Interesting. Insinuating. A kool Koreatown address.
I moved my mouse. I caught cues. I ordered the book overnite. I sat back. I pondered pantyphile pathos and me.
Odds on Donna danger: 10 to 1 against. The reality: Rhino Rick battles boredom and entrenched ennui.
There it is: that Stephanie stasis/that Donna disjuncture. Unfathomable crimes/unattainable women—and me.
I sat there. I salaamed into sadness. I set truth traps and snared me. You don’t prize the prosaic. Opportunity owns you. You foreswore family for possibility.
It was dinnertime. I had no warm woman, no kid cacophony. I marked my moment: Porno-site printouts. Filthy fetishism as opportunity.
I wanted more deep Donna moments. Danger would mandate them. My primordial prayer was for peril to paralyze her and free me. Donna for love. Stephanie to stamp me as figurehead father and father-obsessee.
It was 10:00 p.m. Donna was diverted with dog and lucky lover. Stephanie was still stamped DEAD.
Possibility. Cop conundrum as communion. Stephanie’s house called to me.
4.
Jolting Joe Tierney—all hail the Chief!
He sized me up silent. He eyeball engaged me. His gaze cut to the quick.
I called his office. I made the meet. I sat steady now. Junkyard Joe Tierney—you malevolent mick.
He said, “The rhino regalia works for the most part. I like the tie bar and the belt buckle, but the rhino-patterned tie has to go.”
The chair chafed my ass. The office offended. The pictures piqued me.
Joe T. and the Pope—a Polack pals pose. Joe T. and that boss babe Mother Teresa. Joe T. and Hillary Clinton—dyked-out like bull-dagger Biff.
I said, “Thanks, Chief. I’ll take you with me the next time I go shopping at Costco.”
Tierney yukked. “You know, this is not the righteous right-wing white man’s LAPD you grew up in.”
I yukked. “Yeah, call me lucky. I got to waste three spooks and two wetbacks pre-Rodney King.”
“You’ve got panáche, Rhino. I’ll give you that. And you’re smart enough to know that the Department can’t handle more bad publicity right now. We’ve got civilian litigation up the ying-yang, we’re hamstrung by the Consent Decree, and our officers are afraid to make arrests, because every street creep they jack up is thinking lawsuit.”
I yukked and yawned. I was tapped out and tired. I stayed up late at Stephanie’s.
“Did you call me in for a valid reason, or did you just want to critique my wardrobe?”
Tierney tapped his teeth. Booze breath blew my way. One malign mick/one power-lunch lush.
“All right, let’s get to it. You knew Danny Getchell. You gave him dope for information, which was a common practice in those days. Your mistake was giving dope to a guy who kept files and wrote everything down. Now, Danny’s dead, but Gary Getchell’s alive, and he doesn’t like our chum Captain Lauter. He’s mentioned him in one Hush-Hush piece, and he may be thinking he can milk Narco Division in upcoming pieces that will gravely embarrass the Department as a whole. Your job is to dissuade him.”
I seethed silent. Hold for the humping. Thrill to the threat.
I held hard. Junkyard Joe mowed out martini fumes and maimed me.
“I wouldn’t want to press departmental charges on you for indiscretions that came to light via Hush-Hush. So, you and Tom Ludlow lean on Gary Getchell and tell him to lay off Captain Lauter and the LAPD. Tell him we’re sacrosanct, tell him never to use his files against us, and make your point with some pain.”
MUSCLE JOB— MAN- O - MAN! Coercive copwork calls!
I humped to Hollywood Station. Phone Book Tom stood outside. We bopped to Bel-Air CC.
Tom trumpeted trouble. He waved a Westside book and wafted obscenities. He still stiffed dirty phone calls. He still “nabbed nymphos” and “bagged bitches” that way. He still got vivid Vietnam flashbacks. Said flashbacks floored him. He dug the noxious nostalgia and draconian dramaturgy. Aaah, youth! Tender times of torture and vivisected VC!
We hit Bel-Air. I saw unmarked cop cars undulate up Udine Way. Dig the full daytime rehearsal for the fiend who fends by night. Beautiful Bel-Air: prime turf for the hot-prowl bandido. Rolling stakeouts tapped for tonite.
There’s the country club. There’s the caddy parking lot. Dig that dinged-up Dodge Dart. Dig that calcified Cadiblack and that lake-piped Lincoon Coontinental.
There’s a vandalized van. It’s flame-painted and flat-tired. The windshield’s cracked and crushed. The back door’s bent free.
There’s Gary Getchell inside. There’s a mimeograph machine. He’s packaging items—perchance panties?
We parked and popped over. Getchell piled panties and plied them in plastic baggies. Dig the van’s wild wall pix—all vintage Hush-Hush.
Marilyn Monroe: Mandingo-esque miscegenist! Ava Gardner’s dusky delights! Johnnie Ray’s men’s room misadventure! Hunky homo Rock Hudson!
Getchell said, “Fuzz, huh? This feels like grief I don’t need.”
Tom tapped his phone book. The binding: busted loose from overuse. The page ends: bristly brown from blood.
I said, “Don’t use the files. That means no Lauter and no LAPD.”
Getchell guffawed. He picked up a panty package. He twirled it Tom’s way.
“Ten bucks a sniff. What do you say, caveman? Megan won’t mind, and it just might tighten up your wig.”
I signaled Tom. Tom torqued his phone book. One bonaroo backhand—Getchell’s snout snapped.
His nose dripped and bipped blood on plastic. Dig the panty-package stains.
I said, “Don’t use the files. No Lauter, no LAPD.”
Getchell popped a panty pack. Getchell hooked out a hanky-panty and blew his beak.
“Last call. Two sniffs for fifteen snoots. You cats are way out on the sex-violence nexus. Come on, two sniffs for ten. That’s my last offer.”
I signaled Tom. Tom torqued his phone book. One fine forehand—Getchell got thwapped.
I said, “Don’t use the files. No Lauter, no LAPD. Say yes and we’re gone.”
Getchell groaned and grimaced. Getchell tugged a tooth loose. Dig the devastated dentistry.
“Here’s my final offer. The Megan More Premier DVD Collection, plus two sniffs apiece, for ten scoots. Come on, I’m taking it up the shit chute on this.”
I signaled Tom. Tom torqued his phone book. One overboard overhand—Getchell flew and flattened out on the floor.
He coughed. More blood blossomed. More teeth tore free.
I said, “Don’t use the files. Come on, Gary. I’m not enjoying this.”
Getchell got up. He stood stern and stared at me.
“I know about you and that actress cooze. Fall ’83. Does that sound familiar? I hate that cooze, ’cause a friend of mine does, but there’s this avenging angel out there.”
A cold curtain caught and contained me. It held me and hurt me and bloomed like blood.
I grabbed the phone book. I backhanded bad and forehanded fierce and underhanded uggggly. Getchell banged the walls. The van rocked and rolled. Phone Book Tom pulled me free.
NIX THAT NEXUS. Say sí to sex. Violence—voice a nyet.
I moped through a muscle-job menopause. I felt fucked up and fit for shit. I was apocalyptic and apologetic. Post-panty depression hit me.
I dropped off Tom L. I drove by Stephanie’s pad. I salved my soiled soul and heard my cell phone sizzle.
Conflicting calls. Donna’s at the Hamburger Hamlet, Donna’s chilled out at Chia Brasserie.
I hooked by the Hamlet. A Donna look-alike lapped lager in a leatherette booth. I chugged by Chia. Charlie Chink said, “Miss Donahue get food to go.”
Dusk. Deign me Donna-deprived, down in the dumps and digging on diversion. I drove to the hot-prowl stakeout.
Bel-Air again. Regal Roscomere Road. Piles of palm trees and sparkling Spanish mansions. Two unmarked units parked at perimeter posts. West L.A. cops couched in one. Dave S
latkin and a piebald pit bull piled in another.
I parked behind the pitmobile. I joined Dave and the dog. Said dog: all lapping love for LAPD and all malicious muscle. Dave: dander-dusted and deep in dog-lover delight.
We settled in. We sipped corrosive coffee. We shot the shit.
We agreed: Fuck the Lauter/Narco/Getchell file fantasia. Linus laundered Leotis’s dope cash. Linus fathered Leotis—loin linkage went deep. Joe Tierney—our new Chief—fearful of the Feds. I said this deal hops hinky—weird shit shears this way and that. Dave said it meant fuck-all. Fuck it and forget it, and feast on this:
Tim found a file box. Dig—it’s detritus on Stephanie. The box: back at Parker Center. Tim found it in an old file bank. It was crammed into a crevicelike crawl space.
We resettled in. We racked our seats back recumbent. Pancho the pit bull surveilled the street. Dave hoped the hot-prowl man was a boogie. Pancho craved dark meat.
The night was dead dark. Dave dug it. Listen—this lout’s lunar-tuned.
Dave dug in. Dave profiled the prick.
He’s a full-fledged fiend. He’s Donald Keith Bashor made millennial. Bashor righteously rape-o’d one woman. Bashor almost rape-o’d Karil Graham in death. Our guy’s female-fucked. He’s out to instigate an image. His hot prowls: preludes to rape. He’s looking for the woman.
I agreed. I added: And he’s brazen. You can’t drive through Bel-Air or Holmby Hills and not bid big-time suspicion. Dave agreed. Dave added: He walks. It’s why he’s lunar-tuned. He’s down on darkness.
I agreed. I added: He parks south and sidles up silent. South of Wilshire equals Holmby Hills, south of Sunset equals Bel-Air. Dave agreed. Dave added: He could go to ground on golf courses. L.A. Country Club/Holmby Hills, Bel-Air CC/Bel-Air.
Our talk tapped out. We yawned. Pancho snored and snoozed in my lap. I slipped into sleep. Dreams drifted through.
Stephanie. Donna. Time suspended surreal. Gary Getchell, beat on and bold: “I hate that cooze, ’cause a friend of mind does, but there’s this avenging angel out there.” Angels rigged as ridgebacks—choice cherubs with coarse coats and dog faces. Megan More lez-leering at Donna.
I dream-droned. I slid in and out of sleep. Pancho panted beside me. I made him my mascot. I framed the front seat as my marriage bed with Donna. Dig the mastiff metamorphosis—pit bull Pancho as Reggie Ridgeback.
Our radio rumbled. Static stammered and stuck. I woke up woozy. Dave jerked and woke up—
“2-A-44, hit your brights!”
Dave caught the key. The engine engaged. I lit the low beams and brought on the brights. Right there—midnite made broad daylight.
A Spanish manse laid to our left. A large lady screaming. Light behind her—2-A-43’s brights.
The woman scree-scree-screamed. She stumbled down the steps. She dug at a dart in her neck. Man down in the doorway— her man in matching pj’s. He’s two-dart devastated: one dart in each eyeball. He looks dart-defiled dead.
Two cops coming up—2-A-43—on foot faaaast. That large lady on her lawn, screaming. It’s all front-lit-framed with back lights bouncing.
I pulled my piece. Dave pulled his piece. Pancho piled out the window. We lurched into the light. A car cut in front of us. It ran in reverse. I caught a brief blip: sixty-plus white man, grinning.
We fired. We hit the car. Ricochets resounded. The other cops fired. They hit the car. Ricochets racked up and reverbed.
Pancho ran. The car ran in reverse. Pancho dived in the driver’s side window. The hot-prowl hump raised his trank gun. Pam—Pancho picked up a dart.
We chased the car. We fired. Four fuckers on foot, one reverse rocket ship. The car careened backward. It banged backyard fences and tore through trellis posts. We ran. We reloaded. We ran and shot at the reverse rocket. We ran and ran out of ammo. The car barged through backyards and disappeared in the dark.
THE FUCK RELANDSCAPED eight backyards. The fuck fucking ex-caped.
A SWAT team swung through. They door-knocked and bopped through backyards. No Hot-Prowl Harvey extant. Choppers churned overhead. Their belly lights burned. No Hot-Prowl Harry hiding. No 60-plus sickos seen.
Pancho lived. One dart to the duodenum—no damage there. Dave kissed and caressed him and came on with dog treats. I posited Pancho for LAPD honors. The SWAT cops agreed.
The two-dart man died. Toxic shock tore through his system. His wife stood strong. She stuttered out a statement.
She heard hinky noises. She woke up. There’s Hot-Prowl Hal in her bedroom. He’s got his hot-prowl hamster out. He’s siphoning said python in her lingerie drawer.
She shrieks. Hot-Prowl Humphrey darts her. Her hubby wakes up. Hot-Prowl double-darts him.
A lab crew hit the house. They ladled up the lingerie and located some jizz. DNA testable—yeah! Dip it through the DNA database and hold your hot-prowl breath.
The crew crawled entry points. They found fresh dirt by a dinged door lock. The crew crept backyards. They walked down to the west Bel-Air gate. Similar dirt—in scuff patterns on the sidewalk.
Dave and I talked. The 2-A-43 guys talked. All hands agreed:
We couldn’t eyeball-ID the hot-prowl hellhound. No way to cut a composite. No way to initiate an Identikit pic.
We all popped to Parker Center. We mowed through mug books and looked for likenesses. One sixtyish sicknik—nothing popped out.
Dawn. The Chief of Detectives arrives and anoints us. Hey, Jenson and Slatkin. Grab Tim Marti and work this hot-prowl homicide.
Dave dug it. Dave was an emphatic empiricist and a dedicated Donald Keith Bashor-phile. His take: Our guy was older. He might be hot-prowl hip to his bad Bashor-like roots. He’d killed now. He masturbated moments before. He fucked the fuzz on his getaway. His essential escalation Bashor-boded: rape and rape-kill!!!!!
Tim showed. His take: Let’s track the tranquilizers. Tim dug the dichotomy: powerful potions for humans, benign benzodiazepines for dogs. Dave disagreed—it’s too tough to track. There’s street stuff and privately prescribed. Our Bashoresque best bet: more rolling stakes.
I yawned. All this hot-prowl hurly-burly bored me. I only prized its proximity to Donna.
I wanted back in her bed—flat-on or fleeting. Evil e-mails and panty precedents might tweak her toward me. The Hot-Prowl Hymie—clamoring close by—might help.
I wanted to hide in the heart of her hearth.
5.
I hooked home. I racked up some rest. I refitted my head and dipped out to my doorstep.
No Megan More master’s thesis. No fucking FedEx, no UPS, no Overnight Express.
The hot-prowl job boded—back-to-work big. Donna Standard Time torqued me more. The master’s man lived in Koreatown. I could cruise out and run back to Robbery-Homicide.
The day unrolled ugly. Smog smeared the L.A. basin and hid the Hollywood Hills. The air was lash-your-lungs carcinogenic. The sky was tamale tan. Koreatown was heat-hazed and Seoulful. Pico Boulevard bustled. It was a slant-eyed sluice and a last line of demarcation. The L.A. Congo came on south of there.
I poured down Pico and bipped up Berendo. The master’s man’s pad stood straight ahead. It’s a ten-story tenement walk-up. It’s stark stucco and smells of bracing broiled eel and kimchi.
I parked and lolled through the lobby. Listless layabouts eyeballed me. They tipped tallboys of Schlitz malt liquor. They oozed absentee attitude. They were slick slants and Cheerless Charlie Chinks.
I moseyed to the mail slots. Jack Jen-kin—up in unit #14.
The elevator churned and chugged. The vents vibrated. Sexy scents siphoned through. I made monkey meat and pulled pork cooked in kimchi.
The elevator stopped. I stepped out and hopped down the hallway. There’s #14.
Whoa, wait, what’s this—
Stink crawled out a door crack. Bugs batted the baseboard and dinged the doorway within. Buzz, buzz, bap, bap—insects inflamed, distressed, and disturbed.
I got out a credit card. I dug at the doorjamb. Tumble
rs tipped. The door popped.
Fumes flew up and fucked me full. I braced my breakfast back down. I shivered. I shut the door. I shook off bug battalions. Said bugs buzzed back to a hallway. I followed the fumes and stared at the stiff.
One maggot-mauled male Korean. Deep dead and decomped. Laid out on a lavender rug. One big-bore head wound.
There’s the gun. It’s by the body. It’s a fat .44 Mag. The wound was wide. Maggots mamboed out a cranial crack.
I knelt down. I noticed neck wounds. Bright bruises and tight torture cuts. The stink stung me. I pinched my nostrils. I hooked my ham-and-egg McMuffin back.
There’s the note. It’s tacked to the wall. It’s plied in plain view.
“I cannot go on. I love Megan More more than life itself, but she does not love me. Good-bye, Megan. I’ll see you where the angels sing.”
Hinky handwriting. Heaps of hesitation marks. Vibrating vowels. Crawling consonants coerced. Torture to instigate information. Murder made suicide.
I pored through the pad. I pinched my nose and pulled up peremptory details. I stared at staged shit and staved off the stink.
The kitchen. A mainline maggot migration. Full sink. Dirty dishes. Maggot-maimed chunks of chuck steak. Call it cool: The killer caught Jen-kin here and juked him.
The bedroom. Megan More on white walls. Cheap cheese-cake/snappy snapshots/no dust underneath. Call it cold: put-up pix. Prime props to suicide-sync.
I dumped desk drawers. I reached under rugs. I bombed through bookshelves. No Megan More master’s thesis.
I jacked on Jen-kin’s computer. I mouse-moved and tapped in “Megan More.” I mapped in Megan More–ish cue words. No Megan More master’s thesis or minutiae scrolled up.
I walked back to the hallway. Maggots julienned Jack Jen-kin and marched down his mouth. The door dipped open. A slant-eye slithered and slid and crept through the crack. The door closed and clicked. I rhino-ran up.
I ran out. I heaved down the hall. I saw Chuck the Chink reach a fire door and stop short. I jumped him. I heaped on the hurt. I smashed his face. He dented the door. I booted him in the balls. He wiggled and whimpered. I grabbed his greasy hair and hauled him back to the pad.