Chapter Eighteen

Forensics—at my living room desk.

Dust the magazines, tape rig, spools—smudges and four identical latents. I rolled my own prints to compare—it confirmed my own fumble-hand fuck-up.

The phone rang—

“Yes?”

“Ray Pinker, Dave.”

“You’re finished?”

“Finished is right. First, no viable suspect latents, and we dusted every touch surface in both rooms. We took elimination sets off the clerk, who’s also the owner, the janitor and the chambermaid, all Negroes. We got their prints in the rooms and nothing else.”

“Fuck.”

“Succinctly put. We also bagged the male clothing and tested some semen-stained shorts. It’s O positive again, with the same cell breakdown—your burglar or whatever is quite a motel hopper.”

“Shit.”

“Succinct, but we had better luck on the sketch reconstruction. The clerk and the artist worked up a portrait, and it’s waiting for you at the Bureau. Now—”

“What about mug shots? Did you tell the clerk we’ll need him for a viewing?”

Ray sighed—half pissed. “Dave, the man took off for Fresno. He implied that your behavior disturbed him. I offered him an LAPD reimbursement for the door you shot out, but he said it wouldn’t cover the aggravation. He also said don’t go looking for him, because he is gone, no forwarding. I didn’t press for him to stay, because he said he’d complain about that door you destroyed.”

“Shit. Ray, did you check—”

“Dave, I’m way ahead of you. I asked the other employees if they had seen the tenant of that room. They both said no, and I believed them.”

Shit. Fuck.

Half pouty: “Lots of trouble for a one-shot 459, Dave.”

“Yeah, just don’t ask me why.”

Click—my ear stung.

Go, keep dusting:

Smudges off the album covers—grooved records themselves wouldn’t take prints. Champ Dineen on my hi-fi: Sooo Slow Moods, The Champ Plays the Duke.

Background music—I skimmed Transom.

Piano/sax/bass—soft. Cheesecake pix, innuendo: blond siren M.M. craves she-man R.H.—she’ll do anything to turn him around. Nympho J.M.—gigantically endowed—seeks double-digit males at Easton’s Gym. Ten inches and up, please—J.M. packs a ruler to make sure. Recent conquests: B-movie hulk F.T; gagster M.B.; laconic cowboy star G.C.

Breathy sax, heartbeat bass.

Stories—traveling-salesman gems. Pix: big-tit slatterns drooping out of lingerie. Piano trills—gorgeous.

One issue down, Dineen percolating. Transom, June ‘58:

M.M. and baseball M.M. hot—her J.D.M. torch pushed her toward hitters. The swank Plaza Hotel—ten-day/ten-night homestand.

Alto sax riffs—Glenda/Lucille/Meg, swirling.

Ads: dick enlargers, home law school. “Mood Indigo” a Ia Dineen—low brass.

A daddy/daughter story—a straight-dialogue intro. Photos: this skank brunette, bikini-clad.

“Well … you look like my daddy.”

“Look? Well, yeah, I’m old enough. I guess a game is a game, right? I can be the daddy because I fit the part.”

“Well, like the song says, ‘My heart belongs to Daddy.’”

Skim the text:

Orphan Loretta lusts for a daddy. The evil Terry deflowered her—she crawls for him, she hates it. She sells herself to older men—a preacher kills her. Accompanying pix: the skank sash-cord-strangled.

Champ Dineen roaring—think it through:

Loretta equals Lucille; Terry equals Tommy. “Orphan” Loretta—non sequitur. Lucille lusts for Daddy J.C.—hard to buy her hot for that greasy shitbird.

Call the dialogue voyeured.

Call the peeper “author.”

Transom, July ‘58—strictly movie-star raunch. Check the masthead—a Valley address—hit it tomorrow.

The phone rang—cut the volume—catch it.

“Glen—”

“Yes. Are you psychic or just hoping?”

“I don’t know, maybe both. Look, I’ll come up to the set.”

“No. Sid Frizell’s shooting some night scenes.”

“We’ll go to a hotel. We can’t use your place or my place—it’s too risky.”

That laugh. “I read it in the Times today. Howard Hughes and his entourage left for Chicago for some Defense Department meeting. David, the Hollywood Hills ‘actress domicile’ is available, and I have a key.”

Past midnight—call it safe. “Half an hour?”

“Yes. Miss you.”

I put the phone down and cranked the volume. Ellington/Dineen—“Cottontail.” Memory lane—’42—the Marine Corps. Meg—that tune—dancing at the El Cortez Sky Room.

Raw now—sixteen years gone bad. The phone right there—do it.

“Hello?”

“I’m glad I got you, but I figured you’d be out after Stemmons.”

“I had to get some sleep. Look, slavedriver—”

“Kill him, Jack.”

“Okay by me. Ten?”

“Ten. Clip him and buy me some time.”

Chapter Nineteen

The hills—a big Spanish off Mulholland.

Lights on, Glenda’s car out front. Twenty-odd rooms—fuck pad supreme.

I parked, beams on a ‘55 Chevy. Bad familiar: Harold John Miciak’s.

Be sure, tweak the high beams—Hughes Aircraft decals on the back fender.

Late-night quiet—big dark houses, just one lit.

I got out and listened. Voices—his, hers—muffled low.

Up, try the front door—locked. Voices—his edgy, hers calm. Circuit the house, listen:

Miciak:”... you could do worse. Look, you come across for me, you pretend it’s Klein. I seen him come see you in Griffith Park, and as far as that goes, you can still give it to him—I’m not possessive and I got no partners. Mr. Hughes, he’s never gonna know, just you come across for me and get that money I want from Klein. I know he’s got it, ‘cause he’s connected with some mob guys. Mr. Hughes, he told me so hisself.”

Glenda: “How do I know there’s just you?”

Miciak:” ‘Cause Harold John’s the only daddy-o in L.A. man enough to mess with Mr. Hughes and this cop who thinks he’s so tough.”

Around to the dining room window. Curtain gaps—look:

Glenda edging backward; Miciak pressing up, grinding his hips.

Slow walking—both of them—a knife rack behind Glenda.

I tried the window—no give.

Glenda: “How do I know there’s just you?”

Glenda: one hand reaching back, one hand out come hither.

Glenda: “I think we’d be good together.”

Around the back, a side door—I shoulder-popped it and ran in.

The hallway, the kitchen, there—

A clinch: his hands groping, hers grabbing knives.

Slow-motion numb—I couldn’t move. Shock-still frozen, look:

Knives down—in his back, in his neck—twisted in hilt-deep. Bone cracks—Glenda dug in—two hands blood-wet. Miciak thrashing AT HER—

Two more knives snagged—Glenda stabbing blind.

Miciak clawing the rack, up with a cleaver.

I stumbled in close—numb legs—smell the blood—

He stabbed, missed, lurched into the knife rack. She stabbed—his back, his face—blade jabs ripped his cheeks out.

Gurgles/screeches/whines—Miciak dying loud. Knife handles sticking out at odd angles—I threw him down, twisted them, killed him.

Glenda—no screams, this look: SLOW, I’ve been here before.

SLOW:

We killed the lights and waited ten minutes—no outside response. Plans then—soft whispers holding each other bloody.

No dining room carpet—luck. We showered and swapped clothes—Hughes kept a male/female stash. We bagged our own stuff, washed the floor, the rack, the knives.

Blankets in a closet—we wrapped Miciak up and locked him in his car trunk. 1:50 A.M.—out, back—no witnesses. Out and back again—our cars tucked below Mulholland.

A plan, a fall guy: the Wino Will-o-the-Wisp, L.A.’s favorite at-large killer.

Out to Topanga Canyon solo—I drove Miciak’s car. Hillhaven Kiddieland Kamp—defunct, wino turf. I flashlight-checked all six cabins—no bums residing.