L.A. Rotten

by Jeff Klima

  “Why not choose a double-edged sword then?”

  “Jesus. First you don’t want him to kill the person, then you want him to kill them in the most medieval way possible?”

  “Well…jeez.” She’s wounded here. “I was only kidding—I don’t want anyone to die—it’s bad karma. I’m a live-and-let-live kind of girl…mostly. Remember: I wanted to go to the cops with all this. But since that’s not an option, and since it’s between you and some stranger, and they’ve got to die anyway, what’s it matter? I don’t think there is a nice way to kill someone.”

  A customer in the bikini bar looks over at that, so I shush Ivy with a subtle wave of the hand. “I’m not protesting it, I’m just saying you’ve covered a pretty broad spectrum. No, a double-edged sword is an interesting idea—poetic even. Right now, it’s king of the mountain.”

  “What about a chainsaw?”

  “Damn, you just don’t stop, do you?”

  “You’ve got to wow him, right? To get close, you’ve got to make him realize you’ve got the cojones to play his games, right? A chainsaw will soooo do that. Besides, your goal is to stop him before he pulls this off, right? So you’ve just got to say ‘chainsaw’ to get his attention, and then don’t let him actually use it.”

  “Doesn’t mean I’m going to risk looking like an asshole by suggesting it.”

  She shrugs, already out of ideas.

  “I think I’ve got it,” I say, watching two younger guys down the bar attempt to ignite a shot of whiskey with a Bic lighter. “Remember that awful dream of yours?”

  “Jesus, Tom…not that!” Ivy protests, but the idea is already fixed in my mind.

  “You said it yourself—it would be the worst way to die.”

  “So why the fuck would you choose it then?”

  “Instant respect. We’ll one-up Lake and Ng. A. Guy will love it—he won’t just burn the body, he’ll burn the person.”

  Chapter 17

  It takes everything in my power to pull the plungers from the twin syringes of heroin and dump their contents into my toilet. The next few days will be rough. I’m already feeling the itch something fierce, and the knowledge that no relief is coming only amplifies the sensation.

  I’m right, of course, and, more importantly, A. Guy agrees. “Fire’s mean,” he chuckles when I tell him. “You’ve got a sadistic streak in you, Dr. Tom. Maybe you’re the Leonard Lake?”

  “Nah, I’m just taking my cues from you,” I say, stoking his ego through the payphone. “You’re the crazy one.” I can tell he likes that. Killing like he does, he is probably all bottled up, just looking for a forum to brag. I give him that release, and his dam suddenly seems to split.

  “Fuck Leonard Lake,” he agrees, boisterous. “And Charles Ng. We’re Tom and Andy, and we’re going to be fucking infamous!”

  Somehow the silence that follows seems loud, like a vibrator rattling on a hardwood floor. And then he—Andy—is desperate to fill in the conversational blank, as if refusing to acknowledge that he fucked up. “So you’re going to need to supply me with the tools for this little operation. I’m thinking what we need is a five-gallon gas can—full, obviously, and a good lighter.”

  “Is this my next task?”

  “No, this is still part of the first one. I don’t just have an extra gas can and Zippo lying around, and I’ll be damned if I shell out the money for them when I have you, who are so eager to kiss my ass.”

  “What should I do with these?”

  “Glad you asked. A little before four-thirty on Tuesday, go down to the Holy Cross Cemetery in Culver City. Find the ‘Saint Ann’s’ section. Near marker number 156, you’ll find the grave of Holly Kelly.” I can detect his smirk through the phone. “Leave the gas can and lighter on the grave, and then get back in your car and drive away. I’ll be able to see if you are watching, so don’t try and get clever. And knock this payphone bullshit off. I don’t like having to be on your terms. Man up and take my calls from your cell phone. You’re not exactly public enemy number one or anything. If I’m not afraid of being tracked down, you shouldn’t be.” I’d never thought about what the Kellys had done with little Holly’s remains, whether she’d been buried or cremated or even frozen like Walt Disney. Apparently she’d been buried in Culver City. It is strange: I’ve driven by that cemetery at least a few times before and never for a moment considered that Holly might have been inside. Apparently “Andy” had made that consideration, though.

  —

  By Tuesday, I am sick. Full-on withdrawal symptoms have hit to the point where I need Ivy to drive me out to the cemetery. She offers to just go it alone, but I don’t want to take the chance that Andy thinks we’re up to something.

  The patrolman on watch fires up his car when I exit the building, and though it annoys me to do so, I give him a friendly wave. It’s the hardass—the one who gave me a ticket. Losing him is going to be a challenge. I pass Ivy’s blue Tercel, parked just behind my Charger on the street. She’s smart enough to not look up as I pass, and when I’m sure the officer can’t see my hand, I discreetly drop my car keys into the gutter beside her back tire. Stuffing my hands into the pocket of my sweatshirt, I continue on, as if I’m out for a pleasant midafternoon stroll about the neighborhood. Reaching the corner, I turn left and head up the block toward the Quik-time Laundromat. Without looking, I know he is right with me. I walk slowly now, giving Ivy time. At the door to the laundromat, I look upward at the sign, studying it, as if casually curious about just what the fuck is the nature of such a business. The cop double-parks in the street, still idling, and stares at me, suspicious, but I pay him no heed and finally enter. He doesn’t follow me inside, and I am counting on this as I head straight through the building and out the back door, into the alley where Ivy is waiting for me in the Charger, right on schedule. Ideally, the policeman waits another twenty minutes before he gets off his ass to come inside and find out I burned him. It is an easy gag, and I must concede that Andy is right about the intelligence level of beat cops. Of course, I don’t fool myself that the trick will work more than once. The gas can, currently in my trunk, is an old army-green metal affair that I got from the back of a wrecked Jeep in a salvage yard off San Fernando Road. The Zippo in my pocket is plain, polished steel with no frills—both are filled to capacity. Ivy drives while I rest my head on the windowsill, my sweatshirt hood pulled low over my eyes to keep the sun out. The heroin was fun while it lasted, but sobering is a bitch. I feel the car make a series of tight turns as Ivy pulls through the gates and over to the grotto that separates us from the Saint Ann section. “We’ll have to do some walking,” she says, and parks at a curb in the large cemetery.

  I carry both the gas can and the Zippo, hunched over and dripping sweat. It’s a good thing there are no spectators at the moment, because I look like an extra from Night of the Living Dead. We take a stone path past the shaded grotto and its trickling waterfall, and this leads us to a grouping of flat earth markers, offset from the rest of the cemetery. Ivy, excited, moves ahead, eagerly scanning plaques in search of the little dead girl. “It’s here!” she exclaims finally, stopping at a gray marker level with the earth around it.

  “ ‘Holly Ann Kelly, Beloved Daughter.’ Pretty generic. There’s not even a death date,” Ivy gripes.

  I cut across several graves, laboring with the heavy can as the pungent liquid inside sloshes back and forth.

  “The grave marker next to hers is blank,” Ivy continues. “Do you think—”

  “Yes. I do.” I set the can down heavily on top of the plaque and then place the Zippo on top of that. Both get a quick wipe to ensure they’re free of my fingerprints. I look down at the grave plate, flush with the surrounding grass, unwilling to read the words myself. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Don’t you want to…I don’t know…reflect? Or at least see if we can find some celebrities?”

  “I just want to lay down and die.”

  “Well, you’re in the right place
,” she kids, catching up as I walk away.

  —

  We go back to my place and the same cop is waiting for me, parked directly in front of the apartment building. I make Ivy walk far behind me so the officer doesn’t know we’re together. This time, I delight in giving him a friendly wave. Agitated, he points a finger gun in my direction and blows me away.

  Inside the apartment with Ivy, I insist that we screw because we haven’t in a while and I think it will maybe take my mind off heroin. I can’t get hard, though, even with her sucking on my cock, and so we lie there, naked, both covered in my sweat.

  I don’t know if I should explain that it’s not her fault, so I don’t. Fortunately, my phone buzzes, just once, but it gives me the excuse to slide out from the silence between us. “There’s no way you can deal with a crime scene right now,” Ivy orders, maternal. “Tell your boss to do it himself.”

  “That’ll be the day.” I wince and fish the phone from the pocket of my pants. It’s a text message. I open it and find only the address to a home in Hawthorne. It takes me a second, but then I realize. “Fuck.”

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing.” I toss the phone onto my nightstand, out of her immediate reach. Fucking inconvenient bastards.

  “Is it him?” she persists.

  “No—really, it’s nothing.”

  Ivy can handle this new quiet for about three seconds. “Is it another girl?”

  “I fucking wish,” I say, and slowly lie back on the bed, anticipating another migraine. Ivy is right, of course. There is no way I can complete the work that is expected of me now, not by myself, and especially not with a constant police presence.

  “You’re pretty into me, right?” I ask finally.

  “Why?”

  “There’s something going on that would turn you off of me, and I don’t know how to deal with it.”

  “Stop being cryptic and level with me, how’s that for a start?”

  “I’ve got this side gig…cutting up bodies for a street gang. For money.”

  “And that was them?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you can’t do it alone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you want me to help you?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “So…then, what?”

  “I don’t fucking know. You don’t seem surprised.”

  “I’m not. You got this thing with death that kinda creeps me out, but I’ve managed so far, and I’ll keep managing, I suppose, because you’re right: I am into you.”

  “So what happens next?”

  “Is this something we have to deal with right now?” she asks, serious now, realizing.

  “I think it is.”

  “Okay, so first things first. We’ve got to get rid of the police. Do you think he’ll fall for the laundromat thing again?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, so we’ve got to come up with something else. Any ideas?”

  My mind flashes to the supplies in the basement. “I think I’ve got one.”

  —

  I exit the apartment building just as night is settling on the city and bringing with it a soft breeze that does wonders against the heat. The cop sits in his car exactly where I left him, with the engine running and the air conditioner blasting full steam. His window is down, though, and I can hear his engine working overtime. “That’s not good for the car,” I tell him coolly, eating up time, not moving from my spot in front of the building.

  “You think you’re pretty clever, don’t you, killer?” he retorts.

  “Nah, not really,” I say with a shrug. “I just don’t like to see my taxes go to waste.” He’s got a goofy mustache that matches his blond hair, and it’s the only thing that keeps him from looking like a kid.

  “Turn yourself in then. You’re the one wasting taxpayer money.”

  “I’m going to head up to the store, you need anything?” I can sense Ivy on the roof above me, and make sure I’m standing a safe distance from the car.

  “I’ll be right up your ass from here on out, so don’t think—” Before he can finish, five gallons’ worth of industrial wall paint splashes down beautifully onto the side windows and roof of the police cruiser. It’s a dismal color and it doesn’t do the cruiser any more justice than it does the hallways of my apartment complex. Now it is all about reaction.

  “Holy shit,” I exclaim, and look skyward, happy to see that Ivy is nowhere in sight. The officer, whose arm and left side have taken on a large amount of the splatter, is screaming and fumbling to exit the vehicle. “Fucking teenagers,” I add, not smiling.

  “Aghh…” is all the cop can say, shaking in apoplectic rage, not sure at all what to do. He looks up at the roof, across the street, and then at me, who stands innocent and splatter-free. “Did you see who did this?”

  “No…but like I said, there are a couple punks living in the building—they pull this shit all the time.”

  “Goddamnit!” The officer swipes the paint off himself onto any clean surface he can find. A middle-aged Asian lady exits the apartment with a small portable grocery cart. “Did you do this?” the cop yells at her, but she just hurries off, unsettled. “Stay right where you fucking are,” the cop tells me, catching the door to the building. “Fucking Christ.”

  The moment he is gone, I move quickly up the block to the Charger, where I settle into the passenger seat and wait. Ivy emerges from the building a minute later, smiling broadly herself. “That felt so, so fucking good.” She climbs behind the wheel.

  “Did you see him?” I ask, pleased as well.

  “No,” Ivy admits. “I took the elevator, he took the stairs. But I could hear him—the whole building could.” She pulls my car out into the street. “Now, where are we headed?”

  Chapter 18

  The ramshackle house out in Hawthorne is similar in size and upkeep to its predecessor in Inglewood. This street too is a quiet one, and Ivy pulls the Charger all the way up to the garage door at my command. The withdrawals have been coming at me in waves—nausea, chills, sweating, cramping; right now I am freezing and fetal in my sweatshirt.

  “What now?” she asks, and reaches across to feel my pale forehead with the back of her hand.

  “The body’s in there,” I say, gesturing to the structure ahead of us. “We need the toolbox out of the trunk.”

  I don’t even offer to help carry the milk crate into the garage, so weak am I feeling. At the moment, it’s all I can do to lean up against the doorjamb in order to not collapse in a pathetic heap. I feel cramps across my abdomen like repeated assaults with a hot fireplace poker, and I can taste the acidic rot of bile at the base of my esophagus. Ivy comes up behind me and bumps me in the back lightly with the crate to prod me forward. “I feel like we’re being watched,” she whispers softly, so that if we are being watched, it won’t be heard.

  I switch on the overhead light; the ubiquitous fluorescent track bulbs flick on independent of one another, supplying vision to the room. Directly in front of me is a car, an old gray Nissan sedan that takes up the entire near half of the floor space. On the hood of the Nissan is a familiar brown cardboard box. This tells me we’re at least in the right place.

  I move forward into the garage and around the narrow space between the door and the Nissan’s bumper with Ivy at my heels, as if she nervously refuses to be anything but my shadow.

  The body is lying facedown, and is female—I can tell that right off from the abundance of silky dark hair that spreads down from the back of her head and onto the bloodstained concrete. It’s odd, though; she appears to be lying on something, for her body, big as it is, is pitched up in the middle. It isn’t until I crouch down beside the girl that I realize she’s pregnant. Or…was pregnant. The amount of blood surrounding the abdominal area tells me she took a bullet through there as well. Behind me, I can hear Ivy also connect the dots.

  “Assholes,” she expels into the night, thi
s time not caring if she’s heard.

  Pebbles of glass are scattered about the feet of the body, and the front passenger window of the Nissan is blasted out. They had her backed against the car, with nowhere to run, when they shot her in the face and belly.

  While I am down, I turn the broad girl onto her back, and as she rolls, her still-open good eye connects with Ivy’s.

  “Oohh,” Ivy sort of moans behind me, repulsed, but I’m already inspecting the bullet holes, probing them with my finger, curious. The holes, one through the eye socket, the other at the top of the abdomen, about three inches above her belly button, look like nine-millimeter entry wounds.

  “First thing, we’ve got to drain the body of the rest of the blood, then we’ll saw it apart,” I say. “Going after the bullets is going to be a bitch because she’s about eight months along, it looks, and we’ll probably end up having to dig one out of the fetus.”

  “No.” Ivy says, dropping the milk crate onto the trunk of the Nissan, still unable to pry her eyes from those of the dead girl. “Uh-uh. We’re not doing this.”

  “We have to.”

  “No. This is wrong. This is that line I can’t cross. This is like the basement level of hell.”

  “These are not the sort of people I can just turn down a job for…the likelihood is that they will kill me over something like this. And there won’t be anyone around to clean me up.”

  “Tommy, this is fucking evil. I will never forgive myself for taking part in this, and if you continue with it, I know in my heart that I will never forgive you either. So please? Please? Don’t do this.”

  “Well, what should we do? Just leave her here?”

  “Call the police. This one time. Please? Let them go after these bastards.”

  I look up at Ivy and then down at the body of the Hispanic girl. In the box on the front of the Nissan is likely a quick five grand, but Ivy will walk if I take it. The sad truth is, if she walks she won’t make it four blocks before getting rolled by some hoods out looking for an opportunity like her. Then some can collector will find her two days later beneath some trash bags in an alley with ten varieties of semen inside her. I am frustrated enough by the situation to let her walk, but the better person inside of me stands with the aid of the Nissan, and then grips my head with both hands. She’s lucky I feel like shit and can’t do this alone. “Okay. Let’s get out of here.”