I lay back on my own and lifted over my head the photocopies of 1970 newspaper articles I had made at the downtown library that afternoon.
Palos Verdes Estates, May 17—Citizens of this wealthy suburb were treated to a terrifying spectacle last night as a flaming Maserati Coupe smashed through the barricade near Cohelan Drive and the Pacific Highway and plunged into the ocean.
The vehicle was owned by Oscar Procari, Jr., of West Hollywood, a self-described priest in the Church of the Five Deities. Mr. Procari was said to have been driving the car at the time of the accident.
I flipped the page.
Palos Verdes Estates, May 19—Police are finding it difficult to make a positive identification of the driver incinerated in the crash of a Maserati in the Pacific near Cohelan Drive three nights ago. Both car and driver were badly fragmented, suggesting a gas explosion while the car was still in the air, police say.
I turned to the next one.
Palos Verdes Estates, May 20—Police now have definitely identified the victim in the May 16 Maserati crash here as Oscar Procari, Jr., the vehicle’s owner.
Identification was aided by members of Procari’s Church of the Five Deities who provided authorities with X-rays of the victim. The coroner’s office was then able to compare the deceased’s bone structure with the few remaining fragments.
It seemed possible that “King Nestor” was the reincarnation of Procari, a code name of sorts to disguise a reappearance that might have been planned as long as two years ago. But reappearance for what? To defeat the candidacy of Miles Hawthorne? It didn’t make sense. Hawthorne wasn’t even a candidate at that time. To take over a burgeoning Satan cult in Southern California? Surely that had backfired.
I thumbed through the articles again, then placed them on the table next to the list of delegates and a copy of Rip It Off. How did Howard fit in with this? For all his pathetic qualities, his ersatz radicalism, it was still depressing to imagine him so brainwashed by a devil cult he would adhere to their every wish, even if that meant looking the other way from murder.
I got up and put on a pot of espresso from the Cuban grocery store down the street. The night was still young and maybe if I plowed my way through Aleister Crowley’s Magick in Theory and Practice, I could figure out what they were up to. Or perhaps if I got super-stoned and hallucinated my way into Goya’s illustrations of the Witches’ Sabbath. Or better yet, I could take a ride over to Pacific Properties and beat up Flint. But that might just get me a piece of Nestor’s silver stick in the back of my neck. Then the phone rang.
“Hello, Wine.” It was Sebastian.
“Hello, Sam. How’s Bakersfield?”
“Was Bakersfield . . . I just got back. I heard you were in touch with Eppis.”
“Yeah, I—”
“It can keep. Something really urgent came up. Can you get away?”
“Sure, I’ll be right there.”
“No, not here. It’s too risky. I’ll be in the parking lot of Tiny Naylor’s in half an hour.”
I got there ahead of him and waited in the Buick with the motor running. Bleach blonde waitresses shimmied from car to car taking orders for chili burgers and fries from teenagers in shiny Bonnevilles with spurs. It was like a Chamber of Commerce picture of California in the fifties. Only now the waitresses needed bridge work and most of the teenagers were drag queens.
Sebastian arrived on foot. He didn’t say anything but beckoned for me to follow him across the parking lot in the direction of the Carolina Pines Motel. When we reached the sidewalk on Highland Avenue, he pointed to a white Mercury Cougar parked in front of the motel. We got in and headed off on Sunset going west. After about half a mile, he took a letter out of his pocket and handed it to me. It was neatly typed on the kind of plain stationery available at any five and ten cent store.
To the So-Called Liberals at Hawthorne HQ:
Be advised the Free Amerika Party plans its greatest demonstration of support for Senator Miles Hawthorne early the morning of May 31, 1972. At that time the whole nation—probably even the whole world—will know we’re behind Senator Hawthorne. So just remember, stay clear of Harbor, Hollywood and San Bernardino Freeways—that is, if you value your own life.
Yours for the victory in the primary and
victory in November,
H. Eppis.
It was postmarked Pomona, California, May 27 and addressed to Mr. Sam Sebastian, County Coordinator, Hawthorne Headquarters, 4901 Wilshire Boulevard.
“He means to blow up a freeway, doesn’t he?” said Sebastian.
“I don’t think he wants to lead the parade.”
“What are you going to do about it?” He stopped for a red light at the corner of Sunset and Fairfax.
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?! You’ve got some leads, haven’t you?”
I nodded. The light changed and we continued up Sunset past the Directors’ Guild and the Bank of America.
“What have you got?”
“Nothing much. A Satan cult.”
“A Satan cult?” He sounded annoyed.
“A faded Satan cult. Passé. They operated out of a recording studio in Westwood. After that they were on Columbia Drive.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Why would Satanists care about an election?”
But I wasn’t listening. “Turn left!” I said.
“What?”
“Turn left!” I grabbed his shoulder. “We’re being followed!”
He seemed confused. I reached over him and twisted the wheel, turning us off onto Crenshaw Boulevard.
“Now double back.”
“What?”
“Double back!” I shouted. “Don’t you speak English?”
I looked out the rear window. The green Chevy with the Nevada plates was fifty yards behind us.
“Who’s that?” Sebastian asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Then how do you know they’re following us?”
“Don’t worry about it. Just turn.” I pulled the steering wheel again and we went off on Santa Monica past Tana’s Restaurant and the Troubadour. Then up Doheny at about eighty miles per hour. Sebastian hunched over the wheel with a grim expression on his face. The guys in the Chevy were good. They stayed right behind us.
“Now there,” I said, pointing at a side street which wound up into the hills behind the Whiskey-A-Go-Go. “Step on it!” I pressed my foot over Sebastian’s on the gas pedal to give him a little extra encouragement. Soon we were up over the city, tearing across Mulholland Drive with our tires screeching like wounded hyenas. The lights of L.A. stretched out in front of us, a rhinestone paradise.
Then we drove down again, into Laurel Canyon, dark with ominous eucalyptus trees hovering above us. A trio of hitch-hikers appeared momentarily at the side of the road and Sebastian nearly swiped them.
“Having fun?” I asked.
“We’re not losing them,” he said. “Where’re we headed?”
“Just drive.”
We sped past the Canyon Store and Cafe Galleria. Traffic was picking up in the opposite direction, people returning to the Valley after a night on the town. A police helicopter dropped into the canyon, shining its beacon on the passing cars, and then disappeared again. I tugged on Sebastian’s arm.
“Slow down.”
He eased up on the accelerator.
“There.”
I aimed my index finger at a bright fluorescent sign, black against white lettering: Mt. Olympus. A small fountain played in front of it, illuminated with a pink spotlight. We turned up the hill behind it, twisting back and forth on narrow roads with names like Zeus Way and Athena Drive. The empty streets were lined with newly-planted cypresses and Italian pines. Hundreds of sites had been levelled, sliced like miniature landing strips in the side had been of the mountain, but remained unbuilt, a financial disaster.
“Higher,” I said, urging him on. The green Chevy was on the hill beneath us, only tw
o switch-backs behind. Continuing ahead, we came to a roundabout at the top. Olympus Circle. A bulldozer stood by the apron in front of the facade of a half-finished French Provincial mansion.
“Pull over.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Run down that embankment and come back in ten minutes.” We both got out of the car. But Sebastian didn’t move. He just stood there in a daze. “Get going,” I said.
He nodded and started running down the incline behind the facade of the mansion. At the same moment I could see the Chevy coming up to his left. I climbed into the bulldozer and slumped down to eye level.
In a few seconds the Chevy drove into the circle, moving slowly. It came up behind Sebastian’s car, giving it the once-over, then came around to my side. I could see the two men well now. Both of them were burly types, short-haired Marines, with banlon shirts, beige and brown. The one who wasn’t driving carried a snub-nosed Saturday Night Special close to chin level. They drove around a couple of more times, talking to each other, obviously trying to decide if we were still nearby. At length they pulled over by a pile of two-by-fours. The driver got out and stood in front of his car while his mate proceeded in the direction of the French Provincial facade. When he reached the door, he grabbed the handle and pulled it open. Through the frame the lights of West Hollywood stretched off into the distance. He stepped past and disappeared out of sight.
Slowly, silently, I lowered myself out of the bulldozer. I could see the driver’s trouser legs. Keeping my eye on him, I crept around the side of the vehicle. He leaned back on the hood of the Chevy. I didn’t have a plan really, but when I got up close to him, I leapt out and grabbed the bastard by the neck, squeezing for all I was worth. We fell to the ground and rolled over to the gutter.
“Lila Shea, you fucker. Lila Shea,” I shouted. I found myself smashing his face, gouging my knee into his kidney. “Who killed Lila Shea?”
“I don’t know,” he said, barely getting the words out of his constricted throat.
“I bet you don’t.” I brought my fist over his left ear, bringing it down like a jack hammer. The sonofabitch was bigger than I was and I didn’t know where all this nerve was coming from. But it was coming.
“Who’re you working for, motherfucker?” I shook him, battering his head against the ground. His nose was bleeding badly.
“The meadows . . . ” he said.
“What meadows? What the fuck are you talking about?”
“The meadows . . . the meadows by the junction.”
“What junction, you bastard?” I pummeled his face with my fist. “Who’re you working for?”
The man shook his head. He had guts, I had to admit. I slammed him again. The back of his skull bounced off the cement.
Then I heard a shot.
13
I SAT ON my porch listening to Bach’s French Suite Number Six and watching the sun come up over the San Gabriels. Dawn could be beautiful in L.A., misty-gold the way it must have been a few hundred years ago when Father Serra first eased his fat Spanish ass down the Camino Real. But this one did nothing for me. I wasn’t in the mood.
I reached for the thermos and poured some coffee. I hadn’t slept all night, replaying the events at Mt. Olympus in my mind, and my thoughts were getting murkier by the minute. What happened? I wasn’t sure. It was difficult to see clearly, as if everything were deliberately obscured or performed symbolically like the Dumb Show in an Elizabethan Tragedy.
I thought it through again.
I heard the shot.
I jumped to my feet and turned in the direction of the French Provincial facade. The door was still open. I took a step toward it. The bastard at my feet lunged at me, but I kicked him in the face, sending him back into the fender of his car. He wasn’t moving anymore. Then I ran through the door in a crouch to the end of the building site.
At first I couldn’t see anything but the lights of Hollywood. The Capitol Records building was down to my left near where the freeway cut a diagonal through Sunset and across Melrose and Santa Monica. On the next ridge, there was a statue of Hermes illuminated by a green spotlight. Two men were outlined against it. One of them was backing away with his hands up. The other, the man with the Saturday Night Special, advanced on him with his gun in his hand. They weren’t more than fifteen feet apart. I came closer.
“Jonas, don’t do it . . . please.” I thought I heard Sebastian say. His voice trembled.
“No chance, punk. You’ve had it!”
I started in, but before I could move, the man fired again It looked like point-blank range but the shot missed, the bullet careening into the first of a row of mock-Corinthian columns, shattering the fluting.
“Wine!” Sebastian shouted, throwing himself on the ground and crawling behind the column.
I yelled and ran down the side of the hill. The one with the gun turned and headed toward me. I circled around a hedge and continued up the other side in back of Sebastian. The hood gripped his pistol with both hands and trained it on me.
“Move it, Sebastian. Go!” I shouted.
The county coordinator stood and started running, but tripped over a rock at the edge of the driveway. The gunman came up behind him, aiming at his back. He fired, the bullet dispersing the gravel ten feet away. The bastard must have been the worst shot in Nevada.
“Hey, Wyatt Earp!” I called out. “I’ve got a gun too.”
The hood wheeled around in my direction. I held my fist under my jacket, jabbing a thumb through the denim. He stared at me for a moment. Sebastian clambered to his feet and began running again, out toward the main road.
“Bullshit, buddy! All you got in there is your pudgy little fist.”
He lifted his gun to eye level. But I didn’t wait to see if his marksmanship would improve. I ran after Sebastian like a gazelle. Seconds later he started firing. The first shot landed six inches from my right toe. The second created a temporary vacuum under my left earlobe. The third was so close I didn’t realize I wasn’t hit until I caught up with Sebastian at the bottom, hiding among the cypresses.
“In here.” I pointed to a temporary tool shack erected at the edge of the development.
We waited inside without talking. I stood at the door with a heavy shovel in my hand. Twice we heard footsteps within fifty feet of the shack. Sebastian was breathing heavily and I was sure the bastard would blast through the wall, spattering our guts over the workbench. But ten minutes passed and nothing happened. After twenty minutes I opened the door. We were at the far end of another building site. The night was dark, silent. The road winding to the top of Mt. Olympus—empty.
“What’d you find out?” Sebastian asked me as I climbed back to the car.
“Nothing much. Something about the meadows. I couldn’t figure it. . . .What about this Jonas?” I let it out casually, hoping to catch him off guard.
“Jonas?” he asked. His expression betrayed nothing.
“Yeah, the sonofabitch who was taking the shots at us.”
“Was that his name? How did you know?”
“That’s what you called him yourself.”
Sebastian started to laugh. “I called him that?”
“ ‘Jonas, don’t do it . . . please.’ ”
The county coordinator shook his head. “I must have been pretty nervous. What I was saying was ‘Jesus, don’t do it . . . please.’ What would you have said under the circumstances?”
I didn’t answer. We had reached the top of the hill. His car was where we had left it, but the green Chevy was gone, leaving a trail of rubber halfway around the circle.
14
HE’S JUST A two-bit Nevada hood, the kind that would dry-gulch a blind man for $1.85.”
Koontz shrugged with a certain snugness. It was mid-morning and we were sitting at the counter of Winchell’s doughnut place on Glendale Boulevard. The cop had a maple bar in front of him and a cup of black coffee.
“For you I wouldn’t do diddly-shit.”
/>
“What do you want, Koontz? Justice or law? If he were a peace marcher, you’d pistol-whip your own mother to find out who he was.”
“The right of privacy, Wine. As you know, every citizen has the right to be protected from random snooping into his personal affairs.” The policeman swallowed the maple bar in two bites and washed it down with his coffee. “What do you want him for?”
“To get to the heart of this Lila Shea business. You want it solved, don’t you?”
“What’s his name?”
“Jonas.”
“Jonas what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is it his first name or last name?”
“I don’t know that either.”
Koontz looked at me in disgust. “That’s all you’ve got?” With his left hand, he signalled the waitress to bring him a cheese danish and a second cup of coffee.
“Well, it could be Jonah, not Jonas. I wasn’t that close and the other party was speaking quickly.”
“The other party?”
“Sorry.” I smiled at him.
“Now come on, Wine. What’s going on here?”
“It’s very simple, Koontz.” I spoke slowly, distinctly. “I want you to find out the identity of a bimbo named Jonas, or possibly Jonah. He’s about five feet eleven, hair blonde, eyes blue, solid build. He probably drinks a lot because of the redness in his cheeks. He carries a Saturday Night Special and goes around with a buddy who drives a green 1971 Chevelle with phony Nevada license plates.”
The Big Fix Page 8
