by James Ellroy
The pills and booze zorched her. She stared out her window. She stared at people. She said, “Brave new fucking world.”
I said, “You saved my life.” I called her “Partner.” She said, “Brave new fucking world.”
Dusk hit. I drove to the fuck pad. Donna fell asleep. I wedged a bulletproof vest under her head.
I walked inside. Russ was playing Bruckner for the heathens. Symphony 7/movement 2. Lyrical shit/music for honors.
Full house.
Cops in Jockey shorts/women in robes. Couples standing in hallways. Couples staying up to see Donna—you could plain tell.
Dave brushed blood from wall cracks. I said, “Where’s Miguel?”
Dave coughed. “He saw some detail on the wall, you know, some nightmare shit. He went to his mother’s place.”
Russ said, “Your girl’s something. She’s too much woman for me.”
Bruckner soared. It was an elegy for a century dead. Donna walked up and stood in the doorway. She got a wild locomotive ovation. The sound deafened her. She bowed. Blood dripped off her badge. She said, “Brave new fucking world.”
WE DROVE WEST. A light rain hit. Russ’s cocktail wore off. She said, “Let’s go see Miguel. I worry about him sometimes.”
“Where does he live?”
“Rosie’s place. Roxbury north of Sunset. Big, white Spanish place.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“No. I want to say hi, and get under some covers with you and see if I can cry with some more pills and scotch.”
I drove to Beverly Hills. Donna showed me the pad: big/Spanish adobe/George Gershwin’s ex-crib.
We parked and knocked. Rosemary Collins answered. She saw us. She saw a cop and an actress. She did mental math. She went, “Sssshhhh. Miguel’s had a rough one, too.”
We walked inside. We just made it. The rain went haywire. Donna exercised Hollywood etiquette.
She hit a bathroom. She popped the medicine chest. She popped some prescription shit. She found a liquor sideboard. She guzzled straight scotch.
Rosie winked at me. She was big and fat now. She’d gone down behind every appetite.
I said, “Where’s Miguel?”
She walked downstairs. Donna stagger-followed her. I came up last. Rosie said, “Old Luis’s archives are down here. He made these doco films in the ’50s.”
Film cans on chairs. Film cans on shelves. Film cans stacked shelf to ceiling.
There’s Miguel:
Passed out in cop blue. Gone behind Belvedere vodka.
I tossed a blanket on him. Rosie tucked his feet under it.
I said, “Can we stay here tonight?”
Rosie said, “Sure. Third bedroom on the left upstairs. I’ll run Donna through a shower.”
Donna stumbled to a bathroom. I found a bathroom and stripped. I saw bullet-graze marks on my cheek and shoulder. Dry blood flaked off.
I showered and found a robe. I stretched out on the bed. Rosie walked Donna in. Donna’s robe dwarfed her.
Rosie killed the lights and shut the door. Donna snuggled into me. The darkness felt right.
Donna said, “Can we make love in the morning? I’m too wrecked now.”
I said, “Sure. It’s my best time.”
The bed dropped a thousand yards and settled back up with us in it. A sync settled in—her heartbeat, my breath.
2.
“Brave new fucking world.”
Her first morning muse. I woke with a chart-busting chubby. Delightful, delirious—Dangerous Donna now.
I’d notched next-door nightmares. Luis Figueroa’s voice. The partial pop of a self-described killer. Film-sprocket click. Luis called the cat “Steve.” Faded fuzz sounds.
I mapped some mental math. Mid-’50s. Luis’s home movies. Dave Slatkin’s pet perv Stephen Nash. Dave’s vision: the sparkling Spanish house—Rosie’s Roost?
Donna nudged me. “I said ‘Brave new fucking world.’ ”
My chubby chugged out and up. Piss-deflate it or pave new penile paths with Donna—quick call.
I said, “It’s our world now.” Donna leaned in. I kissed her neck. I kissed her cleavage clung to Rosie’s robe. She pulled my head up. She kissed my bullet bites. Our lips latched and launched the world’s longest kiss.
I swirled in it. I tasted my morning breath. I mowed medicinal scotch off her tongue. We held the kiss. We ripped off our robes. I dropped into Donna delirium. She rhino-reciprocated. We tasted each other all over. We flared freckles and tweaked toes and centered on our center parts. We savored our scents there. She pulled me in. It lasted ten seconds or ten hours. It was all eyes-closed climax and breathing one breath and one hard holding until I thought our bones would break.
We rerobed and coursed through the casa. Donna rapped with Rosie. I nudged Miguel next door.
He fiddled with film cans and cataloged cassettes. I said, “Luis knew some wild characters.”
Miguel lit a cigarette. “Delusional types. He’d give them a few bucks and get their shit down on film. It was his variation on the—you know—study the surreal to learn the real. It’s sort of like Donna yesterday. She wasted two freaks, so now she can play a cop better.”
I laffed. “Can I see those films you were watching last night?”
“No, you may not. You banged Donna this morning, so I’m jealous. When the jealousy wears off, I’ll let you see them.”
I said, “Fair enough.”
Miguel blew smoke rings in my face. “Enjoy it while you can, man. Donna goes through men like Rosie goes through Häagen-Dazs.”
I coughed away smoke. Donna yelled, “Rick, the living room! We’re on TV!”
Miguel said, “Get me some creeps I can off, Jenson. Donna’s got the upper hand on life experience now.”
I fast-walked to the living room. Rosie wore a muumuu. Donna wore bloodstained LAPD blue. She was the statuesque still point of Stanislavsky.
Russ Kuster talked from the tube. “Officer Jenson’s slaying of Charles “Chuckie” Farhood and his female accomplice Melissa “Mama Cass” Cassavailian was entirely within LAPD shooting policy, and I am sure he will be exonerated at today’s shooting board.”
A quick cut. A handsome newsman: “Miss Suzie Park Kim of the Versailles Apartments has a different story to tell.”
A quick cut. A korpulent Korean diesel dyke filled the screen.
“No, no, no! I see TV actress in uniform with policeman! She killed Chuckie and Mama Cass! I see her on Hawaii Five-O! Donna something! She stone fox—yum, yum!”
Donna grabbed me. “I should pack and run. Chuckie’s brother’s got a bullet with my name.” I grabbed her back. I smelled her hair. I caught Alberto VO5 and our lovemaking sweat.
“I’ve got the shooting board. You stay here and watchdog Miguel. He’s torqued on his dad’s old films. I’ll be back later.”
Donna nodded. Rosie said, “Come on, baby. Häagen-Dazs and bonded bourbon. Breakfast of champions.”
RUSS MET ME at Parker Center. Room 463—Internal Affairs.
I said, “Update me.”
Russ ratched earwax with a paper clip. “The dead guy’s Chuckie Farhood. He’s the heterosexual chubby chaser. Chickie’s the fruit, and here’s his MO. The late Randall J. Kirst and Chickie were part-time fuck-film actors, and Chickie 459’s pharmacies, steals dope, and sleeps in cars that he steals. He’s a swish psychopath. He goes to straight and fag porno theaters, takes pixes off the screen with a high-speed camera, and sells them to porno bookstores. That’s all shit we coerced out of that clown at Porno Villa.”
I said, “He must have a darkroom somewhere.”
Russ said, “Correct.” He handed me some Chickie Farhood mugs. I said, “Stolen car reports—”
Russ cut in. “We’ve got six teams from West Traffic checking stolen-car reports and canvassing for wits, and six SID teams and a rover van to dust for prints. We’ve got a meeting at Central Vice in two hours. You and Tom Ludlow are to hit the fag bars and porno theaters, anywhere Chickie can
‘work’ and hide out. We’ve got 12 teams total, and Chickie hit a Rite Aid pharmacy last night. Left three latents and stole a fuckload of Seconal, Amytal, and Tuinal. What that means, I don’t know.”
I scratched my balls. “Suicide attempt?”
“Maybe. Before the meeting, go by the fuck pad and talk to Slatkin. Our resident genius is freaking out about something.”
I scratched my nose. I smelled Donna.
“I’ll hit the pad, then go by the Versailles and chill out that Korean bitch. She’s flapping her mouth about Donna.”
Russ shook his head. “Low priority, especially if Chickie’s on a suicide run.”
“Russ, shit, she’s—”
“No. And if you see that fucked-up snitch of mine, Chuy Nieves, put some hurt on him. He’s been telling street creeps I gave him up to the Sheriff’s on a hot-prowl job.”
I hitched up my rhino-horn gunbelt. “What about Donna?”
Russ sighed. “The last I heard, Donna could take care of herself.”
THE SHOOTING BOARD— precisely pro forma.
Wasp cop kills pornopreneur and Mama Cass. Wasp cop’s bullets waste welfare wench and ex-caped ex-con with felonious faigelah brother. Suzie Park Kim’s musings—meshugina.
The board deliberated. I sat alone. I poked my skin for Donna scent-sightings. I found arm and ankle aromas—aaaah, the Stanislavsky-stopping studdess!
The board returned. Unanimous decision: killings in police policy.
Deadly Donna—Manslaughter Two mandated to mush.
I INSUBORDINATELY ITINERIZED. Koreatown kame first—gag fat Suzie fast.
I daydreamed per Donna. I called up some caution. Don’t propose until next week.
Chuy Nieves notched into my noggin. He was Kuster’s kustom snitch. He hot-prowled UCLA dorms. He flashed his herpes-hammered hamster at comely coeds. He got screeches and screams back. Russ caught him. Russ made him his sniveling snitch. Now he rebelled. Now he screamed for a “screen test.”
I got to the Versailles. I checked out the adjacent alley. Fuck— Doomonic Donna and Sick Suzie captured in catfight configuration.
Donna in bloodstained blue. Suzie in a mauve muumuu.
They yelled. They yodeled. They yipped. I ran back. Suzie tried to beat on Donna and caress her concurrent. I interceded. Suzie belly-bumped me. I flew. Donna caught me. Sick Suzie mouthed off.
“I saw you shoot Chuckie and Mama Cass! Man was here—he show me picture of you—movie reference book—Donna something. Man Chuckie’s brother. He show me picture. I munch your socks off, yum, yum.”
Chickie—back for revenge—gone now.
I started to lecture Donna. “I told you to stay at Rosie’s. You can’t go around impersonating a cop all the—”
Shots. Big-bore right to left, over the alley fence, ring-a-ding ricochets. Bam—the dyke socks one in her eye socket. She goes down dead. Her flab flares and flattens. Fuck—it’s a 6.8 earthquake.
Donna jumps up. Donna fires over the fence. Fuck—fake uniform/live bullets.
I vaulted the fence. My rhino horn hung up on a fence post. I got impaled upside down. Donna shoved my ass. I de-impaled and dumped to earth on my derrière. Donna fired at fleeing Farhood. Her shots went wild. They pinged pavement and skimmed skyward. I proned out and fired a full clip. I fanned Farhood’s hair. I narrowly notched his Nikes. I blew the full clip.
Donna jumped the fence. I said, “Real bullets?”
“Miguel convinced me. He called it Stanislavsky plus.”
I CALLED IN the 187. Russ Kuster arrived. Wilshire dicks followed. I described the scene. I omitted Donna’s gun. The cops eyeballed Donna and asked for autographs. Donna wrote “Brave new fucking world” and “Love, Donna” on their ticket books.
We gave formal statements and humped to Hollyweird. We argued per Donna’s props: blue suit and flesh-flaring bullets. Donna said, “Hollow points. I’m a feminist. I want to kill this cocksucker in the name of oppressed women worldwide.”
We drove on. We headed to the fuck pad. I saw Chuy Nieves at Sunset and El Centro.
I braced the brakes. I careened from the car. I chased Chuy. Chuy chugged slow—methedrine malignancy and three packs a day. I waggled his wetback ass. I cuffed him. I dragged him to the car. I tossed him in the backseat.
Donna said, “As a liberal, I should protest.”
I said, “Former liberal. Now dig on the ‘screen test.’ ”
I punched the gas. I hit 60. I hit the brakes. Chuy hit the front-seat/backseat mesh. It was crisscross/crosshatched metal. It left tic-tac-toe tattoos.
I hit the gas. I hit the lights and siren. I hit 80-plus. Chuy hit the mesh. His nose broke. I hit the gas. I hit 70. Chuy mashed the mesh headfirst. Dig his hip haircut: hatch marks scraping his scalp.
I stopped the car. I got out. I hauled Chuy out. I dumped him in the gutter. I said, “Don’t talk out of school about Russ Kuster.”
I got back in the car. I said, “Please don’t say ‘Brave new fucking world.’ ”
Donna said, “Let’s get a motel room, watch fuck flicks, and make love.”
“When Chickie’s dead or captured.”
“You’re going to waste his faggot ass, aren’t you?”
I said, “Donna, there’s never been a woman like you.”
WE HIT the fuck pad. There’s Dave Slatkin on the porch. He’s shivering, shaking, all shook up.
We parked and walked over. I said, “Tell me.”
Dave shook and shimmied. “The house is evil. I found blood mixed with polio vaccine and cranial fluid in a wall crack. I went by the Hollywood library. Three little boys disappeared from the polio clinic at Queen of Angels in April ’56.”
Chills churned through me. “You’re thinking Stephen Nash.”
Dave nodded. “We’ve got to bring in scent dogs and dig up the yard.”
I whispered. “We’ve got to get Farhood first. Be realistic. Nash is dead, the kids are dead.”
Donna whispered to me. “The man-in-the-street shit. Doesn’t Miguel have something like—”
I shushed her. “Dave, go back to the shelter and chill out with the dogs. There’s a meeting at Central Vice. I’ll cover for you.”
Dave shivered. “I keep seeing that big white Spanish house north of Sunset.”
I CALLED a cab for Donna. I told her to go back to Rosie’s and watchdog Miguel. Go through his old man’s film cans. Be careful. I’ll explain later.
We kissed good-bye on a shitty Hollywood side street. My whole life was one big blur.
CENTRAL VICE. Parker Center—Room 506.
Yours Truly at the lectern. My plastic rhino horn perched near the mike. I updated, I preached, I assigned.
Twenty-four cops listened. Detectives, SID men, clue clowns. Russ gave me a fact sheet. I riffed off of it.
Forty-two fruits claimed their cars. None knew Randall J. Kirst or the Farhood brothers. A few bun buddies said they’d “seen them around” and no more. I gave the Valley porn theaters and bars to eleven two-man teams. The names drew laughs: Dee-Lux Dicks, Fort Dicks, the Ramrod, the Manhole, the Colonoscopy Club, the Boy Toy, Boys R Us, Locker Room Larry’s, Lance’s Lancer Room, Leather Leo’s Love Nest, and Ten-Inch Tommy’s.
I ended with a slide show and a macho-maimed musing. The slide featured bare-chest mugs of Chickie Farhood. Bad zits— Mount Matterhorn pustules and blasting-cap blackheads. The whole room went ugggh. My musing: “He’s got pharmacy downers. He’s armed and dangerous. Take him out the second you see him.”
I PAIRED WITH Phone Book Tom. We hit West Hollyweird. Tom traded his phone book for a beavertail sap. We hit Pussycat theaters. We lingered for the straight fuck-and-suck action. We talked to cashiers. They’d “seen Chickie around”—“the cat with the zits, right?” We shined penlights in patrons’ faces. We caught guys slamming the ham. We caught a policewoman doing deep throat in Sharon Shags Sherman Oaks. Tom made a note to call her.
We hit fruit bars—Jason’s Jamboree, Lariat Lee’s, R
udy’s RUMPus Room. We got one lead: Patrons called Chickie “Zits” and “Pus.” One fag called him “Date-Rape Dave.” Chickie tried to slip him some Rohypnol. Tom howled. He started calling me “Rohypnol Rick.” He said it’s the only way I’d get laid. We hit more straight theaters. We saw John Holmes do an ad for the Donkey Dan Dick Extender. It involved pulleys and possible prostate problems. I made a note to call Donna about it.
We walked back out to our F-car. The radio blared. I picked up. West Traffic found Chickie’s car in Griffith Park.
THERE IT WAS: a ’79 Toyota cum ’56 NASH.
Parked on a bluff. Cityside view. Egregiously exhibitionistic.
Choppers chugged overhead. Russ and two bluesuits blockaded the car.
Tom and I got out. Dig the infernal interior:
Demonic dashboard: duct-taped Stephen Nash news pix and clips. Nash gnashing his nublike teeth. Nash ghoulishly giggling. “ ‘I’m King of Killers,’ Boy Slasher Sez.” Nash braggingly brandishing lead pipe and knife. Nash blinking back flashbulb flare. Nash knife-wielding and pipe-posing. “King of Killers stabs boy 28 times under pier. Brags ‘I’d never killed a kid before. I wanted to see how it felt.’ ”
A canvass crew crawled into the hills. I checked the backseat. Foto Fiend Farhood created a cruel-ass collage.
Stephen Nash with flared fly. John Holmes’s jumbo Johnson jumping out. Political paste-up: Devil Dick Nixon gobbling his gonads.
Russ said, “He left it here for us to spot. SID got his latents off the dashboard. The car got clouted two days ago at Ted’s Ranch Market. He won’t come back. He’s too hip. We’ve got six canvassing crews tracking stolen cars within a four-mile radius. He had to steal some fresh wheels.”
Tom banged his phone book against his leg. Dried blood dropped off the pages.
I said, “Tips?”
Russ said, “Percy’s Perch. It’s a fruit bar on Ventura. The barman said he’s got information. You and Tom go over and brace him.”
I saw an 8-track tape secured in a sound system. I hit the ignition. Tom tapped some dashboard dials. HIS voice, fogged by ’56 fuzz:
“I’m the King of the Killers! I’ll go to my death like any malevolent monarch! I’m the monster of mass-production killing!”
