Destination: Morgue!: L.A. Tales Page 18

HOLLYWOOD HEMMED ME IN. I shit where I eat. I eschewed Simi Valley. Orange County de-orbitized me. The kool Kuster kustom: Bop your beat, know your neighbors, interdict them instinctively.

  I lived in a mock-Egyptian courtyard. I prized its proximity. I read in the John C. Fremont Branch Library. I lived near Harvey Glatman’s photo-death den. Dave Slatkin had Glatman visions. They astounded early psychic researchers. He lived in Whipdick, Wisconsin. He was 4 years old then. L.A. visions whipped him west and formed his cop calling. He linked old evil to still-standing structures. Cops are skeptics. Dave skewered their skepticism. Dave found Barbara Graham’s hypo kit behind the Hollywood Ranch Market. Dave found Black Dahlia rubber receipts in a vent at Owl Drugs. Hollywood—insidious instigator of morbid myth. Why work anywhere else?

  And dig this:

  I’m laying out love vibes for THE WOMAN. I know this much. She won’t be a Hollywood habitué. She’ll get the gestalt going through.

  Arc lights popped at dusk. Day-for-night delivered. The Academy lit up.

  The main building/parking lot/gym. The Elysian Park Hills. Ravines, gulleys, and snaky pathways uphill. The hills magnetized fruits. They got micro-close to malignant male authority. It was self-serve self-loathing. Rump rangers rutted in parked cars close to the cloister of cop academe.

  We were fruit-free tonite. The lights looped east to Chinatown and Sunset Boulevard.

  I wore my uniform. I carried a walkie-talkie. The gig prohibited rhino regalia. I humped the homo hunting ground. I dragged a litter bag. I snagged French ticklers, discard dildos, amyl nitrate poppers, S&M bar matchbooks.

  The arc lights popped off. The hillside shot to sharp shadows. My walkie-talkie bipped.

  I picked up. “Jenson.”

  “It’s Bobby Keck. They’re dousing the hills and lighting up the bar. Come on up and meet the cast.”

  I rogered and hitched up my gunbelt. My mini-gut flared and flattened. LAPD likes lean lines and cut contours. I find it homophiliac. It deters ham-hock dinners and donut desserts.

  I walked up to the bar. Grips hauled boxes. Lighting louts lit lamps. I saw two civilians in cop blue. I recognized the man.

  His lineage loomed large. The baldness, the big beak, the Latinate looks. He was the seething seed of Luis Figueroa and Rosemary Collins.

  I recalled my casting sheet. “Figueroa, Miguel D.” The woman pirouetted and provided a profile. That’s her: “Donahue, Donna W.”

  Call it cold: D for Man Destroyer. D for Detour to Heaven. W for Wickedness and Winsomeness as one.

  She was svelte. She had dark hair and hurricane-hurled hazel eyes. Her gunbelt hung low and hugged her hips hard. Her badge hid her left breast and hinted at hammering heartbeats.

  I walked over. I reinvented myself as rhino raconteur. I rehearsed gunfights and righteous 211s. I killed a hot-prowl rape-o last year. My faux feminism might impress her.

  I opened my mouth. Donna Donahue detoured me.

  “Are you a real cop or an extra?”

  I said, “I shot Huey Muhammad 6X, the infamous hot-prowl rapist. I wasted two wetbacks—I mean ‘illegal-emigrated Mexican-Americans’—during a daring, short-range shootout at Taco Tom’s on Hollywood and Western.”

  Miguel Figueroa said, “Wow.” He checked out Donna Donahue snakelike.

  Her heartbeat hammered. Her left breast lurched. Her badge bumped and boinged.

  My rhino horn hardened. Figueroa stared at me. I said, “I had a big thing for your mother. I used to dig on her in the ’60s.”

  Figueroa laughed. “Maybe you’re my daddy.”

  Donna said, “What did the thieves at Taco Tom’s get?”

  I squared my shoulders and sucked in my gut. My belt slackened and flattened my fly. It undulated and unfurled. My Jockey shorts showed. They bore the Burger King logo: “Home of the Whopper.”

  Figueroa yukked. Donna demurred. Her hazel eyes hooked up to my blues.

  “What did the robbers at Taco Tom’s get?”

  I smiled. “Nine dollars and a burrito tray. They burned their hands on the tray and dropped it.”

  Donna’s jaw jumped. “And you shot them for that ?”

  I winked. “They were after the chimichangas and quesadillas. I had to nip that in the bud.”

  Donna howled. Figueroa yukked. I ran my zipper up rapidamente. A megaphone geek walked up. He vibed director.

  Figueroa said, “Officer Jenson iced two cholos during the famous Taco Tom’s heist.”

  The director sneered. “Amnesty International condemned that shooting. Those robber guys had twelve kids between them.”

  I sneered. “Planned Parenthood commended me. I shot them in the back, by the way.”

  Donna smiled. Her every glimpse hurled me to heaven.

  The director said, “You think you’re a tough guy, don’t you?”

  I winked at him. “I’m your daddy.”

  Figueroa winked at me. “Don’t be embarrassed. He’s my daddy, too.”

  The director seeeeethed. “Let’s go. We’re doing the patrol car scene next.” Donna and Figueroa walked. Donna wiggled her fingers over her shoulder. I blew a kiss at her back.

  A PRODUCTION SLAVE gave me a headset. It provided cop-car access. Donna and Figueroa play patrol-partner lovers. They cuddle in their cop car. They’re married to deputy chiefs. It’s gotta go bad.

  I hooked on my headset and laid around the lounge. There it goes: snap, crackle, radio pop. The director: “Let’s rehearse, kids.”

  One arc light popped on. The luminous vapors crossed the hillside. Fruit Alert: butt bangers in backseat bliss. They’re bouncing cars. They’re tearing tailpipes. They’re shearing shock absorbers.

  My headset stammered static and cleared clean. Donna said, “Get your tongue out of my mouth, you cocksucker.”

  Figueroa said, “Come on, baby. This is the Stanislavsky method. This is shit I learned at the Actors Studio.”

  Donna said, “Like father, like son. Your old man hit on me on Hawaii Five-O.”

  Figueroa waxed winsome. “He taught me everything I know. He taught me acting, culture, music. Then he hit on my girl-friends and took them away from me.”

  Self-pity and woe—standard Stanislavsky.

  Donna said, “I heard he’s hung like a mule.”

  Figueroa yukked. “Like the Big Burrito at Taco Tom’s, baby. ‘Accept no substitutes.’ ”

  Donna: “I’ll call him. Hey, Luis, tell me how you did the wild thing with Rosemary Collins before I was born and confirm my theory that size skips the next generation.”

  Miguel: “No, baby. It grows. El chorizo mucho grande por amor.”

  I heard rustling sounds. I heard a gunbelt snap. I heard a zipper unzip. I heard Donna dead cold. “Chorizo to cocktail frank in two seconds. My dad said, ‘You’re going to Hollywood, so you might need this.’ ”

  I pictured it—a Swiss Army knife—prongs, probes, and prick reducers. Figueroa said, “Don’t cut me, baby. I need what I’ve got. Shit, I’ve got a migraine. I get real motherfuckers.”

  Donna said, “Check these cars out. It’s like a drive-in movie with no screen.”

  Figueroa groaned—oooh, my fucking head. Donna said, “It’s gay caballeros getting their jollies. How do you shoot around something like that?”

  I knew.

  The hillside sloped down to a reinforced ravine. Cars drove up easy. They wiggled up winding driveways and dirt. Cars went down hard. They grabbed grass. They tore tree trunks and bumper-carred and banged the ravine. Quantum queer evictions ratcheted cars into the ravine. Garlands of garbage goosed them to the L.A. riverbed.

  I ran outside. I yelled, “Lights.” Two dozen arc lights glare-glazed the hillside. I rhino-rampaged and hit cars.

  I baton-bashed windows. I yanked emergency brakes. I glimpsed fruitus interruptus. I heard yelps, yowls, yodels, yammers, and yells for help. Cars skidded and skittered downhill. Cars blew by the narc arc with Divine Donna and Masher Miguel.

  Donna got out. Donna jumped
on the roof of her car. She saw Ramblers roll and rip the ravine. She saw Dodge Darts ding trees and die dead. I watched her. She watched the ravine collect cars. She’s got hurricane-hazel eyes. She’s got dark hair pageboy-styled. She’s got her legs dug in. She’s all LAPD wool stretched tigress-tight.

  Miguel got out. He stood and watched the homos hurtle hellbound. He watched the ravine. A T-Bird toppled in. Transaxles dropped off driveshafts, drifted, and dragged rubber wrappers.

  Miguel said, “I’m getting off on this. You know what Luis always says, ‘Homos expand the pool of fuckable women.’ ”

  I looked at Donna. How fittingly Freudian-frazzled: the erotic image of my life as a COP.

  A Bonneville banged the ravine. I heard three gunshots. I saw a man run.

  Donna jumped off her car. She said, “The arc light was on him. I got a good look.”

  FRUIT SNUFF: A species of HOMOcides vulgaris, inimical to Shine Killing. Fruit Snuff vs. Shine Killing—a primer.

  Fruits killed in Hollyweird and Rampart. This murder vibed panic and self-loathing. The killer’s id went “Ick.” His superego sermonized: Don’t fuck men in purple Pontiacs/don’t fuck men at all.

  Fruits killed like prima divas pacing. They paced. They smoked. Joan Crawford crawls to the edge. She grabs a knife. She stabs her lover 91 times. Fruits overkilled. Fruits dug the term “multiple stab wounds.” The faithless faigelah is dead. Feel better now?

  Shine Killings went down in ’77 and Newton. Shine Killings went down fast. Willie owes Shondell 10 scoots. It’s a crap-game debt. Remember—we rolled behind Muhammad’s Mosque #6. The men mouth multitudinous “motherfuckers.” Willie gets bored and shoots first. Pow! Shondell be walking that deep River Styx. He’s close to Mecca or Mama or the Big Liquor Store. We follow his blood drops. He’s almost dead. He sees Saint Peter. Saint Peter’s guzzling Schlitz malt liquor and wearing a porkpie hat. We get there. We say, “Who killed you, homeboy? Tell us fast.” Shondell says, “Willie X.” That’s how we grab his black ass.

  The hillside pulsed in pandemonium. The lights lured paunchy paparazzi. Rampart Patrol and Rampart Detectives showed. I gave a statement. I said I hit the lights to flush some hobnobbing homos. Exodus—let my people go!

  Cops prowled the ravine. Miguel described the suspect. He had a monster migraine. My cabeza, oh, fuck.

  Donna had the best view. She built a likeness with a sketch artist and an Identikit guy. Said suspect: white male, skinny. Bad zits, fat fangs for teeth.

  Suspect: unknown. Victim: one white male wrapped in the wrecks. We walked down. Donna stuck close. We looked for lurking witnesses. We saw none.

  Nine cars piled at the ravine ledge. No eyewits at all. They ran. They swam. They grappled garbage and floated on cardboard flotillas.

  We found the purple Pontiac. The death car was lavished like Liberace. White interior/tuck & roll/lavender love balls.

  The dead man covered the backseat, ass upward. K-Y crawled out his crack. A cop lifted his head. Shattered teeth and big-bore bullets flew.

  A cop scoped out Miguel. “You look like Luis Figueroa.”

  Miguel said, “He’s my daddy.”

  A cop said, “Fucking fruit snuff.”

  A cop said, “They’re all named Lance or Jason. Every fruit snuff vic I ever worked.”

  Donna said, “Ten bucks that he’s got another name. Come on, put up.”

  A cop extracted the stiff’s wallet. A cop riffed sleeves. Bingo— California driver’s license/Randall J. Kirst.

  The cop paid Donna off. I lounged in her eyes. Hurricane beacons beamed.

  A loudspeaker blared. “It’s a wrap! LAPD says we can’t shoot until this mess gets cleared up!”

  I looked at Donna. Donna looked at me. I said, “I’ll drive you . . .”

  Donna said, “I’ll drive myself.”

  I LOITERED at the Academy. Miguel tried the “I’ll drive you home” bit. Donna flipped him off. A tech crew brought a winch in. They hauled fruitmobiles off the ravine. The Rampart geeks wrote a bulletin. The gist:

  Randall J. Kirst, HOMOcide victim. Sodden fruits wanted! Reclaim your keester kayaks at LAPD impound! Submit to fruit snuff interviews! Insincere apologies for the work of Detective Rick Jenson!

  I lounged in the bar. The print guys worked outside. They smeared the purple Pontiac. I found some Donna Donahue head shots. They voodoo-vapped me. A notion nudged my head.

  “Witness needs protection! LAPD guards her! Round-the-clock watch!”

  Yeah, but:

  Miguel Figueroa saw him, too.

  Yeah, but:

  The fuck pad had five bedrooms.

  Yeah, but:

  Rampart had the case. Their jurisdiction/their job.

  Yeah, but:

  Russ Kuster had clout. Rampart owed Russ favors. I witnessed the snuff.

  Good odds. I grabbed the Donna shots and rolled.

  THE HILLTOP HUNGARIAN RESTAURANT:

  A strudel structure on the Cahuenga Pass. A goulash gulag, the shits. A hut for homesick Hungies and Russ Kuster’s preferred brooding pit.

  I drove over and walked in. Russ was snout deep in schnapps. Six couples slurped slivovitz. An accordion clown played for chump change.

  Russ saw me. He pulled out a bar stool. I straddled it.

  “Tell me you found the fuck pad.”

  “I found the fuck pad.”

  “Tell me there’s not some catastrophic fuck-up to mark your first day at Hollywood Homicide.”

  “Welllll, there’s this . . .”

  Russ grinned. “Rampart dicks called me. You passed your test. You felt the need to tell me you fucked up yourself.”

  I unclenched. I whipped out the Donna shots. I spread them on the bar.

  Eyeball alert—Russ looked, lingered, leched.

  “Tell me she’s the sole witness and she’s afraid for her life. She saw too much. The killer wants to nullify her before she testifies. She needs a room at our fuck pad, and she’ll be properly grateful.”

  I said, “No.”

  “No?”

  “No, there’s a second wit, a male, and she’ll smell a shuck in six seconds.”

  Russ lit a cigarette. “The male’s a fag, right? He doesn’t play into the scene.”

  I shook my head. “He’s no fag.”

  “What are you talking about? He’s an actor, right?”

  “He’s an exception. Trust me on—”

  “O.K., we’ve got the dish and the world’s only non-fag actor, and a fruit snuff in Rampart that they only nominally care about. We want . . . what’s her name?”

  I said, “Donna Donahue.”

  “Right, as a guest, so you need me to call Rampart and get us assigned to the case.”

  The accordion went off-key. Bela Marko strapped it on. Bela was Russ’s batshit bête noir and meshugina misdemeanant. Bela played bad squeeze box. Bela stole waiters’ tips. Bela dined-and-dashed. Bela sold weed in the parking lot. Russ kicked his ass regularly.

  Bela kicked off some screechy anthem. Bela waved the squeeze box man’s cup. Bela table-hopped.

  Table one: the cold shoulder. Table two: a quarter and a dime. Table three: half a chewed breadstick. Table four—a dyke duo— two kicks in the nuts.

  Bela shook the bellows. Bela dropped the squeeze box. Bela stumbled outside clutching his nuts.

  Russ laughed. Russ sipped schnapps. Russ said, “Donna Donahue is mine.”

  I shook my head. “My case, right? Come on, I’m a rookie. It’s a nowhere fruit snuff.”

  Russ nodded. “You’re right. Nobody else will want it. Now, look in the mirror.”

  I did. I saw myself. I saw Russ. I looked away. Russ jerked my head back.

  “Look at us. You look like a harness bull with bad sunscreen. I look like William Holden in Sunset Boulevard. You want the case, you want to take Donna Donahue around and show her mug books and show her Taco Tom’s and the place where you capped Huey Muhammad 6X, fine. When she comes home to the safe house, I’l
l be there with bourbon and Brahms.”

  I stood up. Russ said, “Be sure to tell her you planted that throw-down piece on Huey.”

  I LIKE TO sleep with dogs and muse on women. Cross-species warmth promotes insight and empathetic vibes. Donna Donahue deserved the sensitive Rick Jenson. A six-dog night would calcify my callow and callous side. Yeah, I waxed Huey X and the Garcia brothers. I dug it—but I didn’t love it. Donna had to grok the moral split.

  Dog Night was a ritual.

  I bagged my F-car. I drove by Sombrero King and bought six oki pastrami burritos. I got on my two-way. I gave them Donna’s name. They kicked back:

  Donahue, Donna Welles. Brown/hazel, 5′6″, 113, DOB: 3/13/56.

  Good stats. 27 to my 31. Good Westside address.

  The food and dogs consecrated life. The ride roused the dead.

  I went by Carlos and Gower. I felt Ian Campbell’s ghost. I heard bagpipes. I smelled onion fumes and cordite. I went by the Hollywood Sears. Robert Cote fell there. I saw arterial blood gush. I heard morphine syrettes snap.

  I hooked over to the shelter and hauled out the chow. Growls and bays echoed inside. I unlocked the door, hit the lights, and kounted K-9’s. Six was right—the pit bull, the Dogo, the bull terrier, an Airedale, the Aussie shepherd, and Reggie the Rhodesian Ridgeback.

  Food first.

  I fed individually. It prevented dogfights and canine chaos. Yum, yum—fried pastrami, fried cabbage, fried tortillas. The fart index would soar tonight.

  Dave stashed blankets near the dog crates. I laid six out on the floor. I kept six for covers. I grabbed a pillow and tossed it down in my middle spot. The dogs piled on. We all stretched out. The Airedale and pit hemmed me in. We burrowed under the covers. I said, “What’s shakin’, you big-dick motherfuckers?” I answered for them—my voice/their imagined responses.

  “I want a beach pad.” “Fuck that—I want a Bel-Air crib owned by some hebe in the movie biz. He’s got six juicy daughters to penetrate with my air-to-ground Airedale missile.” “Fuck that shit. I want to live at the Pacific Dining Car. I could roam the floor, sniff crotches, and score steak at will.”

  The dogs started to snooze. Their warmth engulfed me. I lay still and laid out my lament.

  “There’s an actress. She’s got kaleidoscope-flecked hazel eyes. She’s got a sturdy sense of herself, doesn’t fall for cheap lines, and outdoes me in the looks department. I’ll bet she comes from money. She’s the woman. I want her, whatever it costs, whatever it takes. Dig that, you big-dick motherfuckers!”