part 6: Sex Creep

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Part 7: Hop Dream

  Chapter 46

  Man Camera: Recall/Imprint/Rewind—

  Part 8: Red Lens

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Part 9: Black Bag

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Part 10: Fuck Deck

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Dramatis Personae

  Who Are the Enchanters?

  Glossary of Police and Criminal Terms, Codes, and Abbreviations

  A Note About the Author

  _144870803_

  To François Guérif

  Let me not be put to shame, Lord, for I have cried out to Thee; but let the wicked be put to shame and be silent in the realm of the dead.

  —Psalms 31:17

  CONFIDENTIAL MEMORANDUM

  From: Lt. J. T. Meadows, Jr./#294883

  Public Disorder & Intelligence Division

  Los Angeles Police Department

  To: Former Chief Daryl F. Gates

  Dana Point, California

  (by secure telefax)

  Subject: Surveillance of memorial service for Fred

  Otash & related observations on events of

  summer 1962 (as previously discussed)

  10/10/92

  Sir:

  The ceremony took place yesterday morning at Forest Lawn, Glendale. Given your recent media notoriety (and coerced early retirement), I understand your reluctance to attend in person. Given my father’s participation in the events of summer ’62—along with your own—I was honored to be both your designated surveillor and your choice to author the following brief.

  Forty-three people attended the graveside service. A Lebanese minister read a New Testament passage and cited the “colorful life of the freewheeling Freddy O.” A mourner, former Mirror-News scribe Morty Bendish, told Channel 5 News anchor Tony Valdez that he “wrote the pastor’s spiel, which Freddy himself dictated to him.” It should be noted that Mr. Bendish was a suborned LAPD informant during the events of summer 1962.

  The “spiel” was a sanitized biographical riff on the late Mr. Otash. It noted his 1945–1953 LAPD service and later “reign” as the “undisputed King of the Hollywood Private Eyes.” The “spiel” failed to acknowledge Mr. Otash as a freelance extortionist, scandal-rag dirt digger, strongarm goon, perpetrator of divorce shakedowns, doper of racehorses, informant for Chief William H. Parker, procurer and dope conduit for President John F. Kennedy, and agent provocateur for Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy, in the combined LAPD/Justice Department operation of summer ’62. The pastor concluded Mr. Bendish’s “spiel” by lauding Mr. Otash as both the “Hellhound Who Held Hollywood Captive” and “a role model for all those in the Lebanese American community.” Many mourners openly laughed at this concluding statement.

  Per the mourners themselves:

  Most were Mr. Otash’s neighbors from the Park Wellington Apartments, along with three former operatives of the long-defunct Otash Detective Bureau: Phil Irwin, “Rodent” Robbie Molette, and Nathaniel “Nasty Nat” Denkins, the longtime host of Nasty Nat’s Soul Patrol on Radio KBLK. Irwin, Molette, and Denkins were peripheral figures in the events of summer ’62, but several individuals who might be termed “major players” also attended the ceremony. They were:
<
br />   The two surviving members of the LAPD “Hat Squad,” retired sergeants Harry Crowder and Clarence “Red” Stromwall;

  Assistant U.S. Attorney Edgar Chacõn, a Justice Department investigator under Robert F. Kennedy in the summer of ’62;

  Roddy McDowall, noted TV and film actor, as well as an “underground” director of homosexual porno films;

  Recording artist/nightclub entertainer Eddie Fisher, who attended the service with former major league pitching ace Bo Belinsky. Mr. Fisher is the fourth husband of actress Elizabeth Taylor. It should be noted that Mr. Otash and Mr. Belinsky pulled a divorce shakedown on Miss Taylor in the summer of ’62;

  TV and stage actress Lois Nettleton, who attended the service with the sister of John and Robert Kennedy and the ex-wife of the late actor Peter Lawford, Patricia Kennedy Lawford. The women appeared to be close friends of long standing. They left the service in a chauffeured limousine. I tailed the limo to St. Vibiana’s church in downtown L.A. They lit altar candles, presumably for Freddy Otash, and had the limo drive them to the nearby Pacific Dining Car restaurant. I surveilled them in the cocktail lounge. They became inebriated and offered up toasts to Freddy Otash. At one point, Miss Nettleton said, “We should have loved him more.”

  In conclusion:

  I consider it unlikely that the death of Freddy Otash will serve to reignite the rumors of LAPD/Justice Department collusion that flourished and spawned much speculation thirty years ago. That unique merging of movie stars, major politicians, a corrupt Hollywood element, and a vicious criminal demimonde has largely faded from public consciousness, and most of the more celebrated and notorious participants are now dead or have vested interests in retaining their silence. Freddy Otash was the only one who knew the entire story, and now he’s dead. And I seriously doubt that he left any sort of incriminating evidence and/or narrative accounts behind. There’s also this: You were there that summer, sir. You know full well that Freddy himself was the most guilty participant in the whole mess, and thus had the most to lose by hoarding defamatory documents.

  Respectfully,

  Lt. J. T. Meadows, Jr./#294883/PDID

  1

  (LOS ANGELES, 8:23 P.M., SATURDAY, 8/4/62)

  The drop ran eighty feet. The cliff was loose dirt and no footholds. We hauled shitbird up to the edge and showed him the view.

  The Pasadena Freeway, southbound. Due north of the Chavez Ravine exit and downtown L.A. Steady traffic clocking through at 65-plus.

  Shitbird was Richard Douglas Danforth/white male American/approximate age 36. No green sheet, no wants, no warrants. He’s a bleak cat with a pachuco haircut and Sir Guy shirt.

  I held his right arm. Max Herman held his left arm. Red Stromwall jammed his head down and force-fed him the view.

  Freddy O. and the Hat Squad. We’re at it again. Bill Parker says, “Jump.” We say, “How high?” It’s a kidnap job tonight.

  Harry Crowder and Eddie Benson watchdogged Suspect #2. They stood him up by their prowl sled. They fed him the threats, the car noise, the view. He’s Morris Hershel “Buzzy” Stein/WMA/age 42. His perv sheet dates back to 1938. He’s a stat rape-o and psycho snout diver. Danforth and Stein were bought and paid for. Kidnap was a gas-chamber bounce.

  This gig was strictly rogue and ad lib. Here’s the gist:

  A B-film actress named Gwen Perloff got strongarm snatched. It was late a.m., today. She lived in a cheese-luxe building up from the Strip. Three men grabbed her on the sidewalk. They wore Fidel Castro masks. Multiple eyewits saw them. They shoved her into a double-parked vehicle and jammed south. Said vehicle might have been a ’58 Dodge or a ’56 Chevy Nomad. Miss Perloff plays second leads in horror and dance-craze flicks. She’s a 20th Century–Fox contract slave. The Strip is county turf. The L.A. Sheriff’s caught the squawk, but—

  Fox kingpin Darryl Zanuck got tipped off. Some unknown woman called him. She finked Danforth and Stein and spilled one of their two girl-stash locations. Zanuck called his tight pal, Bill Parker. Chief Bill bootjacked the kidnap job. He dispatched Freddy and the Hats to a house off 6th and Dunsmuir. We grabbed Danforth and Stein. Perloff was stashed elsewhere. Danforth and Stein refused to divulge the spot. Stein said there were three more snatch men still out there. They pulled the job, not him and Richie. Stein zipped it then. Harry and Eddie whomped him with sap gloves. Stein still kept it zipped. Ditto Danforth. That mandated the Death Threat and Freeway Drop Show.

  I held Danforth’s right arm. Max held his left arm. Red jammed his head down and force-fed him look-sees.

  Max went Where’s the girl? Red went Give it up or you fly. Harry, Eddie, and Pervdog Stein stood ten feet back from the drop.

  It was August-in-L.A. hot and humid. Max and Red sweated through their shirts and suit coats. Danforth wriggled and squirmed. He dug his feet in and thrashed. Dirt clods skittered off the cliff. The fucking drop loomed.

  I scoped Max and Red. They looked impatient. I clamped Danforth’s arm. He buckled against me. My hand went numb. My legs fluttered. Max and Red ran six-four and 240. Their legs fluttered.

  Red said, “You’re wearing us thin, Richie. We can’t keep this up all night. Tell us where the girl is, so we can walk away from here.”

  Danforth giggled and spit on Red’s shoes. He said, “I’m having fun.”

  I slid on my brass knucks and kidney-punched him. He stifled a screech and dug his feet in. I looked over the cliff. Cars zigged by—fast, with no letup.

  Max sighed. Red sighed. Max said, “Sink him, Freddy.”

  They dropped their hands. I shoved Danforth off the cliff. He treaded air for one split second. “It’s a put-up job” came out garbled. I heard him hit a car roof. I heard brakes squeal. I heard wheels thump over him. Crisscrossed headlights lit him up. A pimpmobile Caddy dragged him against a guardrail and sheared off his feet.

  2

  (LOS ANGELES, 10:09 P.M., SATURDAY, 8/4/62)

  We ran Code 3 to the Valley. Sheriff’s black-and-whites blew past us. We two-car caravanned. I rode with Max and Red. Harry and Eddie took the pole slot.

  We dumped Buzzy Stein with the DB guys at Highland Park station. Buzzy saw the drop show and finked a hostage pad in Encino. Gwen Perloff was stashed in a vacant bachelor crib off Woodman. The Fidel Castro dimwits hid her in a broom closet. Max called the lead Sheriff’s IO. He ran the command out of the West Hollywood substation.

  “Motel Mike” Bayless. Gloryhound cop and all-around nosebleed. He blew up four cholos at the Don José Motel, back in ’50. The scalps went to his head. His wife and kids called him “Motel Mike.” He named his dog Motel Mike Junior.

  Six Sheriff’s cars blew past us. The Ventura Freeway was all siren blare and hot lights. It vibed interagency grief. Bill Parker usurps a county job from Sheriff Pete Pitchess. Parker and Pitchess were film-biz suck-ups. Parker went rogue for Darryl F. Zanuck. Pitchess overplays the rescue. Old man Zanuck’s shtupping Gwen Perloff. That’s the key to this grief.