This Storm

by James Ellroy

Annie said, “Come on, baby. Let’s get back to Mr. Welles.” Old Saul sighed. “All right, Comrade Welles. He’s going out on one of FDR’s diplomatic missions, to Latin America, so that he can shtup Dolores del Rio and espouse the Red cause with all the gifted-dilettante fervor he’s capable of, which is considerable. He’s been my analysand dating back to his radio days, and his best work isn’t Citizen Kane, believe me. It’s the smut films he makes with big-name movie stars. You wouldn’t believe the names.” Annie put out big eyes. The mike volume glitched. Elmer caught “Kurt Weill,” “Bertolt Brecht,” “Spanish Civil War.” He goosed the knob and replugged a wire. He caught “Meyer Gelb,” “analysand,” “incendiary whiz.”