L.A. Noire

Genres: Hard-Boiled; Private Investigators

Synopsis

This collection of short fiction expands on the world of a groundbreaking achievement in storytelling: Rockstar Games' interactive crime thriller L.A. Noire.

1940s Hollywood, murder, deception and mystery take center stage as readers reintroduce themselves to characters seen in L.A. Noire. Explore the lives of actresses desperate for the Hollywood spotlight; heroes turned defeated men; and classic Noir villains. Readers will come across not only familiar faces, but familiar cases from the game that take on a new spin to tell the tales of emotionally torn protagonists, depraved schemers and their ill-fated victims.

With original short fiction by Megan Abbott, Lawrence Block, Joe Lansdale, Joyce Carol Oates, Francine Prose, Jonathan Santlofer, Duane Swierczynski and Andrew Vachss, L.A. Noire: The Collected Stories breathes new life into a time-honored American tradition, in an exciting anthology that will appeal to fans of suspense and gamers everywhere.

Release date: June 6, 2011

Publisher: Little, Brown and Company

Print pages: 192

Sample

On the infrequent occasions that I make it out to L.A., to work on the cop show I have a hand in, I always make time to have
dinner at Musso & Frank. They’ve been serving the same menu since 1919, the same steaks and chops, the same sauerbraten and
lobster thermidor. The seats at the counter in front of the grill have the same buffed leather upholstery, and if you lean
in close you can see rings on the bar left behind from Raymond Chandler’s shot glass.


They say he wrote parts of The Big Sleep here, maybe all of it. They say Jim Thompson, author of The Killer Inside Me, often drank himself into a stupor here and had to be helped home. Charles Bukowski, too, and F. Scott Fitzgerald—writers
of all stripes used to pickle themselves here. But because of Chandler and Thompson, and because of the look and feel of the
place (it could be a set from Chinatown; it was, in fact, a set in Ocean’s Eleven), it’s got a special spot in the hearts of writers and readers of crime fiction. And not just crime fiction—the particular
sort of crime fiction we call noir.


You might wonder why a crime writer living in New York would have to fly across the continent to Los Angeles to have a proper
noir experience. It’s the same reason that the folks at Team Bondi and Rockstar Games decided to recreate L.A. inside a computer
to give gamers the ultimate noir (or noire, if you prefer) environment to explore. If you want a proper Western experience, you go to Tombstone, Arizona; for romance,
you go to Venice or Rome. For noir, you go to L.A. Ironic, I suppose, given how strongly California is associated with brightness
and sunshine; even more ironic given how synonymous Hollywood is with happy endings (if you say that a movie has a “Hollywood
ending,” you mean pretty much the opposite of what goes on in a film noir). But facts are facts, and for generations of readers
and writers and filmmakers, L.A. is noir central.


I don’t think this is in spite of Hollywood’s sunny associations—I think it’s because of them. Nowhere on earth do you get
to witness more clearly the collision between fantasy and reality than in L.A., the clash between the dreams being spun for
the cameras at twenty-four frames per second or enjoyed by stars in the mansions of the Hollywood Hills and the dire existence
being lived by the other 99.9 percent of the population, the one doomed never to make it to the Technicolor side of the rainbow.


Musso & Frank is located right on Hollywood Boulevard, a street that is literally paved with stars—you don’t get more dreamlike
than that. But the last time I walked that stretch of pavement after the sun went down, I saw a young man in handcuffs being
jammed into the back of a police car; then I was approached by another man walking along with his hands in his coat pockets
muttering hopefully, “Medical marijuana… Medical marijuana…” Darkness and light. Pawnshops and drug clinics and tranny hookers
plying their trade on the same boulevards on which chauffeur-driven Bentleys and Maybachs ferry studio executives working
out hundred-million-dollar deals in the backseat. Would-be screenwriters and actors and makeup artists living on Craigslist
gigs and ramen look up each night and see the Hollywood sign staring down at them from the mountains—so bright and clean and hopeful and impossibly far away. Yes, every major city has slums, has desperate people living
desperate lives—but only in L.A. do the slums come with a view of Shangri-la.


L.A. Noire: the stories.


When Rockstar Games set out to create a classic noir experience, they realized that there were two equally important elements
that had to be present: the look and feel, which had to immediately conjure up the unforgettable sights and sounds of the
great noir films of the 1940s and ’50s (and their neo-noir cousins from the 1970s and beyond), and the storytelling. Focus
only on the sights and sounds and you have an empty shell, a pastiche. Anyone can put stick figures in trench coats and fedoras,
slap some saxophones on the sound track, and call it noir. What makes genuine noir is not just the atmosphere but the stories—heartrending
tales about people facing terrible situations and, all too often, not surviving.


And what better lens through which to view these stories than the eyes of a cop? The characters involved in any particular
crime get to see only the events of that one story—a cop gets to see them all. So L.A. Noire puts you into the shoes of Cole Phelps, an ex-marine now working for the LAPD, a more or less clean cop in a more or less
clean department with the good or bad fortune (you decide) of having worked his way up to the homicide desk during one of
the most notorious years in LAPD history: 1947. That was the year that opened with the discovery in a city park of the mutilated
body of Elizabeth Short, nicknamed the Black Dahlia by the newspapers; and as the year wound on, other women, one after another,
were found murdered in gruesome and sadistic fashion—this one strangled with a stocking, that one beaten to death with a claw
hammer, yet another found with obscenities scrawled on her corpse in lipstick. Arrests were made in some cases, but the Dahlia’s killer was never caught. And the problem
is… who knows how many of the other murders the killer was responsible for? In some cases, it’s possible that not only did
the guilty party not go to jail, an innocent man went in his place.


That’s the thoroughly noir real-world backdrop against which the stories of L.A. Noire unfold, and although Cole isn’t assigned the Dahlia case itself, many of the cases Cole does investigate are ripped straight
from the headlines of the day. You’ll get to examine that lipstick-smeared corpse yourself—better have a strong stomach. And
lest you think that catching a latter-day Jack the Ripper is all you have to do to earn your pay, rest assured that Cole Phelps’s
workday is a long and full one. There are arsons and explosions to look into, vice cases involving fixed boxing matches and
reefer peddling (Medical marijuana… Medical marijuana…), hit-and-run cases that hide sordid marital infidelities… oh, and some cases that are tied directly to the film business,
though the films involved might not be the sort you’d find playing at your local theater.


Depends on your neighborhood, I guess.

These, then, are the stories in the game, and a satisfyingly sordid lot they are. But the Rockstar crew wanted to go even
further on the storytelling front, wanted to give players an extra treat while also tipping their hats to the literary element
that has always been central to the world of noir. What they did was invite some of the most acclaimed living practitioners
of the noir storytelling art—literary figures such as Joyce Carol Oates and Francine Prose, giants of the crime-writing world
such as Lawrence Block and Andrew Vachss, award winners and stylistic innovators and cross-genre geniuses such as Joe Lansdale
and Megan Abbott, Jonathan Santlofer and Duane Swierczynski—to each write a new short story inspired by the world of L.A. Noire. Some of the stories use particular cases from the game as a jumping-off point, others simply share the game’s setting and
era and spirit—but they all give you a view of humanity in extremis, of the beaten-down and those who savagely dole out the
beatings, and of the thin blue line that tries, not always successfully and not always in ways that are strictly legal, to
stand between the two.


It is perhaps worth noting that, to the best of my knowledge, not a single one of these authors lives in L.A. The closest
is probably Joe Lansdale, who lives in Texas; otherwise it’s a bunch of New Yorkers, a Philly boy, a Jersey girl.


Doesn’t matter. L.A. is where you come to drink at the weathered bar with Chandler’s ghost—to luxuriate in the shadows, to
walk the mean streets, to remember, if you’re a noir writer, where it is you came from. In its way, what Rockstar has done
is invite eight of the finest writers in the business to a dinner at Musso & Frank—and what a feast it is.


So: tuck in. Napkin in the shirt collar, knife and fork at the ready—you’re going to be served a rich and subtle and darkly
delicious meal, savory in its unsavoriness. Just keep your wits about you. It takes a while to finish an eight-course meal,
and it’s getting dark out there. By the time you step out onto Hollywood Boulevard again, there could be some dangerous souls
sharing the street with you. And, yes, those are police sirens you hear in the distance—but if there’s one thing L.A. Noire teaches us, it’s that the police don’t always make it to the scene in time.


The house was famous. A Mayan fortress made of ferroconcrete blocks stacked like teeth. A powerful man lived there. June had
heard of it long before this, her first introduction.


The talent agent who brought June called it the Shark House.

It was in Los Feliz and you could drive by a hundred times and miss it. But once you saw it, you couldn’t turn away. There
were no windows. The tiny lawn sloped up, feathered with ivy that looked red in the strange light. It was a house that seemed
to hold things inside. You felt you might be walking into a maw. You were.


“Huston will be here,” the agent said. “Key Largo. The part’s perfect for you.”


“Claire Trevor’s got it sewn up between her thighs,” June said softly, looking up at the house from the open door of the agent’s
middling car. “Ten years, every bed I land in is still warm from her.”


“She’s not married to Guy,” the agent pointed out.

“You can see how far that’s got me,” June said.

The agent was very young, with a scruff of dandelion hair, a splashy tie, and shiny cheeks. She almost wanted to take a bite
out of him. Then spit him out.


There were always young men like this, and for a decade or more, they’d look at the line of June’s bust and her slanting smile
and figure maybe they could sell her. But she looked in the mirror and saw everything.


Two years ago, she’d married Guy, who ran sports book on the West Side for Mickey Cohen and liked to trot her up and down
the Strip, his “actress wife.”


Now, the talent agents saw different kinds of possibilities in June, different ways to lay odds. They knew producers cast actresses
for all kinds of reasons, including big vigs they needed to pay off, big secrets they needed to hide. Sure, her carnival days
might be over, but she may still have sheen left, they told her.


But June had long given up on sheen. She wanted a job.

“What does it matter?” her friend Gladys asked. “You married the honeypot. Just slip on your silver mink, prop your feet up,
and listen to Dick Haymes all day.”


Sometimes she considered it.

But June held on to a few small things from when she first came to the City of Dreams. A button from her baby brother’s shoe,
her first pair of silk stockings, and a deeply felt longing to show someone something sometime. Something inside her that
no one else had ever seen. All these years of lifted skirts and pearl-mouthed hangovers hadn’t scrubbed that yearning away.
It was her favorite part of herself and she would not let it go.


When June was young, before her father left the first time, before he became a forgotten man and ended up in Chicago and married
a hotelier’s daughter, a bigamist in three states, by her mother’s count, he would pull her on his lap and read her stories from a big book with crumbling foiled
edges she liked to touch while he read.


She would lie against his humming chest and watch the gold dust gather on her fingertips.

The story she always remembered, her favorite, was the one about the miller who had fallen on hard times. One day, the devil
approached him in the woods and promised the miller all the riches in the world in return for what stood behind his mill.
The miller, knowing all that lay behind the mill was a gnarled old apple tree, eagerly agreed. What he did not realize was
that his beloved daughter, at that moment, was standing behind the mill, sweeping the yard. And now she was the devil’s own.


It was a long story, with many . . .