by James Ellroy
We walked up. Horror hallways hooked ahead. We crunched crack pipes and shattered short dogs. We sidled through Syringe City and Hypodermic Hell. Floor debris flew. Our shoes caught needles coated with virus-vapped blood.
There’s 218. The lock looks loose. Let’s let ourselves in.
Donna ditzed the doorknob. I jiggled the jamb. The door swung in.
No Wino. Nobody. Sicko City socked in 12 by 12.
A sink. A made-up Murphy bed. A lice-lined linoleum floor. Crabs hopping head-high and Wino-Walpurgisnachted walls.
Craaaazy crime fotos. Filched archival shots. Major-case madness, all glossy-glared.
Mesmerized Mansonites. Bleary Black Dahlia pix. Stark Stephen Nash shots.
Photo-fucked fiends. Demonic Donald Keith Bashor. Sirhan Sirhan surrounded by Sheriff’s deputies. Freaky Fred Stroble, ax-assassin of a little girl, gassed circa ’53. Our Stephanie, strapped to a gurney, all shorn up in a sheet.
Crime—Weegeeish and Wino-warped. Infernally interspersed with quixotically quantified SKIN.
Actresses—all alive in 8-by-10 fotos. Bikini babes and halter-hot honeys. Red-headed Rita Hayworth. Red-tinted and divinely deigned Donna Donahue. Freckle-fraught Nicole Kidman. Titian-topped Julianne Moore.
Random redheads right below—costars culled and cultivated off TV. Riotous red hair—august auburn straight to strawberry. Strict strumpet-type women. Fortyish foxes. Choice chignontressed aristocrats.
Donna said, “Holy shit.” That nexus nudged me. Pile on the panties—I need some sniffs.
Footfalls fell behind us. I whipped and wheeled around. Wino walked in.
He saw us. He stood startled. He started to run.
I chased him. I tackled him. I laid him out on linoleum. He sheared his shins on shattered glass. He gave up then.
WE RACKED HIM to his room radiator. My handcuffs hitched him up firm. He beady-eye-bored into Donna. Her presence pronged him.
He panted. He salivated. He drooled Draculean. His trouser trout jumped in his jeans.
I found a phone book. Donna dug out my beavertail. We stood stern over him.
Donna said, “You sent me notes, didn’t you? On and off for years.”
Wino wiggled. The cuffs cut his wrists.
“You got it, baby. I’m a note man and a breather. I tried to get your phone number, but no fucking soap. You’d have got a real taste of me then.”
I said, “What about e-mails? Some sicko was e-mailing Ms. Donahue. He was asking her to send him her panties.”
Wino went outraged. “I don’t feature that panty shit! I’m a note man and a breather! I don’t fuck with no computers. Give me a pay phone any day.”
Donna bent the beavertail. The lead weight whipped within.
“What about ladies’ rooms? You dig that action, don’t you?”
Wino snorted and snickered. “I like to sniff toilet seats once in a blue moon, I’ll give you that. But basically I’m a specialist. I’m a note man and a breather. I’m a fucking virtuoso, and I’m fucking proud of it.”
I said, “What’s with the redheads? All Donna’s got is a little tint.”
Wino winked. “Dig this. My mom was a redhead, and I never got over it. I got a thing for red gash, and that is no fucking shit. Donna looks like my mom. You don’t got to be fucking Sigmund Freud to figure out this shit.”
I fingered my phone book. The pages rolled and riffed.
“Have you been hot-prowling lately? There’s been some jobs in West L.A.”
Wino rolled his wrists. He got ratchet-ripped.
“I ain’t pull no 459s since the ’70s. I found my calling then. I’m a note man and a breather, and I’m fucking proud of it.”
I said, “You admit those notes to Ms. Donahue?”
“Yeah, you know I do. I’m a note man of long standing, and I’m fucking proud of—”
“You did some time at Chino, right? You sent Ms. Donahue a note from there.”
“That’s right. I’m a note man, the best in the west.”
“Were you in for burglary?”
“Fuck, no. I was pushing yellow jackets to high-school kids, out of the Mar Vista Bowl. I quit that burglary shit in the ’70s.”
Donna said, “And you deny sending me e-mails?”
Wino snickered, sneered, and stuck out his tongue. Wino licked his lips loathsome and leered.
“I’m a note man and a breather. That’s my twenty-year MO. Don’t try to hang no other shit on me, because I ain’t buying it.”
I said, “You quit sending Ms. Donahue notes. Why?”
“She’s stale bread, that’s why! She never shows no more skin! I’m a skin man! I go squirrel shit if I don’t get no skin!”
Donna looked at me. I saw her nip toward the nexus. Her hazel eyes hit me and hurt.
She sapped Wino. She beavertail-bashed him. The weight whipped and leather lashed skin. She hooked him a new hairline. The cut dug deep. Blood blew down to his chin.
Wino went wild. “Baby, I dig it! You’re turning me on, ’cause I’ve got this guilt thing! Ask all the old cops! I confessed to the best in the west!”
I caught a cue. “You said you killed a girl once. You put it in one of the notes you sent Ms. Donahue.”
Wino hooked his head. The hairline cut coursed backward. He tongue-torqued lizardlike and licked the blood off his lips.
“I never killed no girl. I said it to get back at the bitch. I wanted to scare her. She wasn’t giving me no skin. I’m a skin man. I need my skin!”
I fingered my phone book. I fought the urge to fuck him up faaaast.
“What’s with the confessing? Tell us about that.”
Wino wrist-rolled. The radiator rocked.
“I go back to the Dahlia. I was 9 then. I copped to all the big snuffs. You name it, I copped to it. Bashor, the Stephen Nash jobs, the Manson shit, all of that. It was my thing back in the old days, before I got this boner for skin.”
I looked at him. His boner bounced. He grimaced and jizzed up his jeans.
Donna said, “Ugh.” Wino exhaled ecstatic. It cued me in for the kill.
“Did you murder Stephanie Gorman?”
Wino laffed. Wino leered. Wino said, “What if I did?”
I said it slow. “Did you kill Stephanie Gorman?”
Wino wiggled. Wino winked. Wino said, “What if I did?”
I hit him. I beat him binding-side-outward. I hit him heavy. I rammed him repeated. I pounded and popped him and pulled back abrupt. He pissed his pants and poured out postnasal drip.
“Did you kill—”
“No! I did some yard work for her old man! I copped to the snuff, but I couldn’t milk it for three hots and a cot, and the fuzz cut me loose!”
I looked at Donna. She said, “Rick, no more, please.”
Wino rolled his wrists. The radiator ripped free. Pipes popped loose. Steam stung me.
I checked the closet. Clothes—but no trank gun, no tranquilizers, no benzodiazepines. I slid out my cell phone. I dialed Dave Slatkin.
He picked up. “Slatkin.”
I said, “The mug runs. What did you get?”
Dave coughed. Dogs barked in the background. I heard Pancho panting. I heard bull mastiffs bay.
“No hits on Wino, and that’s at all six libraries. I had some mugs in with Wino, and a couple of librarians said Cal Eggers looked most like the guy. Is that a fucking hoot?”
I laffed. I looked at Donna. Wino whipped his head. Blood blipped onto her blouse and skirt. Blood skimmed her skin.
Wino said, “I’m a skin man. I’m a note man and a breather. I dig red gash, and so fucking what?”
I pulled up a chair. It was straight-backed and slatted. I sat down. I flexed my forearms. I snapped the slats off.
Wino rolled his wrists and resoiled himself. I said it sotto voce: “Did you kill Stephanie?”
Wino went calm. Wino said, “I caddied at Hillcrest that day. It was a big tournament. They’ll have records. I was on the course when the Go
rman kid got it.”
Donna dug out her cell phone. I heard her hit Information. I heard her ask for Hillcrest. I heard her hit the listing and get the first tee.
She whispered. “Weinberger” and “August 5th, ’65” wound back to me. Wino watched me. I laid out a lapsed Lutheran prayer: LET IT BE HIM.
Time ticked by. Donna said, “He’s checking records.” I shut my eyes and saw Stephanie. Tick, tick, tick—two minutes topped.
Donna said, “Thanks.” The phone fizzed off. I opened my eyes. I still saw Stephanie.
“It’s not him, Rick. He was on the golf course from 1:10 to 6:20.”
Auf Wiedersehen, adieu, adios—shalom, Stephanie.
I uncuffed Wino. Donna perused her purse and took out two twenties. Cut-rate reparation—she tossed them on the bed.
We walked out. We crunched crack-pipe glass and short-dog shards. Wino screamed, “I’m a skin man, and I need my skin!”
8.
The stink, the stain, the malevolent malodor—wash Wino off of us.
Donna’s house had a huge hot tub. We boiled out his badness and talked our terror tactics through. Donna copped to faux-feminist rectitude and rage. Whipping-boy Wino—the genus of genderized crime. I copped to venal violence vetted by Stephanie. I skirted the skin-madness issue. It hit home hard. Panties paralyzed me. I memorialized my mom. She was a righteous redhead, too.
Dave called. I told him Wino went south. The old note man/the e-mail hot-prowler—served up as two separate freaks. Dave said he’d reinstate the rolling stakeouts. He said he made Leotis Lauter for the Gary Getchell snuff. The dart death—deep diversion—let’s hurl heat on hot-prowl now.
Plus:
The West L.A. dicks dug up some eyeball wits. Leotis Lauter loitered outside Gary Getchell’s pad three days ago. Two rasty-assed Rastafarians reconnoitered with him. The pad: pored through and randomly ransacked. Odds on no files found. Found today: torched paper files in Leotis L.’s fireplace.
I debated Dave. Leotis Lauter—dope dealer—not a deep diverter. The hot-prowl hump—good for Gary.
We argued. We agreed—I had two days off—call it downtime to dally with Donna.
We dallied. We hearth-hid. We made love and feasted on fireplace food. We cooked kabobs and flame-fried burgers. Reggie Ridgeback scrounged scraps.
We dallied. We did ourselves up as a dog pack. We slipped into slumber. We dozzzzed.
Wino witch-hunted me. I Oedipaled awful. Titian-tressed trespassers trudged and traipsed through. My mom materialized. She mumbled rebukes. I’m lost in her lingerie drawer.
I heard something. It rang wrong. My reverie—wrecked.
I opened my eyes. There’s Cal Eggers. Cal’s got a trank gun. The hearth flames flare—Cal’s caught in the light.
My synapses snapped. The libraries. The mug runs. Cal’s coincidental pics. He’s the hump they ID’d.
He fired. I rolled onto Reggie. I disturbed Donna. My weight whipped her awake.
The dart popped onto a pillow. Reggie reared up. I rolled right and picked up a poker. It ran red with heat.
Donna rolled. Donna ran. Donna dug through couch cushions. Reggie rammed Cal’s crotch and tore in with his teeth.
Cal screamed. I poker-popped and brand-broiled him. I nailed his neck. I scalded skin. He dropped his trank gun and pulled a real piece.
Big bore. A nasty nickel-plated piece.
He screamed at me. He fired. I lurched left and made him miss. Reggie bit through his balls and castrated him. I saw his sac sawed through and his scrotum scrunched up in dog teeth.
Cal screamed. Cal ran toward Donna. She tossed couch cushions. She threw up a throw rug. She made the Magnum. She found the fat .45.
Cal fired. He missed Donna. Bullets ripped the Renoir and mowed down the Monet. Both paintings dropped off the wall. Reggie mewed through a mouthful of mangled balls. Donna two-handed aimed.
She caught Cal low. She laid down leg shots. Four hit hard. Cal caromed off a couch edge and careened.
He fell flat. He dropped his gun. I rolled right and ran up to him.
His leg wounds coursed copious. His pelvic wound pulsated and poured blood. He was close to the clouds. He was staring at the River Styx. I said, “ Dying declaration. Give it up, please.”
He coughed. Bloody phlegm flew. He found a firm voice. He spoke to Donna, not me.
“You . . . were the one. I had this thing for you since ’83. I was working Rampart then. I was working up to get you . . . but I didn’t know if I could do it . . . I always had a hot-prowl jones . . . I tried to buy out of the obsession . . . e-mails, panties . . . I took my cue from Megan More . . . Oh, Donna, at least I didn’t rape you . . . oh, Donna . . . oh, shit.”
The fuck was fading fast. I said, “There’s more, Cal. Come on, all of it.”
Donna knelt beside me. She sent scents of sandalwood soap and gunshot residue. Reggie regurgitated. Male genitalia flew.
Cal coughed. “I was in with Gary G., independent of Megan. I . . . fed him Narco dope, more than Danny G. did . . . I wanted to take over the division when Linus Lauter got moved out . . . Gary knew I had this thing for you, Donna. I was the ‘avenging angel’ . . . Leotis and his niggers tortured Gary . . . I was afraid he’d rat me if they fucked him up again . . . so I snuffed him.”
Reggie bayed. Cal coughed. His eyes said, “Oh, you kid.” He coughed blood, blanched, and died.
Donna kicked the corpse. “You fucking loser. I’m not that big a deal.”
Happy holidays. Christmas for crucifixion-heads, Hanukkah for hebes, Kwanzaa for spooks simmering for secession. Ho, ho, ho—holiday cheer at Hillsboro and Sawyer.
Donna and me. Let’s dig on our dead. Let’s honor ourselves. Let’s celebrate our cessation.
We had two months together. It was goooood. We got singed by circumstance. We got rigorously reawakened.
The media made good. The “Suicide Season” survived and moved into myth. Cool Cal caught the outside edge. Joe Tierney toted him up to terminal cancer. The pain pounded him. Cal couldn’t take it. He opted for self-immolation.
A viable verdict. No castration by canine, no death by Donna D.
Call it cosmetic. Cal killed himself. His Hot-Prowl Hell died with him. Leotis Lauter got memorably murdered. It was rap-music related.
Monster Mack-Mack was making time with Leotis’s lady. It was one trippy triangle. It was baaaad jig juju. Leotis caught Mack-Mack at Mohammad’s Mosque #6. Mack-Mack pulled a machine gun. Mack-Mack mowed him down. Leotis leeched up 26 rounds and rang off to Allah. He’s currently couched with Khalid Khareem.
Daisy Delgado made him for the Gary Getchell snuff. She filed Murder One postmortem.
It’s all tied up. There’s a dozen declared dead in Hot-Prowl Heaven or Hell.
I had two months with Donna. Prosaics pried us apart. I caught some Cold Case murders. She caught a mid-season series. She played a Homicide cop.
We sat in my Saturn sedan. We traded gifts. We stared at Stephanie’s house. She gave me a cashmere coat. I gave her Monster Mack-Mack’s machine gun, moved from an evidence vault.
The house held us. Time tripped us up. Then to now and patterns past. Stephanie unavenged. A dead daughter older than us. Our finite future.
We talked. We tossed some tears. We said I-love-yous. I got lonely and Donnafied with Donna right there. Unbreachable crimes, unreachable women—and me.
Jungletown Jihad
Heaven’s still forever. Time still stings you and makes you bop backward. Intervals intertwine. The hot-prowl holocaust and shattering shit six months later.
Donna. Me. A short shove to March ’05.
Another murder mandate. A cold-case contretemps. My yearning. Her reluctance. The urge to merge. Donna. Me. Toxic terror. Jungle juju. Ring my retrospection back to this:
Los Angeles Times, March 1, 2005. COLD CASE SQUAD INVESTIGATES ROBBERY MURDERS By Miles Corwin
The LAPD’s Cold Case Unit is now actively investigating three brazen homicide
s that occurred during the holdups of Southside liquor stores in the spring of 2001. Detective David Slatkin, the unit’s officer-in-charge, told the Times that a recent tip may prove “quite valuable.”
On the afternoon of April 29, 2001, two men entered the Liquor Heaven store at Normandie Avenue and Martin Luther King Boulevard in South-Central Los Angeles. They robbed the store at gunpoint and shot proprietor Dong Quan Lem to death. A stockboy crouched unseen behind the dairy case described the men as “young Arab types. You know, like those guys you see waving sticks and stuff in Iraq.” The killers escaped. The stockboy provided LAPD detectives with a description of them, and assisted the detectives in creating Identikit portraits.
The robber-killers struck again on May 16. They entered the Liquor World store on Jefferson Boulevard and Vermont Avenue, robbed the establishment and fatally shot owner Jim Wong Kim. A pedestrian eyewitness saw the killers escape. She described both assailants as “male Arabs with mustaches like that no-goodnik Saddam Hussein.” She confirmed the Identikit portraits as accurate and added, “Both men looked very mean.”
LAPD detectives expanded their investigation. They followed up on numerous leads and checked with Federal agencies for information on armed robbers with possible terrorist ties. Nothing conclusive resulted, and the robber-killers struck again on June 9.
Their target was the Liquor King store on Imperial Highway. They made the proprietor, Kwan Paul Park, unlock an office vault and hand over a week’s cash receipts. After Park complied, they shot him fourteen times and escaped out a back door. A parking-lot witness said both men yelled, “Praise to Allah!” and “Free Palestine!” He embellished the two prior suspect descriptions, stating, “Both guys looked wasted, like they was on dope or on the sauce. That, and they sure looked crazy and mean.”
The LAPD stepped up its investigation, spurred by urgings from Asian-American civil-rights groups. An attempt to locate Arab-terrorist “sleeper cells” followed. Arab-American civil-rights groups protested the LAPD’s “heavy handedness” and “fascist methods” in interrogating Arab-American citizens. Arab League spokesman Gazi Alli called the investigation a “pogrom” and a “Zionist conspiracy.”
