Psychomania: Killer Stories

by Stephen Jones

  I shook my head.

  “The pelota is the ball. It’s very hard.”

  “Great to know. If I’m ever a contestant on Jeopardy I’ll be sure to take Bizarre Basque Assault Items for two thousand.”

  “He wasn’t convicted.”

  “You said that, too. ‘A technicality. He got lucky,’ were your exact words.”

  “He’s a good boy.”

  “You don’t think Mama Manson feels that way about her little Chuck?”

  “That’s cruel, Martin. He’s just mixed up with some bad people, some wrong doings. He’s young and he’s stupid. Don’t you remember how that was?”

  I exhaled loudly and shook my head. Shushie was pouting. She had always been a damned fine pouter.

  “Someone has to help him find a way back. Someone he can ... might trust.”

  “What is it that you think I can do, Shush? Why in the world are you here? I haven’t seen you for ... I can’t even count how many years. I’m not a detective any more, you must know that. And I was crap at it back in the day. I don’t even play one on TV now. All’s I’ve got are my residuals. And the mugs.”

  She put the tea down and stood up. She walked around the cluttered coffee table and knelt in front of me. I had a sudden, terrible (wonderful?) flash on the blumpkin that brought us together. She picked up my hand and held it between hers.

  “I told ElronD something important just before he disappeared.”

  Oh, did I not mention the poor kid’s name was ElronD? Yeah, with the big “D” at the end. It says most of what anyone needs to know about her, though you’d think someone who’d been saddled with Shoshona might have been more clued-in with her own choice of baby name.

  “Oh?” I said. I tried to withdraw my hand, but in addition to the sniffing thing, Shushie had always been freakishly strong. I once liked that.

  “I told him something about his dad. Something I never told him before.”

  I shrugged at her as best I could while caught in her vice-like grip.

  “I told him it was you,” she said.

  “Piss. Fuck. Shit,” was my restrained reply.

  ~ * ~

  I shook my head at my own stupidity. I shook it quite a lot. But then I am very, very stupid.

  The traffic on Jefferson was appalling. Still, why should the traffic differ from anything else in the neighbourhood? I parked outside the address Shushie gave me: a squat, concrete office block just up from the USC campus. Close enough, in fact, that a few white faces even dotted the sidewalks.

  I shook my head some more. What the hell was I doing? And what was Shushie doing to me?

  John Huston actually married us. I bet there are not many people who can say that (other than his five actual wives, of course). He claimed to have been ordained years before by a pal of Sydney Greenstreet - hell, that was good enough for me - and conducted the nuptials right there in a church on set. It probably wasn’t legal - it was only the facade of a church, natch - but Huston did a bang-up job on the ceremony, so yay, Sydney! We went and ruined things by registering it for real back in LA. Kind of a waste since it took longer to annul than the whole marriage lasted.

  The point being, as I had felt obliged to mention to Shushie, that while for those few glorious weeks - well, half of them at least - we had the kind of rampant, almost non-stop sex you can only have when you’re of a certain age, that age was some several years prior to ElronD’s birth. Game, set and match to Detective Burns, thank you very much.

  “And Twentynine Palms?” Shushie said. She fluttered her eyelashes and flashed that little smile again.

  “What about it?”

  “You’ve forgotten that weekend, I suppose. There was a lot of booze.”

  I scowled. “What week ...?”

  A primordial memory crawled up out of the ever-flowing river of time and bit me in the ass.

  “Piss. Fuck. Shit,” I said again.

  “You do remember. Sweet.”

  It was just possible. Not very likely, but just possible. Shushie had appeared at my door then, too, looking for money. I didn’t have any, but I had a lot of bourbon. I always had a lot of bourbon in those days, which is why I remember so few of them. I was only ever able to guess what happened from the hotel credit-card bill.

  I still couldn’t really believe it.

  But she showed me his picture. I stared at it for a very long time. There was something ... I didn’t know.

  I worried it might be true.

  Which explained why I was sitting outside the entrance to the offices of Ludgate Productions in a very shitty part of LA.

  Just in case.

  ~ * ~

  The door was opened by a curiously orange woman with a beehive do out of Hairspray. She looked as if she’d been embalmed with nicotine and spoke with a trace of the imported.

  “Heya?”

  “Yeah, hi. I’d like to speak with ...” I glanced at the piece of paper again, still unsure “... O’Leo Resin?”

  “Leo’s out back. They’re still shooting. Something I can do with you?”

  I glanced around. The untidy office space was open-plan with piles of DVD cases littering the desks, and cardboard boxes stacked floor to ceiling. There was a funny smell about the place. I thought it was the John Waters lady at first, but it was sickly sweet yet chemically. A scent to mask a worse smell, and omnipresent. She must have seen my nose wrinkle.

  “Bug spray,” she said. “The place reeks of it. They get out, they’re everywhere.”

  I nodded as if that made perfect sense to me.

  “I’m actually ...”

  Just then a little wiry-haired guy with a walking stick came in followed by a very tall brunette wearing killer black stilettos, a blood-red fascinator that looked like it had blown off an organ-grinder’s monkey, and absolutely nothing else. The shoes were badly stained. She eyed me top to bottom and frowned, then turned back to the little guy.

  “I told you I don’t like them,” she said.

  “And I give a tinker’s cock because?”

  “Because they still ask for me, don’t they, Leo? And maybe I’ve had it with bugs. They bite!”

  “They’re cheap, all right, bitch? Don’t that mean more money in your hole? And don’t think you’re so special. You’re just another gash in high heels. If I say it’s day of the locust, you stomp, baby. Don’t get precious on me ‘cause Talia Shire you ain’t.”

  He looked up at me, turned to the big-haired lady. “Who’s this?”

  “Marty Burns!” Stiletto Girl suddenly shouted. “I knew you were somebody.”

  “I was,” I sighed.

  “You work with this bitch?” O’Leo asked me. “You must be a cunt, too.”

  “Oh, my,” I said. The girl grinned at me, then arched her back. “No, I’ve never had the pleasure.”

  He snorted. “You’re the only one, then.”

  “Hey!” she shouted. Before she could get another word in, O’Leo pointed at the door. She began to protest, then thought better of it. She grabbed a long coat off a rack, threw it over her shoulders and drifted out.

  “What do you want?” he said. “Who are you?”

  “I am Marty Burns and I’m looking for someone.”

  “God help you if you’re looking here.”

  I nodded. “His name is Ron.”

  Shushie had informed me that her boy didn’t care for ElronD any more - imagine! - and used the simpler variant.

  “Horsedick Ron? Cow Tongue Ron? Ron the Ferret? Lot of Rons here. You know, Cow Tongue Ron’s actually got a bigger dick than Horsedick Ron? Ain’t that just the way?”

  The woman laughed.

  “I didn’t know,” I said. “And I have no idea how big my Ron’s ... listen. He’s a kid and his name is ElronD but he goes by Ron. Just Ron. I don’t think he ...performs.”

  The smile fell off O’Leo’s face. “No, he don’t. You’re a pal of his?”

&nb
sp; “Not exactly,” I said. “I’m just trying to find him. For his mom, believe it or not. A ... friend gave me this address as a place to start looking.”

  “A friend, huh? His mom, huh? I see,” he said, nodding very sagely. “Lainie sent you here.”

  “No, it was Shu—” I caught myself. I’m the only one who ever called her Shushie. She used to insist on Shoshona to everyone else, but if ElronD was Ron, it figured that Shush must have a nom de porn, too. Because that had to be what she was hooked up with here. “Yeah, Lainie sent me.”

  “Looking for little Ron. Uh-huh, uh-huh. Well, he sure as fuck ain’t here. I’d like to see him, though. Say, if you find him, would you maybe give him something from me?”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Just this.”

  And smooth as silk on oil, he whipped his walking stick around and smashed it across the side of my head. The kicking started before I’d even crumbled to the floor. I felt - and heard - something crack, then an electric explosion between my legs.

  The rest was as lost as a weekend in Twentynine Palms.

  ~ * ~

  “Shushie,” I said.

  “How are you feeling, Martin?”

  “I’m home.”

  “No place like it. Your ruby slippers are under the bed.”

  I was lying in my room. My ex-wife sat next to me on the edge of the bed, idly stroking my hair. It kind of hurt.

  “How’d I get here?”

  “I found you.”

  “Was I lost?”

  “Aren’t you always?”

  My nose throbbed. I touched it with a fingertip and it ached, but didn’t slide across my face. That seemed like a good thing. I tried to sit up and felt pain shoot through my chest and balls. Sitting up, I decided, was so last year that I wouldn’t do it. Uh-uh, not me. Lying down is definitely the new black in my fashion regimen.

  “How did you find me?”

  “I didn’t, truth be told. Leilani did. She called me and I picked you up.”

  “Picked me up?”

  “Literally. From off the ground.”

  Just then the bedroom door opened and a familiar brunette head poked in.

  “I thought I heard talking. Hey.”

  It was Stiletto Girl. She’d lost the fascinator and the shoes, but gained my running shorts - don’t worry, I’ve never actually jogged in them - and Burning Bright T-shirt (it came with the mugs).The shirt is kind of a collector’s item, but it seemed churlish to mention it. And she filled it out pretty good.

  “Leilani?” I presumed.

  She flashed a nice smile. “How you doing, big guy?

  At five-nine with the aid of a Procrustean bed, “big guy” isn’t often thrown my way. Especially by six-foot brunettes wearing much-too-small-for-them running shorts.

  “I’m good, thanks,” I said. “I’m ... I’m... what the hell’s going on, Shushie? What are you doing to me?”

  Shushie raised her chin at Leilani - she didn’t look Hawaiian, by the way - who nodded and withdrew. But not before throwing me a wink.

  “I like her,” I said.

  “She’s a brick.”

  “She called you.”

  “Yeah. O’Leo dumped you on the kerb after he beat on you. Fortunately, Leilani was still outside. Did you find out anything about ElronD?”

  “I’m fine, Shush. Thanks for asking.”

  “I don’t think anything’s broken, Marty. I had a feel.”

  “And how the hell would you know?”

  “I did some nursing classes a while back. Almost a year. At Pomona State.”

  “Really?”

  “I flunked out. I screwed too many doctors. I tried a lot of stuff.”

  “Comforting, then. Your diagnosis.”

  She leaned in closer. “I had a feel all over, if you know what I mean.”

  “If you think I am even remotely stimulated by that, you’re even crazier than I remember. Not to mention O’Leo kicked me pretty righteously in the goolies.”

  She stiffened up and looked huffy. “That’s not nice,” she said.

  “No, it doesn’t feel nice at all.”

  “I mean the crazy talk. That’s not a nice way to speak about a person, Martin.”

  “Offence definitely intended, Shush.”

  She actually looked hurt. Then she saw it wasn’t working. She changed her look all over again.

  “ElronD called me,” she said.

  “Hey, hey! Case closed,” I said. “Chalk another one up for the boy. My bill shall be forthcoming.”

  “He’s still in trouble, Martin.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not so terrific myself,” I said. I did manage to raise myself to a sitting position. A wave of nausea later, I could even throw my legs over the side of the bed. Christ, my balls hurt!

  “They’re threatening to kill him,” she said. She put her hand on my thigh, rested her head against my shoulder. I could see dark roots coming through her blonde hair. It smelled nice, though. It always had. “And it’s my fault.”

  “Oh, Christ. What have you done, Shushie? What are you two into?”

  She raised her head off my shoulder, squeezed my thigh - a little too hard - and stood up to pace.

  “The recession has been difficult for me, Martin,” she began. “I took some money that wasn’t mine. ElronD ... helped.”

  “Christ on a crutch,” I muttered. It didn’t deflect her.

  “ElronD’s a good boy but he’s had his troubles. Lawyers are expensive. Things get tough. A girl does what she has to do.”

  “This, too, may strike you as ungallant, but you’re not a girl any more, Shush.”

  Silence.

  “Okay, I’ll bite: what did you do?”

  “I was taking some Zumba classes in Echo Park ...”

  “You couldn’t cut back on those?” I offered.

  “That’s where I met Leilani.”

  “Ha! And I figured her strictly for Bootie-Bikini.”

  “This is serious, Martin. We got friendly. Very friendly, if you know what I mean.”

  She peered up at me.

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “So what, you’re a switch-hitter these days?”

  “Always was, Martin. You weren’t around long enough to know.”

  “Oh, do go on, Shush.”

  “I told her about my money troubles - ElronD’s ... difficulties. She told me she had a great gig, if I wasn’t squeamish.”

  “Someone says that to you - in LA, for God’s sake - and you don’t run as fast as you can some other way?”

  “She said she knew a guy who makes videos. Not porn, though.”

  It wasn’t hard to interpret my look.

  “Not real porn. You know there’s no money in that these days. It’s all free on the net. YouPorn?”

  “I’m passing familiar with it. So this guy ... it’s O’Leo, right? What is he doing?”

  Shushie hesitated. She tried to be cute and bit her thumb.

  “Shush,” I said.

  “Mmm?”

  “Do you remember who showed you The Big Sleep for the first time?”

  She took her thumb out of her mouth.

  “What’s O’Leo’s scam?”

  Silence.

  “Shushie ...”

  “Crush videos,” she rasped. She looked away from me, lower lip aquiver.

  I nodded. I reached out and gently touched her forearm.

  “I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, Martin, you’re still such a square. Crush videos, you know. Naked girls, high-heeled shoes. Little things. Crush!”

  “I’m sorry, I am very square. I like vanilla ice cream, sometimes with sprinkles if I’m feeling crazy. I eat pizza - thin-crust - with mushrooms and pepperoni; no broccoli, no clams, no dragon fruit or whatever other stupid toppings they try to ruin it with. I watch The Tonight Show, though admittedly I don’t laug
h. And I actually enjoy the missionary position when I can find someone to convert. So what is it exactly that you do, Shushie?”