Stan Taylor approached the front door of an impressive home, tucked into the canyons with a view of the smoggy San Fernando Valley stretched out below. He knocked on the door. After a little while, the door opened. Standing in the doorway, wearing a black body suit and looking like a pure sex machine, stood Desiree Boswell.
“Stan?” she asked.
"Hi," said Stan.
“Hey,” she said. “I’m Desiree. Come on in. Can I get you anything?”
“No, thanks,” said Stan.
“Please, make yourself comfortable,” said Desiree.
Stan sat down, and Desiree sat on a couch a few feet away. She leaned forward, and her ample breasts pushed out in plain view.
“So,” she said, “it’s about Billy, huh?”
“Yes,” said Stan.
“You been burned by him, too?” she asked.
“I put a lot of work into a book project with him,” Stan said. “Billy reneged on the agreement we had, and a writer with the Times named Larry Wishborn helped him to screw me pretty bad.”
“Join the club,” she said. “So what are you proposing with me?”
“Desiree,” Stan said. “You know everything about Billy Boswell. I want to help you write a tell-all book about your life with him. It’ll be a best seller. It will counter-balance the propaganda that he and Wishborn no doubt will be putting out. It will help you set the record straight, and make a lot of money in the process.
“He's a multi-millionaire superstar with a lotta warts. But it can’t be something that tries to paint you as a wholly sympathetic character. The critics and the readers will see through that. It has to tell the truth about everything; your adult film career, the Larry Flynt deal, everything. But Billy’s involvement with strippers and porn stars can be laid bare in the process. It’ll be the sexiest, most controversial book seen in years. I’ll help you.”
“My lawyers are warning me about what I say about Billy,” she said.
“Of course they are,” he said. “They’re lawyers. They’re supposed to warn you about what you say. Is there anything in the divorce decree that prohibits you from speaking out about Billy in a negative manner?”
“No,” she said.
“It’ll be the truth,” he said. “The truth is your defense, and it’ll set you free. It’ll also be worth about a million dollars to each of us.”
“You want to split it 50/50?” she said.
“Yeah,” said Stan. “I know Billy. I grew up with him. I know how to get stuff on him, where to go and who to talk to, that other writers don’t have. I’m a writer. Writers write. I’ve been down in the dumps a long time, but I’m ready to come back. I've let people walk all over me. I guess I don't have an instinct for the jugular...until now. I've thought of myself as a moral person. Maybe I’m not so moral. I don't know. It doesn't matter. Whaddaya say?”
“Let me think about it,” said Desiree. “It’s an interesting proposal.”
“Good enough,” said Stan. “Do me a favor, though.”
“What?” she asked.
“Don’t tell anybody about this,” he said.
“Okay,” she replied.
Two weeks later, Desiree called Stan.
“I think I want to write this book,” she told him.
“Great,” said Stan. “We should meet. We need to put together a proposal that I can take to an agent, who can take it to publishers. What are you doing this afternoon?”
“Come on by,” she told him.
Stan showed up at Desiree’s house at 1:30 in the afternoon. For three hours, they went over her life with Billy. It was even juicer than Stan had thought it would be. It was pure dynamite. She talked about group sex. She talked about Billy asking her to have sex with his teammates, and her agreeing. About how she provided her stripper and porn star friends for Billy and his teammates. Names of famous athletes were mentioned left and right. Married players. Upstanding citizens. Managers. Hall of Famers. Politicians. Business leaders. Broadcasters. Everybody had been in on the shenanigans in some way, shape or form.
“This book’s gonna blow the top off of baseball,” Stan said.
Desiree knew all about drug use, steroid abuse, gambling, criminal activities, and a host of other seedy inside stories. She knew stories about union lawyers and club owners.
“Billy killed a man in Scottsdale, Arizona,” she told him.
“What?” said Stan.
“He was driving drunk,” Desiree said. “He paid off the man’s family $5 million.” She went on to detail numerous terrible things Billy had done, all of them covered up by lawyers and team officials.
"I laugh when I hear about this Pete Rose guy who is not in baseball because he bet on games," said Desiree. "Billy threw several games. He threw a game against the A's at Yankee Stadium in 1991. He bet on baseball, basketball, football. Sometimes he bet on himself. Sometimes he bet against himself. He had teammates in on it with him. He didn't even do it for money, what did he need the money for, ya know? He did it because he was above the game, because he fucking could, right?"
Steroids?
"Billy did a lot of steroids when I knew him," said Desiree. "It was new and he did it to look like a stud for the girls, not for baseball. He's so vain it's unbelievable. It wasn't until that football player died that he realized it might be harmful. He couldn't fuck worth a shit when he was cycled on that shit."
Mob connections?
"Billy backed a nation-wide ecstasy ring with a guy who had been a big boss in the New York syndicate," Desiree said. "When the man was arrested and the ring broken up, Billy was out a million bucks."
Drugs?
"Billy did coke," Desiree said. "He usually stayed away from those kinds of drugs, but in the off-season he'd do it. Once I was with Billy and another player in L.A. We went to this warehouse. It was owned by this Latino guy, I think he was a coach for the Dodgers. He had this side business selling colognes and shit. Billy and this other player picked out all these colognes. They were snorting coke all the while. Finally they were done and they were wired. They both wanted to party and needed some strange. I had a girlfriend in Pasadena, so we went up there. She had to fly out the next day early, so she didn't wanna party, but Billy wouldn't take no for an answer.
"So we all went out to Old Pasadena, and snorted coke, and went back to her house and did some more blow. Then Billy fucked my girlfriend. I was passed out and didn't care, I never cared. How could I, ya know?
"Next day, she's got an early plane to catch. Billy wakes up and we still have a limo and driver, so they go to the airport, my girlfriend and Billy, only they get into an accident on the Pasadena Freeway. Billy called her a cab on his cell and gave her a hundred bucks for the ride to the airport. The cops came and saw Billy was still high, but Billy called his lawyer and he came down and Billy got out of it, 'cause he wasn't driving and the lawyer said their wasn't probable cause to test him for drugs."
It always came back to sex, however. In the course of talking about lascivious, often-sexual things, over the course of three hours, both Stan and Desiree found themselves getting hot and bothered.
Stan felt comfortable around her, and she had a good feeling about him.
“You know Ashley Michelle?” he asked her.
“Sure, I know her,” said Desiree.
“I was supposed to marry her last year,” Stan said.
“You’re kidding,” she said.
Stan went on to explain how she had used Ashton Gear to entice him in a sex romp, and after saying no, Michelle had left Ashton with him to "test" him.
"I guess I failed that test," said Stan.
“So she can have sex with a thousand guys in the movies,” she said, “but you can’t have one fling?”
“I guess not,” said Stan. “She offered Ashton to me, but I didn’t want to do it with Michelle. But when Ashton came on to me in the shower, my cock was so hard I coulda drilled a hole through a brick wall with it. I let my guard down.”
“If peop
le like to fuck,” Desiree said, “they should just fuck.”
“I suppose that’s a common sense approach,” said Stan.
Stan had spent a lot of time around porn stars. He seemed to know what made these “sex goddesses” tick. He was tremendously turned on by Desiree. He had not had sex since Michelle left him. He had not been to a bar, a strip club, or watched a porn flick. He had not even “taken matters into his own hands.” He was so built up and on the edge that he felt like he might need a doctor to lance him in order to relieve the pressure. Furthermore, he had crossed a strange new Rubicon in his life. His suicidal thoughts had broken him down. His morality was wobbling. He questioned, not his faith, but himself. His self-worth and identity. He did not know if he would ever see Kaitlyn again. He had serious questions whether a happy, normal life was his destiny. He leaned over and started to kiss Desiree.
"Fuck it," he said.
Stan made love to Desiree for four hours. She was everything he fantasized that she might be. She was a rival with Rebecca and Michelle when it came to “all-time greats” in his Sexual Conquest Hall of Fame.
Stan had been out of circulation for a long time, but he felt an odd sense of freedom. He was going to write this book. He did not care what people thought. He did not care that it might make him a pariah in the baseball community. He did not care what his fellow journalists thought. He was not sure how, but somewhere in all of this Larry Wishborn was going to get his. He was not even sure if he could get an agent or a publisher. He was not sure how much money he would make, but that was not what motivated him. What motivated him, what motivated Desiree, was one of the oldest of human emotions.
Revenge.
Stan hated Billy Boswell, not just for skipping on him when he needed him to make the book deal happen, but also for all the ancient slights. The rivalry. The MVP that Billy had won at Williamsport, when Stan had earned that trophy by shutting out those overgrown, overage Taiwanese robots. For breaking his heart at Dodger Stadium their senior year. For leading UCLA to glory while his Trojans were also-rans. For his penthouse suite life of easy sex with white girls who worshipped his black ass. What the fuck!
Mostly, for becoming a Goddamned legend while he, Stan Taylor, had been forced to live life on the margins. All that glory, fame, money, that should have been his. He at least should have been able to share the life. Boswell had never returned his phone calls or acknowledged him all those years. Instead, he had been an outsider looking in. He would get in now.
Stan felt something else, something new. It had been there all along. Nagging racial prejudices. His religious views, his sense of morality, his desire to do it differently from his father, had taught him to resist racism. Yet now, after everything, it tugged at him, an ugly bastard nipping at his heels. He was, after all, Dan Taylor's son. He had listened to Dan's rants all his life. How could he help but have some of it rub off on him? Racism was ugly and evil, but Stan had taken a step towards ugliness and evil. He was angry and ready to be reckless about it. His angriness was not aimed simply at Billy. Maybe Billy was a symbol of some kind. But Stan had a Goddamn shit list.
Desiree probably had no real good reason for wanting to exact revenge on Billy. She was one of those broads that Stan theorized about, beautiful on the outside and rotten to the core. She had become wealthy because of Billy. But she was on the outs, and girls like Desiree do not like being on the outs. Girls like Desiree need the klieg lights. They need to be the center of attraction. She had her houses and money. She had no desire to marry anybody, even to have a regular boyfriend, and she was way too selfish to ever put her body through pregnancy. She would be a brutal mother anyway. But she did not like the idea of this ball player writing some book and trying to whitewash all the dark things she knew he had done. Bullshit.
She and Stan had the hots for each other, but the attraction ended there. They would be willing to use each other. That was that, and it was enough.
Stan checked his messages.
“Hey brother,” he heard Mac’s voice. “Haven’t heard from you in awhile, I’ve been worried. I think I need to get you out. A bunch of us are gonna be at Sharkey’s. Meet us down there, `cause sometimes a man’s gotta do a little bit a drinkin’.
Stan called Mac and caught him on his cell.
“Dude,” he said. “I think I’m ready to bust out of my funk. I’ll meet you at Sharkey’s.”
Stan asked Desiree if she would like to go out and have a drink with him and his friends, but she decided to stay in.
“Maybe we shouldn’t be seen together right away,” Stan said. “But I want to come back. Tomorrow?”
“Not want out yet?” Desiree asked, grabbing his crotch.
“I got a long way to go before I get tired of you,” he told her. Stan left her house a little before 10.
Matt Hobli had never been an observant Jew. His father had been raised that way on the East Coast, but he was not built that way. He came out West to be free and raise his family without the cloistered, guilt-ridden Jewish life that all his elders seemed to have been sentenced to.
Matt was a normal kid. He liked sports. Like all eight-year olds, he would rather play grab-ass with the guys than be around girls. His religion was not a factor growing up. In California, neighborhoods were places people ascended to. They were not the ethnic enclaves of New York City, where Irish kids chased Jew-boys and Italians hated blacks. In California, a kid named Herschberg was not identified and coded in some special classification. Parents did not raise their kids that way, and the kids did not think about it.
But Matt did know that the black kid was different. Billy Boswell was the only African-American in his school. There was something about Boswell. Matt felt a kinship with him from the beginning. A primal fascination. In the second grade, before Boswell had established his incredible sports reputation, they were drawn to each other perhaps out of the shared sense that they were misfits.
That Summer, they went to the local swimming pool, spending the day enjoying the sun and fun like a million other kids. Then they went into the shower, and Billy pulled his bathing suit off. He was only eight, but he already had impressive physical equipment. Matt Hobli stared at Billy's schlong and his life changed. He had never seen anything like it before. He had no idea what homosexuality was. Sex had never entered his mind. But he knew that he liked Billy Boswell's schlong. He wanted to touch it.
"Hey, see that Anna-Marie Weston out there," Billy suddenly said.
"Huh," stumbled Matt.
"Anna-Marie Weston," said Billy. "Blonde girl, she's in our class at school. Didn'tcha see her out at the pool? I like her."
"Oh, yeah," said Matt.
For several years, Matt Hobli fantasized about Billy Boswell. When they started playing little league, it was obvious that Billy was the best athlete in their class. His prowess as an athlete, and his status as the son of a big league star, made him a special person. The fact that he was black made Billy special, too. There was a sense of liberalism in which the white families went out of their way to be more than fair to the black Boswell's and their child Billy, to make them feel welcome. It was a way that whites had of making themselves feel better, and in the 1970s it was part of America changing for the better.
Matt Hobli went along for the ride. He was not great looking. His sports skills were marginal at best. He was smart but not popular in his own right. By hanging on to Billy's coattails, he established his identity. That identity was as Billy's sidekick, his pal, his loyal buddy. He held that identity more tightly than anything in his life, and would continue to do so.
Matt was sexually attracted to Billy. He did not really understand his feelings until he was 13 or 14, when he identified himself as a homosexual. It was around that time that Billy was beginning to make his mark with the white girls in Palos Verdes. Billy liked girls and they liked him back. He lost his virginity in the seventh grade and that was just the start. Matt was confused by his feelings about Billy's female admirers. Bei
ng Billy's friend made him popular with the girls, too. Matt grew up around sports, and Billy was a 100 percent jock. He acted like a jock and talked like one. Matt did, too. He effectuated all the characteristics of a macho sportsman. On the field, he wore his uniform just right, spit sunflowers like a guy was supposed to, swore in the proper manner, and ogled chicks. Matt tried to be bi-sexual. He liked guys. In particular, he liked Billy. But there was no doubt that Billy was straight, and there was no chance. So Matt tried to like girls. He kissed them and messed around. It was something he learned how to do. He never learned how to like it.
Matt attached himself to the Boswell family. The Boswell's were at first amused by this sycophantic Jewish kid. Al Boswell had white friends during his playing career, but the family was pre-disposed to being distrustful of whites. Matt's father, the doctor, was a condescending liberal who viewed friendship with blacks more as an obligation than a natural development. Billy's grandparents viewed the Hobli's with a jaundiced eye. They had seen white folks like the Hobli's, Jews who attached themselves to the civil rights cause. There was a political slant to these people. Everybody wanted something out of somebody else.
What overcame all of these parental suspicions was the purest form of friendship. Billy liked Matt. He was his friend. Billy was the New Breed. He had no memories of racism. The stories were passed down to him, for sure, and he was even "warned," in subtle words, about Matt. But it was immaterial to his world. In his world, he played baseball for the joy of it. He liked girls for the same reason any other red-blooded American kid liked girls. He was friends with Matt because they liked each other's company and made each other laugh. The friendship lasted because, as time went by, Matt did not ask anything of Billy. His dad had warned Billy that people would want things from him if he became a great athlete, and as early as junior high school, this fact was already apparent to Billy. Matt just remained his friend Matt.
In high school, Matt became Billy's assistant. Billy was in demand by college recruiters, professional scouts, adoring classmates, and enticing girls. He needed a social secretary of sorts, and Matt was happy to handle this chore. It was during this time that the feelings of hatred and disgust permeated his consciousness. Billy did not just have girlfriends. He did not just have sex. He flaunted it. He took on two, three, four girls at a time. He shuffled them around and laughed about it. He had the sex life of a Roman emperor. Orgies and wild extravagances.
If Billy had just enjoyed a normal, quiet heterosexuality, Matt could have handled that. But Billy went way beyond that. He preferred to live like a modern Caligula, being fed proverbial grapes by a harem of rich white girls. Matt's frustrations began to grow, but he held it in check.
Matt entered El Camino Junior College, a relatively short drive down the San Diego Freeway from UCLA, where Billy was a two-sport star. He spent most of his college years in Westwood with Billy. If Billy's sexual adventures seemed outrageous in high school, they were almost grotesque in college. Successful college jocks have always done well with women, especially at a school with exceptionally attractive coeds like UCLA. But Billy took it to new heights. The records he set on the baseball and football fields were nothing compared to his sexual conquests. If statistics were kept on his activities, he would have broken every record. Billy had the unique ability to "re-produce." That is, he could have sex, reach ejaculation, and achieve erection a few minutes later. He could satisfy numerous women at the same time, and this became his modus operandi.
When Matt was 21 years old, he went to visit Billy. He walked in the door, entered the bedroom, and saw a naked Billy with six girls spread out on his bed before him. It was not sex so much as it was a display, and it disgusted Matt.
Thoughts flashed through his head. He wanted to kill the girls. He wanted to blow Billy. He wanted to kill Billy. He wanted to kill himself.
"Man," said Matt, "you got it going on."
"Hey dude," said Billy, "help me out, bra."
So Matt took his clothes off and jumped right in. He maintained an erection by watching Billy screw the other girls. It was the only way he could have sex with girls. He never had sex with any girl on his own. It took some doing, because he had women who came around, but he never did.
Matt knew the ugly feelings he had when he saw Billy with all those girls had to be repressed. He loved Billy. He had photos of him that he used for fantasy purposes when he pleasured himself. He held his secret tightly. Nobody knew. He never, ever let his guard down. He managed to live with himself and his urges.
Then Billy signed with the Yankees and moved to New York. Matt stayed in L.A., but visited Billy often. Billy's sexual gymnastics in New York were insane, even more incredible than his college performance. He called Matt and gave him juicy details. Matt was a better actor than Olivier. He deserved an Academy Award for his ability to play the convincing straight sexaholic.
The great test came when Billy met Desiree. Matt was able to handle the high school prick teasers, the college fuck bunnys, and the big league groupies. Desiree pushed his buttons too far. She was the very embodiment of feminine temptation. In her, Matt saw himself. She was an opportunist, and she was the first girl who actually started to come between Billy and himself. He hated her and planned to kill her. He flew to New York with some bad heroin that he planned to inject in her, hoping she would overdose. Desiree was a coke whore, not a heroin junkie, and the opportunity never quite presented itself. Matt threw the junk away. In the mean time, he continued to pretend that he dug Desiree. He never let on.
He thought about killing Desiree again, but could not figure out how to do it. Matt had more homicidal thoughts about Billy, but repressed them. He played the game and bided his time. He fantasized about having sex with Billy. He thought about drugging him. It ate at him. The best news of his life was when Billy's marriage to Desiree broke up. Finally, when Billy started to talk down about Desiree, Matt was free to express his hatred of her, although he continued to couch his words so as not to show his true feelings. He always framed his attitude about her through the lens of her relationship with Billy.
Years went by. Billy signed with the Dodgers, and moved home. He put Matt on his payroll as his "media assistant," and whatever else he needed. Matt was happy to see that Billy did not marry again. He hated the idea of Billy being married. Somehow, that made it impossible for Matt to fantasize. If Billy were married, and God forgive, if he should have children and even settle down, then Matt might not be able to recover.
Then Matt was confronted by his worst fears. After the 2001 season, Billy attended a UCLA football game at the Rose Bowl. Various alumni tents were set up around the stadium prior to the game, and Billy made the rounds, playing the role of Bruin icon. While hobnobbing with fellow alumni, he saw a girl named Jessica Hurtle. Jessica had been one of the best-looking black girls at UCLA when Billy was there. Billy dug white girls, but he made some play for Jessica. Jessica was determined not to have anything to do with Billy Boswell. It was not that she was not attracted to him. Rather, she did not want to be part of his well-known harem.
Jessica was a middle class girl from El Cajon, near San Diego. She had a boyfriend at UCLA, a black law student. She was there to get an education and make something of herself. She was not looking for a husband, but if she was looking for a man it was definitely not a sex maniac. Billy Boswell was a sex maniac. After graduation, Jessica married the law student and became a schoolteacher in Pasadena. Her husband joined a law firm in Pasadena. They were married nine years with no children, but the passion was not there and they were divorced.
Jessica went to the gym for an hour a day and stayed in great shape. She dated and occasionally slept with men, but was selective about it. She lived in a condo that she owned in La Canada-Flintridge. Jessica went to UCLA football games with a white sorority sister who she had stayed friends with all these years. She was in the tent prior to the game when Boswell spotted her.
"Jessica...Hurtle," Boswell said.
/> She turned.
"Billy Boswell," she said.
They struck up a conversation. Jessica knew all about Billy's baseball career, his marriage, and his lady-killer reputation. She was not impressed with that kind of thing. But she was also getting bored, and looking for excitement. When Billy asked for her phone number, she gave it to him.
Boswell called two days later, and they started to go out. Jessica was one of the few "normal" women Billy had ever dated, and he liked it. Now 37, going on 38 years old, Billy for the first time began to think about settling down and having children. Jessica was the perfect girl to do that with. The natural pull of experience and maturity was having its effect.
The relationship flowered. In the Spring of 2002, Matt received a phone call.
"Dude," said Billy, "I'm getting married."
"To Jessica?" said Matt, excitedly. Oh God no. "That's great." Oh God no.
"Matt," said Billy, "I'm gonna be a daddy."
"That's awesome," said Matt. Ohhhh. "I think she's gonna be great for you, bro. She's perfect." Oh shit.
When the conversation was over, Matt closed his eyes and fantasized about Billy. He loved him, and he hated him. He hated this life, this secret. Nobody knew. He lived for Billy. He had sex four times with three gay men in his life, all of them outside of Los Angeles. They were random guys who he had not kept in contact with and they did not know anything about him or Billy Boswell. His secret fantasies were about Billy Boswell, not anybody else. He thought about killing Jessica. He thought about killing Billy. He could not kill Billy, because he "loved" him. But he could fuck with his life. Oh, yes, he could do that!
Billy had told Matt about Jessica first. He had not told anybody else, except his family, about her or the baby. His dates with Jessica had been kept a secret from the public, which took some doing. Jessica was one of the reasons Billy was going to write a book. He wanted to rehab his image, whitewash his past, and establish for the first time an identity as a black man. He would marry a black girl after years being with mostly white women.
A few nights later, Matt saw Desiree and her lawyer on television, talking about how they were going to respond to Billy's book. The feelings of hate, mixed with passion, lust, and frustration, all came together.
At the same time that Stan was leaving Desiree’s, Matt got in his car in Beverly Hills. He drove up Sunset to Laurel Canyon Boulevard, and made the trek over the hill, to the other side of Mulholland.
As he drove, Matt’s mind raced with justification for what he was about to do. If Matt had revealed his true nature, Billy not only would have cut him off, he might have hurt him. Badly. Matt hated his repression. He hated the way Billy was with all those women, while disdainfully talking about “faggots.” Billy had it all. The money, the fame, the women, the talent. Matt was now in his late 30s and had nothing to show for himself. All he had was because of Billy. He had never been married, had no family, and no life outside of the “Billy Boswell business.” Something had been there a long time. It had surfaced and been held in check. Now it was boiling over.
Matt wanted Billy to go down. The guy had gotten away with murder, or at least manslaughter. Matt knew everything. The man killed in Arizona. The abortions, the drug deals, the gambling, everything. Billy was seen as a jerk, but the public knew little about his darkest secrets. Now the son of a bitch was going to get married and have a family. Like "Leave it to fucking Beaver"? He was going to write some bullshit book with that clown Larry Wishborn that would be pure fiction. All of the sudden Billy was ready to conform, to play the game. If Matt could not have Billy, some broad who knew him for five minutes at UCLA was not going to just come in and take over.
He also knew that if something were to happen to Desiree, especially after she threatened to blow the lid on Billy’s life, the police would look to Billy. They would dig into the allegations that had hung over him, but had never been really proven. Billy had good reason for Desiree to be dead.
Matt also harbored another secret. Matt had listened to Billy’s “black jive” for 20 years. He had lived around this environment, in which being back was cool and hip and in. He hated the way he was expected to be. The nice Jewish boy who was fair to the blacks. Matt hated blacks. He had held it in his whole life, but he hated them. He had learned not just to hide it, but to become just like them. To use words like "bro" and "bra" and "whas'sup?" But it was not his life. He was Billy's pal, not Matt Hobli's own man. He loved Billy, but it was not a natural love. He had pretended it to be that way for his benefit. It was his ticket to the in crowd. He was infatuated with Boswell. He was sexually drawn to Boswell, and had taught himself to hide it, repress it, and make it seem like the kind of friendship that men have for each other. Matt was torn apart with feelings, dividing his emotions with love, lust and racial animosity. He had never let his racial feelings known to a soul.
Matt despised Billy's grandparents. They were old-time black people who had grown up poor. As far as Matt was concerned, they were low rent Negroids. But he had hidden that, kissing them, hugging them, and showing them respect. He could not stand all this talk about Rosa Parks and Dr. King!
Martin Luther King, Matt thought contemptuously. What a joke. Blacks wanted respect, but for what? For the way black men skipped out on their children? For the way they filled up the welfare rolls? For the way they pimped women and did drugs and committed crimes? Jews were the ones who had to "overcome." Blacks talked up slavery, but did not know jack shit about the Holocaust. But blacks were great athletes, dancers, singers, all these things that made them cool. Fuck 'em all, he thought as he drove over Laurel Canyon.
Matt Hobli was the Angry White Male!
Matt had a glass that he knew had Billy’s fingerprints on it. He also had a knife that Billy had bought a year earlier, when they were planning a hunting trip. He arrived at Desiree’s home 15 minutes after Stan left. He had no clue that Stan had made contact with her. Matt had scoped the house out earlier, and he knew her habits. She left a sliding glass door open. Matt parked down the street and walked quietly, in the dark. He carried a bag. Inside it was the glass with Billy’s fingerprints. Matt left the bag outside, and slipped inside the house with the knife. He was wearing gloves.
She was watching television and never heard him coming. Matt reached back and took one enormous swipe at Desiree, almost severing her head from her body. She was dead instantly.
He got the bag, brought it in, removed the glass, and left it on her sink. He washed the knife. Then he left, as quietly and unnoticed as he had entered. He took the knife with him. Matt drove home and kept the knife until the next morning, when he went over to Billy’s house and put it back where it had been, its disappearance having gone unnoticed.
Desiree had a maid who came in once a week. She discovered her two days later. The police were called, and that afternoon, word that Billy Boswell’s ex-wife had been murdered in a most gruesome manner was all over the news.
The media made a big deal of Billy’s upcoming book and Desiree’s televised statement that she would blow the lid off of him, that she knew all of his secrets. The speculation about whether Billy killed her was immediate.
Stan heard about it on the news, and immediately drove to the Studio City station of the Los Angeles Police Department to give a statement. He told them everything; that he had been there, probably on the night she was murdered, that he had sex with her, that they were going to collaborate on a book together, and that he had an axe to grind on Billy after the autobiography had gone sour. But that was it. The police thanked Stan for coming forward with what he knew.
Then the fingerprints came back from the glass.
“Billy was at Desiree’s,” blared the L.A. Times. The cops went to his house and found the knife that matched the kind of cut and serration that had lopped Desiree's head off. Billy was arrested.
Matt had counted on Billy being at home alone that night. Jessica was visiting relatives. Billy had been faithful to he
r, but he got a phone call that night from Jill Jackson. Jill's husband was a 20-game winner for the Dodgers. Billy had been banging her on the side for two years. She needed her Billy Boswell fix that night and called him, begging him to let her come over. For 30 minutes Billy told Jill, a sexy actress who had also tried to make a career as a singer, that he was spoken for now.
"Billy Boswell spoken for?" Jill said. "Bullshit. You're talkin' to Jill, baby. Spoken for, my ass."
"Shit," said Billy. "I give up. Come on over."
So Jill came over to Billy's house.
Billy hated to do it, but he had to use her as his alibi. It meant letting his teammate know he had been screwing his wife, and ruining their marriage. That took a back seat to getting himself out of jail.
Now the cops had to look someplace else.