Life would never be the same for us again.
* * *
Mother continued smoking at the sink, a long lost habit she'd picked up again since the funeral. Her paint-smeared fingers ferried the unfiltered cigarette from ash-flicks over the drain to her mouth. The stains were a regular part of her anatomy now, ever since she had been forced to transform her part-time hobby into a thriving business that provided a steady flow of drawings, watercolors and acrylics to Hallmark Greeting Cards. She worked on a freelance basis, and they always paid well for whatever she sent.
"I miss Mary," Mother said, still staring out at the Cornwall house, her distracted tone all too-familiar.
The milk almost soured in my mouth. I couldn't say the same for Mary Cornwall's son, Billy, who had once been my best friend. And I was sure that Shelly felt even stronger about him after what he'd tried to do to her.
"It was such a shame," Mother continued. "So very sad, so stupid!"
Mary Cornwall had been one of my mother's closest confidants, even after that unforgettable night three years earlier.
Shelly looked out the window in the direction of Mother's gaze and I could se her shudder.
For both of us the Cornwall house had become a symbol of all that had gone wrong in the world.
I watched the blue smoke spiral into Mother's hair as she continued to stare through the trees.
"It's not right," she said. "That place is not right. They should have burned it down."
Silently, I agreed. I would have struck the goddamn match myself if it could have wiped the Cornwalls from my mind forever.
THE FANATIC
Famous movie star Millie Swann has committed the most grievous Hollywood sin: She has gotten older. In a fit of rage she brutally murders her long-time agent, leaving him with his genitals in his mouth. He has controlled her career with astute negotiations, drugs and pornographic blackmail since she was a teenager. An adoring fan witnesses the murder. Letters from the fan, who has become a stalker, reveal a growing psychotic fixation on the movie star as Swann learns that her murderous act was observed. Vince D'Amato, newly appointed to the Westside Division of the LAPD, is assigned to work the homicide. Vince is fighting his own personal demons: lack of self-confidence and peer acceptance, an over-bearing mother, and his inability to sustain a meaningful relationship. But all this changes when he meets beautiful production assistant, Samantha Brinkman and finds himself immersed in Hollywood's cesspool of sex, drugs, obsession and murder. (Explicit Material)
THE FANATIC (CHAPTERS 0NE & TWO)
Miss Millicent Swann
c/o Topaz Studios
1222 Gower Street
Hollywood, CA 90046
Dear Miss Swann,
Just a short note to say: hi! I saw your new film, "Paris Fog," Saturday night and thought it--and you!--were just super fabulous.
I certainly admire the way you've overcome your personal difficulties and risen above them to become such a great star.
Keep up the good work. I’ll look forward to following your career and seeing "Summer Of Passion" when it comes out next year.
--Your #1 Fan
I know the difference between fantasy and reality. It's simple: Fantasy is when Millie Swann shoots Pierre Nevsky in the forehead. She does it at least four times a day on each of three thousand screens. Pierre dies an average of twelve thousand times each twenty-four hours--and that's just in the United States!
Reality, is when Millie Swann stabs Harry Melnick in the throat, stomps on his balls with her Gucci pumps, and then stuffs his penis halfway down his throat.
That's reality--and it only happened once.
CHAPTER TWO
Vincent D'Amato rests his feet uncomfortably on the corner of the desk in his workstation. The position causes an irritating pressure on his tailbone, but he’s damned if he’ll give up the casual air he is trying to achieve.
Around him, the squad room bustles with morning activity. Everyone is busy except Detective Third Grade Vincent D'Amato, who leafs calmly through a copy of Daily Variety. Vince wants to make sure his reading material is noticed.
It is.
"D'Amato!" A voice barks from over his shoulder. "You don't have anything to do?"
"Just waiting for you, boss," Vince grins at the hairy bear of a man who has addressed him. "Taking a little break, and waiting for my next assignment."
"You take care of that weenie wagger down by Saint Mary's?"
"Locked him up, and threw away the key, Lieutenant."
"Which means he'll be back out on bail before you finish the paperwork."
Vince shrugs. He’s been a cop long enough to know that some efforts are the equivalent of pissing up wind.
"Where's the report?"
"On your desk where it's supposed to be, boss."
"Wise ass. What about the B & E at the Mason Lodge? Did you cover that like I asked?"
"Sure did. One of the thirsty brothers, or sheiks, or whatever they call themselves, went in through a bathroom window after closing time. Tried to drink the place dry and must have fallen into the shelves behind the bar. Made a real mess."
"We know about the mess, D'Amato. That's why the Grand Poo-bah called the po-lice. We are the po-lice, you know," the large Man grinned.
“That’s right boss, we are the po-lice.”
"How did you catch the perp.?"
"Like I said, it was a mess, but no vandalism was intended. He left his signature."
"His signature?"
"Yeah. On a check. I guess, when this guy woke up and realized his midnight drinking expedition had caused so much damage, he wrote a check for the breakage, and left it on the Grand One's desk. The top man called us before he'd checked his office. The wayward brother more than covered what he drank and what he destroyed. The lodge has withdrawn the complaint."
"Is that all you've been working on?"
"A few other file numbers: the missing teenager over on Cedar Drive--probably selling it on Hollywood Boulevard by now, if her friends have it right. And then there's always the fifteen hundred stolen vehicle reports--if I want to go out to LAX and walk around the parking structures for a few days."
Since Vince's recent transfer to Operations, West Bureau, West Los Angeles Division, Lieutenant Brad Sullivan has kept him hopping from one section to another on a variety of cases. To see where he fits in best, Sullivan said. More to make sure his new detective knows his place and pays his dues, Vince suspects.
"I can see I've been greatly remiss in attending to your assignments, D'Amato." The lieutenant shakes his head in mock dismay at his own inefficiency and looks out at the squad room. "It looks like everyone is busy around here except you and me. And my job is to make sure I stay that way and you don't."
"Well, boss-man, that's what I wanted to talk to you about."
"Uh-huh, yeah, sure! You couldn't wait for me to get in and re-stack your caseload, right, D'Amato? That's why you were just kicking back with your TV Guide and planning your social schedule."
Vince waves the paper. "It's Daily Variety."
"I don't care if it's toilet paper for your daily dump, D'Amato. Get off your ass and see Gruber about a few files." Lieutenant Sullivan lets a disarming smile play around the corners of his mouth. "That is, if it's not too inconvenient for you."
Sullivan disappears into his office, directly across from Vince's workstation.
"Shit," Vince mumbles, feeling he has missed his best opportunity to plead for the case he wants. He hasn’t had a chance to work homicide yet, and that is his ultimate goal.
"D'Amato!" Thunder rolls out of the Lieutenant's office. "Get in here!"
Vince jumps up, eager to have another shot at his special request.
Sullivan shakes a sheaf of papers in the air. "What the hell is this?" he demands.
Vince leans forward to catch a glimpse of the moving pages as they passed back and forth under his nose. "My reports,
" he says simply.
Sullivan stops waving the papers and leafs through them.
"Where's your forms? Where the hell's Form 86, and your PD35’s? The only thing that looks official here is the booking sheet on this Myers guy."
"That's the weenie wagger."
"I don't care if he's the freaking mayor of Beverly Hills—where’re your forms?"
Vince is eager to explain. "They're there! Well, actually their equivalents are there. I converted them on my PC at home and transferred all the information into a standard format. If you look, you'll see all of the info is there. It just looks different on the computer paper."
Sullivan inspects the reports, reading random pieces of information. When he speaks, he appears to be partially mollified, but he is still on the attack. "Is this the kind of crap they taught you down at the Hollenbeck?"
Vince runs his fingers through his brown, curly hair. "Shit, Lieutenant, they don't even know how to write down at the Hollenbeck. You know how things are in that division. They threw away the book the day they opened up. Why do you think I transferred out here to the Westside?"
"I understand it was personal reasons. Now I can see what they were: You think your shit don't stink! You're a fuckin' prima donna. Too good for the uniforms down there, eh?" There is no rancor in the older man's voice as he sits down wearily in his chair, scanning the reports.
Vince feels compelled to defend himself. "No, I’m not a prima donna. There was an opening here for a Grade Three, and I'd just passed the exam. Besides, I needed to be close to my family in Santa Monica. There's some illness." He doesn't want to explain that it’s his mother. He is too old for apron strings, and he doesn't need to start his career on the Westside with a reputation as a mama's boy
"Don't put your blues into mothballs yet, D'Amato. As far as I'm concerned, you're still on probation in this division."
Vince nods. "Can I ask a favor, Lieutenant?"
"No."
"I'd like to work the Melnick case."
"No."
"You know, the agent across Sunset? The one murdered last week?"
"You mean the prick with his dick in his mouth?"
"Yeah. That's the one."
"No."
"I could do a good job; I know the business." Vince waves his copy of Daily Variety, trying to attract his superior's eyes away from the reports.
"What business?" Sullivan asks, not bothering to look up.
"Show business."
"No."
"I know who all the players are," Vince exclaims.
"It's Jazinski and Goldberg's squeal. They're working it. I don't think they need to turn it into a three-handed pinochle game."
"That's what I wanted to tell you. Jazinski's out."
Lieutenant Brad Sullivan's eyes glare up from under heavy brows. "What’re you talking about?"
"Maternity leave."
"D'Amato, Jazinski's wife was pregnant; not him. She dropped her foal last week."
"Yeah, I know. But he's put in for three-month's family leave.”
"The hell you say!" Incredulity flashes across Sullivan's face.
"Federal law. Got to give leave to the poppa as well as the momma."
"I suppose the federal government is going to come in here and hold our hands while the crime rate goes through the roof and the city goes into the dumper?"
Vince can tell that Bradley Sullivan isn’t particularly impressed by the care and keeping provided by his elected representatives in Washington. The good Lieutenant is of the old school.
Vince continues rapidly. "Jazinski needs to stay home with his wife a while. She's not doing too well."
Sullivan shakes his head in bewilderment. "You know, D'Amato, in the old days a man's job was to feed 'em, screw 'em, and then pay child support for the next 18 years. Now you're expected to stay home with 'em and change the goddamn diapers."
"What about the Melnick case?"
"What about it?"
"I can work with Goldberg."
"Why? You want into her pants?"
"Rachel Goldberg's not my type. I just think I've got enough show business savvy to contribute something special to this case. And you need another man on it."
"I need an experienced man, D'Amato, not a rookie. You're just looking to plank some starlets. Don't give me that 'I've got something special to contribute' bullshit."
"They don't have starlets any more."
"Oh yeah? Did their tits and asses fall off all of a sudden?"
"They had starlets in the old studio system--back when they had contracts. No one calls them starlets in the industry now." Vince is trying to sound knowledgeable.
"Whatever they call it, a cooze is a cooze. You out lookin' for a little easy pussy, D'Amato?"
"No sir. I just thought I had something extra to bring to the table?"
"Is that what they do down at the Hollenbeck, bring everything to the goddamn table?"
Vince thinks it’s time to shut up. Every time he opens his mouth, Sullivan puts his foot in it. At this point, there is no sense opening his mouth just to wash his toes again.
Sullivan reads a few moments longer before looking up again at his recent acquisition from the Hollenbeck Division.
"You still here?" the lieutenant growls. "Don't you have a way to get to LAX? After all, you, yourself said there are fifteen hundred cars waiting to be found."
"How about the Melnick case?"
The large man moves his full "IN" basket from the corner of his desk to the middle. "I'll look into it."
"Thanks, Lieutenant. I'd appreciate the opportunity."
Vince is already back in the squad room when Sullivan shouts after him. "These reports look okay, kid. But from now on use the goddamn forms the city provides."
~ ~ ~ ~
Rachel Goldberg is a stunning blond. At forty, she can put women fifteen years her junior to shame. Vince has seen her around the squad room for the past three months but they've never officially met.
For Vince, Rachel Goldberg has that intimidating combination of good looks, regal bearing, self-confidence and arrogant assertiveness that effectively removes her from his most remote fantasies. The fact that she is also a cop doesn't make her any more approachable. The difference in their ages, fourteen years, doesn’t hurt, either.
Gazing at her across the squad room, or at roll call at the shift change, Vince finds it almost impossible to find her flaws. There are none. She is perfect. At five-foot-nine, Rachel Goldberg seems tall compared to the other women around them. She is muscular, but not hard or thick. Her short, dark blond hair frames a usual expression of inquisitive severity that would turn aside any advances Vince might be foolish enough to make.
And she is one hell of a cop! Rachel Goldberg's reputation in the division is legendary. If anything derogatory ever comes up, the source is usually a jealous male whose masculinity has been threatened.
The idea of working with Rachel Goldberg might be intimidating, but Vince wants to be involved in a high-profile case. It could give him credibility on the Westside and a helluva a foundation for his future career.
~ ~ ~ ~
"Detective Goldberg?"
Rachel looks up from her neatly organized desk.
Vince holds out his hand. "I'm Vince D'Amato."
"I know." Her hand is hard and dry, strong and confident.
"Sullivan sent me over to work with you on the Melnick case."
She looks at him without expression. "So he said."
"I guess Jazinski decided to take a little time off... uh, the baby and all...I guess." Vince is suddenly uncomfortable under Rachel's unblinking gaze, and already starting to self-consciously stumble over his words.
"I guess," she says.
"It's nice he can stay home and help his wife," Vince adds, hoping this woman will appreciate his sensitive side.
"He's just lazy, D'Amato. His wife did all the work-- and now he
needs a rest." She looks at the files on her desk. "Sit down, you're blocking my light."
Vince pulls out the chrome and naugahyde chair. For a moment he is tempted to stretch out his six-foot length, in casual comfort. Instead, he sits straight, like a kid waiting for the principal.
Although he really doesn't mean it, Vince says, "Sorry you lost your partner on this one."
Rachel shrugs. "No big deal. We've been together only a year. With his wife pregnant most of that time, he's been a basket case. Your wife isn't pregnant, is she, D'Amato?"
"Uh...I'm not married."
"Not ever?"
"Almost--once, right out of high school. I went into the Air Force instead."
Rachel's perfect eyebrows raise evenly. "You a fly boy?"
"Air Police."
"Ah."
Vince can tell she knows what prompted him to join law enforcement. Once you had a taste of it--even for the amateurs in the military--it got into your blood.
“How did you talk Sullivan into letting you work this case?”
This time its Vince’s turn to shrug. “I guess he thought it might help to have someone working the case who has a bit of show business background.”
“You a frustrated actor, D’Amato?”
“No. It’s just a hobby.”
“A hobby? And I suppose playing cops and robbers is a hobby too, huh?”
Rachel’s condescending tone angers Vince, but he hides it well, sensing that this woman is trying to rattle his cage just to see what he’s made of.
“No. I’m in for the duration,” Vince replies.
"Sullivan said you came from the Hollenbeck. What's the matter, it get too hot for you over there?"
"You mean the land of chaos and confusion?" Vince shakes his head. "I liked it okay. Things are always roaring at the 'Beck. But I've got a sick mother, who lives in Santa Monica, and I need to be closer here on the Westside."
Vince instantly regrets mentioning the reason for his transfer. He thinks she will probably slot him into the same malingering category as Bob Jazinski.
"I don't let my personal life interfere with my work." Vince feels compelled to add.