by James Ellroy
“Ha! The imperfection, the wonder, remember?”
“Touché, Lorna.”
“Where are you booking Engels?”
Lorna saw my face cloud over. “I don’t know,” I said.
We stared at each other, and I knew she knew. Her whole body stiffened and she painfully hoisted herself to her feet and said, “I’ll get dinner started.”
Lorna hopped the ten or so steps to the kitchen without her cane. I stayed on the couch. I heard the refrigerator door open and shut and the clatter of cooking utensils being pulled out of cupboards. There was a nervous silence, and when I couldn’t take it any longer I went into the kitchen, where Lorna stood leaning against the sink, distractedly fingering a saucepan. I wrenched it out of her hands. She resisted, but I was stronger. I hurled it against the wall where it clattered and fell to the floor. Lorna threw herself at me in a fierce embrace. She pummeled my shoulders with her fists and moaned deeply. I pried her chin from my chest and kissed her, lifting her off her feet. She started to resist, banging my shoulders even harder, but then thought better of it and stopped. I carried her into the bedroom.
* * *
—
Afterward, after the coupling, sated and aware of a new beginning, I started to search for words to make the future right, to make it multiply endlessly on this moment. “About Eddie En—” was all I got out before Lorna pressed gentle fingertips to my mouth to stop me.
“It’s all right, Fred. It’s all right.”
We held each other, and I played with Lorna’s big, soft breasts. She held me there, wanting to play mother, but I had other ideas. I kissed my way down her stomach toward the scar tissue that covered her pelvis. Lorna pulled away from me. “No, not there,” she said, “next you’ll be telling me how you love me for it, and how you love my bad leg. Please, Freddy, not that.”
“I just want to see it, sweetheart.”
“Why?!”
“Because it’s part of you.”
Lorna twisted in the darkness. “That’s easy for you to say, because you’re perfect. When I was a girl, all the boys who wanted to play with my big tits tried to get at them through my leg. It was very ugly. My leg is ugly and my stomach is ugly and I’ve got no uterus, so I can’t have children.”
“And?”
“And I used to cover my stomach with a towel when I slept with men so they couldn’t touch me there. If there was a way I could have covered my leg I would have done that, too.” Lorna started to cry. I kissed away her tears and bit at her neck until she started to laugh.
“Is it Freddy and Lorna now?” I whispered.
“If you want it to be,” Lorna said.
“I do.”
I got up from the bed and went into the living room. I found the phone and called Mike Breuning at his home. I told him not to pick me up in the morning, that I would meet everyone on Sunset and Horn at the specified time. He gave me an “Oh, you kid” chuckle and hung up.
I went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. I found a bag of ice in the freezer compartment and extracted a half dozen cubes. I walked back to the bedroom. Lorna was lying on her stomach, very still. I approached the bed and dropped the ice cubes onto her shoulders. Lorna shrieked and threw herself backward.
I leaped onto her, burying my head in the dead flesh of her abdomen. “I love you,” I said. “I love you, Lorna, I love you, I love you.”
Lorna squirmed and twisted to extricate herself. Her dead leg flopped uselessly in her efforts. I grabbed it and encircled it tightly with both my arms. “I love you, Lorna. I love you, Lorna. I love you. I love you.”
Gradually, Lorna relinquished her fight and began to sob softly. “Oh, Freddy. Oh, Freddy. Oh, Freddy.” Then she pressed both her hands to the back of my head and held me strongly to that part of herself she hated so terribly.
* * *
—
Morning and dark reality came too quickly.
Lorna had dozed off, nuzzled into my shoulder, but I had remained awake, savoring the feel of her next to me, but unable to stop thinking of Eddie Engels and Dudley Smith and shotguns and justice and my career in the new light of the woman I loved.
At four thirty by the luminous dial of Lorna’s bedside alarm clock I gently slid out of her embrace, kissed her neck and went into the living room to dress.
When I put on my shoulder holster and fingered my leather encased .38 service revolver I went chilly all over. Justice, I kept thinking as I drove up to the Sunset Strip, justice. Justice, not wonder. Not this time.
I barely had time to get coffee before meeting the others at Sunset and Horn.
Mike Breuning was already there, parked directly in front of the entranceway to Engels’s courtyard. He waved at me as I parked across the street. I walked over and we shook hands through the driver’s side window. Mike’s badge was pinned to the lapel of his coat, and there was a pump shotgun beside him on the seat.
“Morning, Fred,” he said, “nice day for it.”
“Yeah. Where are Dudley and Dick?”
“They’re taking a walk around the block. Engels is alone; Dick tailed him all night. I’m glad for that.”
“So am I.”
“Are you a little nervous?”
“Maybe a little.”
“Well, don’t be. Dudley has this thing all worked out.” Breuning craned his head out the window. “Here they come now,” he said. “Pin your badge to your coat.”
I did, as Dudley Smith and Dick Carlisle crossed the street in our direction.
“Freddy, lad,” Dudley hailed. “Top of the morning!”
“Good morning, skipper, good morning, Dick,” I said.
“Underhill,” Carlisle said, blank-faced.
“Well, lad, are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“All right, then. Grand. Mike?”
“Ready, Dudley.
“Dick?”
“Ready, boss.”
Dudley reached into the back seat of Breuning’s car and handed Carlisle a double-barreled 12-gauge. Mike squeezed out his passenger door holding the Ithaca pump. I unholstered my service revolver and Dudley pulled out a .45 automatic from his waistband.
“Now, gentlemen,” he said.
We walked rapidly into the courtyard, our weapons pointing to the ground. My heart was beating very fast and I kept stealing sidelong glances at Dudley. His tiny brown eyes were glazed over with something that went far beyond acting. This was the real Dudley Smith.
As we came to Engels’s front door I whispered to him, “Let me go in first. I’ve been here before; I know where the bedroom is.”
Dudley nodded assent and motioned Breuning and me to the front. “Kick it in,” he hissed.
Mike raised his shotgun to chest level and I held my .38 above my head as we raised right feet in unison and simultaneously kicked the smooth surface. The lock gave way and the door burst inward. I ran straight for the bedroom, my gun in front of me, Smith, Breuning and Carlisle close behind. The bedroom door was open, and in the darkness I could glimpse a shape on the bed.
I flicked on the overhead light, and just as Eddie Engels stirred to life I placed the muzzle of my gun at his temple and whispered, “Police officers! Don’t make a move or you’re dead.”
Engels, his eyes wide with terror, started to scream. Dick Carlisle jumped from behind me onto the bed and twisted his head into his pillow and started to strangle him with it. Breuning was right behind, stripping off the blue silk sheets and yanking Engels’s hands behind his back.
“Goddamnit, Freddy, think! Sit on his legs!” Dudley shouted.
I threw myself onto the twisting form and put all my weight on the lower half of Engels’s body as Mike managed to apply his handcuffs. Carlisle was still twisting the pillow-encased head of Eddie Engels.
�
�Stop it, Dick,” Dudley screamed, “or you’ll kill him!”
Carlisle let go and Engels went inert. We all got off the bed and looked at one another in shock. Dudley had gone red-faced in anger. He bent over and ripped open Engels’s purple silk pajama top, placed an ear to his chest and started to laugh. “Ha-ha-ha! He’s still alive, lads, thanks to old Dudley. He’ll be all right. Let’s get him the hell out of here. Now.”
Carlisle lifted Engels up, and I slung him over my shoulder. He didn’t seem to weigh much. I carried him through the dark apartment and out the door, my three colleagues forming a cordon around me. Covering our tracks, we carefully shut the door behind us. I ran toward my car, the unconscious killer bumping up and down on my back. My heart was beating faster than a trip-hammer and my eyes kept darting in all directions, looking for witnesses to the kidnapping. Dudley threw open the car door and I tossed Engels in a heap into the back seat. He came awake with a stifled scream and Dudley slammed him in the jaw with the butt end of his .45.
“Get in back with him, lad,” he whispered. I did, pushing Engels headfirst onto the floorboards. Dick Carlisle got in the driver’s seat and hit the ignition. Dudley got in the passenger side and said very calmly: “You know where to go, Dick. Freddy, keep handsome Eddie out of sight. Lift his head up so he can breathe. Ahhh, yes. Grand.” He reached an arm out the window and gave Mike Breuning the thumbs-up sign. “Gardena, lads,” he said.
We took surface streets to the Hollywood Freeway. Mike was right behind us all the way. Dudley and Carlisle talked nonchalantly of major league baseball. I stared at the bloody swollen face of Eddie Engels and inexplicably thought of Lorna.
We took the Hollywood Freeway to Vermont, and Vermont south. As we passed the U.S.C. campus, Engels started to regain consciousness, his lips blubbering in mute terror. I placed a finger to them. “Ssshhh,” I said.
We stayed that way, Engels pleading with his eyes, until Dudley craned his head around and said, “How’s our friend, lad?”
“He’s still unconscious.”
“Ahhh, yes. Grand. We’ll be there in a few minutes. It’s a safe place, deserted. But I don’t want to take any chances. When Dick pulls over, you wake Eddie up. Put your badge back in your pocket. Keep your gun out of sight. We’re going to walk him in like he’s a drunken pal of ours. You got the picture, lad?”
“I’ve got it.”
“Grand.”
Eddie Engels and I stared at each other. Some minutes passed. We threaded our way in and around the early morning traffic. When Dick Carlisle stopped the car completely I pretended to wake up Engels. He understood, and played along. “Wake up, Engels,” I said. “We’re police officers and we aren’t going to hurt you. We just want to ask you some questions. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes,” Engels said, breathing shallowly.
“Good. Now I’ll help you out of the car. You’re going to be weak, so hang on to me. Okay?”
“O-okay.”
Carlisle and Smith threw open the doors of the car. I pulled Engels into a sitting position on the back seat. I removed his handcuffs and he rubbed his wrists, which had gone almost blue, and started to sob.
“Quiet now,” Dudley whispered to him. “We’ll have none of that, you understand?”
Engels caught the maniacal look in the big Irishman’s face and understood immediately. He looked at me imploringly. I smiled sympathetically, and felt vague power stirrings: if justice was the imperative, and good guy–bad guy was the method of interrogation, then we were already well on our way.
Mike Breuning pulled up in back of us and tooted his horn. I took my eyes off Engels and checked out the surroundings. We were parked in a garbage-strewn alley in back of what looked like a disused auto court.
“Freddy,” Dudley said, “you go with Mike and open up the room. Make sure no one’s around.”
“Right, skipper.”
I got out of the car, stretching my cramped legs. Mike Breuning clapped me on the back. He was almost feverish in his excitement and praise of Dudley: “I told you old Dud thought of everything, didn’t I? Look at this place,” he said, leading me in through a narrow walkway to a one-story L-shaped collection of tiny connected motel rooms, all painted a faded puke green. “This is great, isn’t it? The place went under during the war, and the guy who owns it won’t sell. He’s waiting for the value to go up. It’s perfect.”
It was perfect. Chills briefly overtook me. A perfect impressionist representation of hell: the L-shaped wings fronted by dead brown grass covered with empty short dog bottles and condom wrappers. “Keep Out” signs painted over with obscenities posted every six feet. Dog shit everywhere. A dead, towering palm tree standing sentry, keeping the parking lot of an aircraft plant across the street at bay.
“Yeah, it’s perfect,” I said to Mike. “Does it have a name?”
“The Victory Motel. You like it?”
“It does have a ring to it.”
Mike pointed me toward room number 6. He unlocked the door, and a large rat scurried out. “Here we are,” he said.
I surveyed our place of interrogation: a small, perfectly square, putrid-smelling room with a rusted bedstead holding a filthy mattress on bare springs. A desk and two chairs. A cheap oil painting of a clown, unframed, above the bed. A magazine photograph of Franklin D. Roosevelt pinned to a doorway leading into a bathroom where the bathtub and fixtures were covered with rodent droppings. Someone had drawn a Hitler mustache on F.D.R. Mike Breuning pointed to it and giggled.
“Go get our suspect, will you, Mike?” I said. I wanted to be alone, if only for a moment, if only in a hovel like this.
* * *
—
Dudley, Breuning, and Carlisle entered the tiny room a minute later, propelling our pajama-clad suspect in front of them. Carlisle threw Engels down on the bed and handcuffed his hands in front of him. He was trembling and starting to sweat, but I thought I noted the slightest trace of indignation come into his manner as he squirmed to find a comfortable posture on the urine-stained mattress.
He looked up at his four captors hovering over him and said, “I want to call a lawyer.”
“That’s an admission of guilt, Engels,” Carlisle said. “You haven’t been charged with anything yet, so don’t fret about a shyster until we book you.”
“If we book him,” I interjected, assuming my role of “good guy” without being told.
“That’s right,” Mike Breuning said. “Maybe the guy ain’t guilty.”
“Guilty of what?” Eddie Engels cried out, his voice almost breaking. “I haven’t done a goddamned thing!”
“Hush now, son,” Dudley said in a fatherly tone. “Just hush. We’re here to see to justice. You tell the truth and you’ll serve justice—and yourself. You’ve got nothing to fear, so just hush.”
Dudley’s softly modulated brogue seemed to have a calming effect on Engels. His whole body seemed to slump in acceptance. He swung his legs over the side of the mattress. “Can I smoke?” he asked.
“Sure,” Dudley said, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a handcuff key. “Freddy, unlock Mr. Engels, will you?”
“Sure, Dud.”
I unlocked the bracelets, and Engels smiled at me gratefully. Playing my unassigned role, I smiled back. Dudley tossed him a pack of Chesterfields and a book of matches. Engels’s hands shook too badly to get a light going, so I lit his cigarette for him, smiling as I did it. He wolfed in the smoke and smiled back at me.
“Dick, Freddy,” Dudley said, “I want you lads to make the run to the liquor store. Eddie, lad, what’s your poison?”
Engels looked bewildered. “You mean booze? I’m not much of a drinker.”
“Are you not, lad? Barhopper like yourself?”
“I don’t mind gin and Coke once in a while.”
“Ahhh, grand. Freddy, Dick
, you heard the man’s order. Hop to it; there’s a liquor store down the street.”
When we were outside, Carlisle outlined the plan for me. “Dudley says the key word is ‘circuitous.’ He says it means ‘roundabout.’ First off we’re going to get Engels drunk, get him to talk openly about himself. You’re supposed to be with the feds, which means you’re an attorney. You and Dudley are going to good guy–bad guy the shit out of him. We’ll keep him up all night, stretch him thin. We’ve got the room next door all cleaned up. We can take naps there. And don’t worry: Dudley’s got pals on the Gardena force—they’ll leave us alone.”
I smiled, again warming to Dudley Smith as a pragmatic wonder broker. “What are you and Mike going to do?”
“Mike’s going to take it all down in shorthand, then edit it after Engels confesses. He’s a whiz. I’m going to play bad guy along with Dudley.”
“What if he doesn’t confess?”
“He’ll confess,” Carlisle said, taking off his glasses and polishing them with his necktie.
* * *
—
When we returned from the liquor store with a quart of cheap gin, three bottles of Coke, and a dozen paper cups, Dudley was regaling Eddie Engels with stories of his life in Ireland around the time of World War I, and Mike Breuning was in the room next door, making sandwiches and brewing coffee.
Mike came into the interrogation room bearing a half dozen stenographic pads and a fat handful of sharp pencils. He pulled up a chair next to the bed and smiled at Engels. Engels’s eyes went back and forth from Mike’s affable blond face to his .38 in its shoulder holster. Eddie was putting up a brave front, but he was scared. And curious about how much we knew, of that I was sure. He had killed at least one woman, but was obviously involved in so much illegal activity that he didn’t know why we had busted him. But he didn’t act like a trapped killer—there was an effete arrogance that cut through even his fear. He had sailed on his good looks and charm for some thirty years and obviously considered himself a naturally superior being. His self-sufficient masquerade was about to end, and I wondered if he knew.
