Shooting Genji

By Richard Voorhees

Set in Jazz-Age New York and Hollywood in the Thirties, Shooting Genji is a noir thriller seen through the unusual perspective of a young man named Jean-Yves LeFouet. As a teenager, Jean-Yves falls off a ladder, after being distracted by the sight of his girlfriend kissing another guy, and the accident leaves him hollow-hearted and almost blinded by daylight. On the other hand, his night vision becomes extremely good. He discovers this makes him well suited for any number of shady jobs.

His first dimly lit career path opens up one night when bootleggers hijack him and his truck. After he drives them white-knuckled in the dark—with no headlights—they realize he's just the wheelman they need. They recommend his talents to the Wall Street broker laundering their money, who introduces Jean-Yves to one of the dark arts of Wall Street—front running. The Bull Market and wild nights end abruptly with the Crash of 1929, when the tough customers are not amused, and Jean-Yves has to skip town.

Why not try Los Angeles? The dancer he wooed in New York, whom he let slip through his fingers, is trying to break into the talkies. He finds work there as a chauffeur, delivering scripts at night for a hyphenate-scoundrel, a British director intent on making an erotic film based on the world's first novel-—written 1,000 years ago by a woman—The Tale of Genji.

Jean-Yves finds himself increasingly hard-pressed to navigate the hairpin turns in Hollywood after meeting the lovely bookseller who supplies his employer with copies of Genji, the Japanese classic. Lively and literate, this lady from Shanghai may prove to be his undoing... or his salvation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Voorhees
• Release date: Aug 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301951925

Richard Voorhees

Richard Voorhees is a writer and filmmaker who lives in San Francisco.

Book preview

Part I: EAST OF WALL STREET

Chapter 1. Containing a New York Minute

New York, New York, October 1929

We’re more than happy to move a few sizable stacks of Big Department’s rumrunning money into penny stocks. He loves the 100%-profit-for-every-penny argument. But this is a colossal miscalculation on the part of my employer. Considering Big Department isn’t as toothless as the widows, Aldo actually has to care which stocks he picks. His blue-sky racket’s completely cast over.

Poochie makes it clear the Big Department would prefer his shares go up. It only takes a couple days of the market tanking for Aldo Pennebeck’s smiling demeanor to disappear. The devil-may-care attitude is gone. Then the market really begins exhaling and it’s no accordion making melodies. It’s a bellows fanning the flames. Big Department’s penny stocks are all losing and Aldo is sweating like one of the damned, as well he should be. To make matters worse, Eva-Maria announces she met some movie producer on the subway who wants to give her a screen test in Los Angeles. I hesitate to object, though I want to. In fact, like some half-wit, I actually encourage her, and when she finishes stewing over that fine how-do-you-do, she books a sleeping berth to L.A. without me.

I start thinking about going back to driving full-time but legit, something not too strenuous, like a potato chip route, delivering nice light cartons that no one wants to shoot you for. And I start daydreaming about finding Eva-Maria to convince her she misunderstood me, is all. To kiss and make up. They eat potato chips in L.A., don’t they? But before I can pull the trigger, circumstances dance completely out of control.

Wednesday, October 30, 1929, I’m in my redoubt, picking stocks to bet against. I have the Wall Street Journal stock page taped to the wall opposite my desk, and I’m flipping darts at it. With my back turned and my eyes closed. Whatever I hit, I’m shorting. What with the market falling through the floor, it’s a sure bet. The problem is our floor trader is already drowning in a sea of sell orders and what’s the point really in answering the phone? If people want to sell the whole market, they might as well just give it away. People are already calling yesterday Black Tuesday.

That’s when Aldo gets a visit from some of our clientele, unannounced and pretty much suddenlike. I hear the outside door close, then heavy footsteps. The floor starts jouncing like it’s getting pounded by a ton of falling bricks in shoe leather.

The inner office door closes kind of hard and I hear someone say: The Department ain’t happy, Aldo. The Department ain’t happy one bit about them penny-ante stocks you pawned off on us.

It’s a long-term play, Aldo says, fast-talking. These penny stocks jump around, sure enough, but they’re going to make everyone a fortune in the next few months. The market’s just going through a little seasonal turbulence…

Whatever other malarkey he’s about to offer up gets stuffed back down his throat, and the very loud crash that follows has the hair on the back of my neck leaping to attention. I shove my eye up to the pinprick peephole in the door of my well-disguised office. Two gorillas in blue uniforms are storming around Aldo’s office as if they’re tired of doing time in the Bronx Zoo. A third guy’s with them, a giant in a brown suit and Stetson, palming a pistol the size of a cannon. One of the cops makes quick work of Aldo. He blackjacks him and that’s that.

The guy in the Stetson throws open a window and the two flatfeet pick Aldo off the floor. He’s completely limp, blood’s pouring down his face. The poor bastard doesn’t know whether he’s buying or selling. They rush over to the window and defenestrate him. It’s a nightmare—slow, quick, horrible—and Aldo’s gone. One of his shoes clips the window frame as he cartwheels out and the window cracks. I’ve known guys to make stiff demands on the small business owner, but these are extremely tough customers.

When the guy in the Stetson turns around, I get a clear look. It’s Poochie. I try to remember if he ever saw my tiny, back office. I hope I always paid him in the Irish bar.

For Aldo Pennebeck, it’s all a dull swirl. He dreams he’s playing a game of musical chairs and a polka band is booming and crooning a roomful of oompas. The accordionist rips his accordion in two, the drummer kicks her drums in, and the music stops cold. Like that. He gropes with both hands to claim a chair to settle in, but there is no chair there under him as he sits down on air and there’s a whish and a long, long, long, long way…

The next day the papers report he committed suicide. Like three other brokers who couldn’t make their margin calls. That’s the way they write it up—another broke broker who jumped to his death. When I read the story in the paper, I’m surprised anybody thinks that’s what happened. Especially considering his ransacked office. Aldo Pennebeck is the last guy in the world who’d leave a party early. Then again, cops have ways of keeping stuff out of the papers, I’m sure of that.

Chapter 2. Pick Your Poison

New York, New York, May 1928

But you’ll indulge me, I hope, if I throw Aldo’s Duesenberg in reverse and back away from his brutal and untimely demise?

A year and a half earlier, I’m at some party, blithely taking it all in. It’s a Saturday night. The place is awash in bathtub gin, available gratis, and I’m not unhappy to be rubbing elbows with a bunch of swells in Manhattan, not paying too close attention to the troubles I’m already the proud owner of. You know, carefree. I’m riding Poochie’s coattails. He’s got an in and I’m just kind of crashing along in his wake. Cab Calloway’s playing full blast.

Poochie’s towering over some sleep-deprived, sharp-cornered guy, who turns and looks in my direction. Then the guy raises his glass and smiles slightly, as if he’s grinding his teeth. He looks kind of dazed, like he just walked away from a traffic accident. I push my way through the crowd to join them (and, believe you me, it’s some mob).

His smile looks odd, but I think to myself he’s making an effort at least, not an unfriendly way to crack the ice. So I grit my teeth back at him and raise the old medicine cabinet. I don’t immediately taste my drink, though. I think it wise to give it a sniff. Aldo sees the face I make when I take a whiff and cracks up.

Poochie introduces me as a trusty wheelman, a hundred-percenter, and Aldo begins playing his role as the host of this bedlam.

What fuel are you drinking, Johnny?

I don’t know yet. Smells a bit like a gumdrop cocktail. I asked the guy over there to fill it up and he topped it off nicely.

He wasn’t doing you any favors. Aldo holds my glass up to his nose. I don’t want to zing my own liquor cellar, but I wouldn’t drink that.

My car might...

Leave Ethel alone. She’ll claw your eyes out.

That’s the last thing I need.

What can I get you? Champagne?

Sure.

Maybe a Scotch?

Okay.

How about a Manhattan?

Uh, if you insist.

Then again, the champagne is ice cold.

The guy won’t take yes for an answer. Perfect, I say, hoping we’re going to be done with these preliminaries soon.

He nods to the fellow tending bar and gives a slight shake of his thumb and forefinger. Next thing I know someone’s handing me a champagne flute brimming with effervescent gold. Aldo Pennebeck is the outgoing sort, definitely, even in his least exuberant moments. He’s a stockjobber who’s making money as easily as a bartender draws a pint. A regular knight of the spigot.

To the pursuit of happiness, Johnny. Aldo likes that idea. That’s always his toast, except on rare occasion late at night when he’s more likely to mutter: Let the devil take the hindmost. When it comes to happiness, Aldo’s in hot pursuit. My friends expect me to throw parties now and then, so I throw them. I enjoy it.

Thanks for not poisoning me.

Any friend of Poochie’s a friend of mine, Johnny. With that, Poochie nods at no one in particular and turns back toward where the hard liquor is to be had.

Have you ever noticed how people like going on about the good old days? When I taste Aldo’s champagne, I see their point. I don’t know much about them myself. I’m too young for good old days. I wasn’t even old enough to drink when Prohibition hit in 1919. I take another sip and Aldo looks at me coolly for a couple seconds, apparently weighing whether to confide in me.

Poochie tell you about our night on the rainbow? I give him my professional je n’en sais rien look. Poochie’s not much of a talker, I say. In my previous line of work, feigned ignorance was always advisable.

In a low voice, Aldo says: He and I went to some three-tap-joint in Chinatown and hitched up some reindeer. We do a taste and I start getting jittery. Aldo goes positively vague as he thinks back on that. His mouth tightens, disgusted. I try drinking some saké. It makes me sick to my stomach. Someone passes me some reefer. I figure it might help, what the hell, and take a few puffs. Next thing I know I’m feeling dizzy. I’m reeling. My head feels like it’s doing the shim-sham-shimmy. Next a Chinaman offers me some dream gum. I wash it down with more saké. He narrows his eyes and looks like he’s still suffering. The whole room starts breathing. Some skinny Chinese guys are kicking the gong around. They pass me the bamboo. It’s about a mile long, and I take a couple drags on that, and suddenly, I can’t believe it. Suddenly I feel fine! It was a fucking alchemical miracle! The perfect combination! The capper is some girl in pink silk leans over me and slips a glass of champagne in my hand. It was the darnedest thing. He lowers his voice. Poochie got me out of there in one piece. He tells me he flashed a police tin and carried me out slung over his shoulder. If it weren’t for him, I’d probably have woken up without my top hat, my watch, or my wallet. I might have pried my eyes open in the morgue. And for that reason, Johnny, he says, raising his voice again, I’m taking it nice and easy tonight. But don’t let my restraint hold you back. Knock yourself out. Business can wait. Keep track of that champagne glass and my boys will keep filling it.

"Merci, Aldo."

People are funny that way, telling complete strangers all sorts of stuff they’d carry to the grave before they’d tell their wife or their best friend. Especially when they’re still half-looped from the night before. On the way to the party, Poochie grunted something about a rough night, but he wasn’t given to torrential, cokey outpourings the way Aldo was. A few years back, I talked a blue streak to some strangers myself. After I’d spent a stretch in the hospital. Before I made it back to wherever the hell I am. Living the overexposed life.

I don’t know Poochie well, but I know he works for some behemoth named Big Department. I used to drive for business partners of theirs. Then they transferred me to New York and the assignment comes with an introduction to Poochie.

I haven’t met this Big Department, but they say he stands out, seeing that he’s 6 foot 7 and weighs a quarter ton. Word has it he makes Poochie, a hulking lug himself, look like a little fellow. I learn later that the Department got his name as a cop-impersonator, strong-arming criminals in the name of the law. His victims never saw anything but a really big blue uniform. They’d rather pay than go to stir. All he had to do was convince one slop-seller to part with an inventory mistake—a gigantic uniform that was never going to move, because no member of the police department would ever need a uniform his size.

Now Big Department is moving into downtown Manhattan and he figures why not get a toehold on Wall Street? He’s greasing enough palms to move whiskey by the trainload. Careening over back roads, one load of brown plaid at a time, is passé. He’s paid his dues. It’s time he starts making some easy money.

When he decides to begin dabbling rather seriously in the stock market, Big Department meets Aldo, and next thing you know, Aldo’s managing his rum money. Or maybe I should call it what it is—blood money. Aldo isn’t particular. He likes clients flush with cash. Money’s pouring through the market and scrubbing it clean is pretty simple. That’s how Poochie and I get invited to his bash.

Wall Street is on a real tear and he’s on a roll, the kind that makes him and his clients a lot of dough. He’s a golden boy, in other words, riding the market aloft, like some kind of balmy, hot air balloon. It makes him popular enough. His parties serve a nice business purpose as well. He tells the folks he invites to bring a friend or two and that way he keeps reeling in the suckers.

To his credit, Aldo is the kind of guy who sees the intrinsic value in everyone. He figures out how much they’re worth and how much he can divert to his own account. He loves rich people. Also to his credit, he’s charming in a superficial sort of way and he serves real champagne at his parties.

Turns out he just jettisoned his assistant, and business being brisk, can use a chauffeur to run his errands. That’s why Poochie steers me his way, knowing my abilities behind the wheel. And with the assurance that I’m alert and reticent, he thinks Aldo will take me on.

I’ve been something of a drifter in my life. Not exactly a man with a plan. I threw the I Ching once to divine my fortune and it foretold that for me success will be like water running downhill. That’s been the way of it. I’ve followed the contours and slid through doors that opened. To call it success, though, would be overstating the case.

The following Monday I go up to Aldo’s Park Avenue offices for a formal interview. He asks me how I enjoyed the festivities and tells me Poochie is vouching for my bona fides. We chat amiably enough. I tell him a little about myself, that I’m from Montreal originally, that I studied chemistry in college, that I can drive at night. He’s easy to get along with, it’s true. He’s satisfied with my answers, ready to hire me to assist him, but first he has one last test for me. He says it’s a reading exam. He pulls out his wallet and hands me a one-dollar bill. He asks me what I see. I start reading this short, interesting document and he’s nodding.

What else do you see?

George is looking a little green around the gills.

Anything else?

Not off the top of my head.

What do you notice about this one? He hands me a five.

You tell me. It looks like legal tender.

How about this one? Or this one? He hands me a ten and a twenty.

How would you describe the expressions on the portraits?

Inscrutable?

Exactly. The gents on American folding money are a tight-lipped bunch. Silent types. They never, ever talk about the company they keep or what they’ve been up to.

I’ve worked for guys like that. In fact, I’m like that.

Good. Remember—do like the gents on the bills, Johnny. Not a word. If I share information with you, which I may, I have to be able to trust you. Loose talk is the one thing I won’t tolerate, not a single slip-up.

I’m not a talker, Aldo. Poochie must have told you that. I’m more of a listener. And a reader.

Start reading this stack of stock offerings then, and let me know if you find any good investments.

Sure.

And give me back those bills.

The next few days, my responsibilities at Aldo’s turn out to be pretty straightforward—read the fine print, follow instructions to the letter, be discreet, step lively, drive fast, don’t scratch the paint, don’t talk to strangers. It’s ironic, of course, that Aldo emphasizes the need for secrecy. That first time I met him he talked and talked and talked. I’m pretty sure he knows how to keep his own counsel, though. The rest is just so much bluster—big talk and small talk.

Every week Poochie calls to hit me up. This is his little side business, putting the squeeze on me. He’s oblique in his approach, using a surprisingly soft touch. He calls and invariably asks me: How’s you and me? He wants to know if I’d like to grab a drink after work. He doesn’t really sound as if he’s asking, and seeing that he’s as big as the Woolworth Building, my mouth gets parched as soon as I hear his voice. I meet him at an Irish speakeasy he knows and have a couple of belts, or three or four, and then he asks me what I’m going to pay with. I lay down enough to cover our tab and he crumples it in his fist and stands up nice and slow. After he adjusts his overcoat and puts his hat on real low, he darkens the side door on his way out and leaves me to pay a second time. I think he pulls the same maneuver on Aldo, just at fancier establishments. He lets me off kind of easy. I get a few drinks out of our rendez-vous but not much conversation. Most of the time he strikes me as someone entertaining murderous thoughts—reminiscing about guys he’s murdered or dreaming about guys he’s going to murder sometime quite soon. I figure the best thing is to let the man think.

Aldo has a lofty if cramped pair of offices on the 18th floor on Park Avenue, just uptown from Grand Central Station.

I’m holed up in a tiny side office no one knows about, working the phones. He has a bunch of phone lines, so we can talk on umpteen phones at once—buying and selling, bidding and offering. He could have held the phones together and his customers could have carried on without him, but that was his business—to get in the way of all that money.

Chapter 3. A Little Death

Aldo was no saint, but I’ve known worse characters. Gangsters and cops. You don’t want to cross either of them. They cut a bloodier swath and use blunter instruments. Aldo was more of a