by James Ellroy
I bowled two games, drank three beers, and walked back outside an hour later.
Summer night. Smell of dying heat, car exhaust, cigarette smoke, perfume. Sound of jukebox, distant loud mufflers, even more distant rushing train, lonely baying dogs.
Mike and Neil were gone.
I went home and opened myself a beer.
The phone rang. Once again, I was expecting Jan.
"Found the bastard"' Neil said. "He followed you from your house to the bowling alley. Then he got tired of waiting and took off again. This time we followed him."
"Where?"
He gave me an address. It wasn't a good one.
"We're waiting for you to get here. Then we're going up to pay him a little visit."
"I need twenty minutes."
"Hurry."
Not even the silver touch of moonlight lent the blocks of crumbling stucco apartment houses any majesty or beauty. The rats didn't even bother to hide. They squatted red-eyed on the unmown lawns, amid beer cans, broken bottles, wrappers from Taco John's, and used condoms that looked like deflated mushrooms.
Mike stood behind a tree.
"I followed him around back," Mike said. "He went up the fire escape on the back. Then he jumped on this veranda. He's in the back apartment on the right side. Neil's in the backyard, watching for him."
Mike looked down at my ball bat. "That's a nice complement," he said. Then he showed me his handgun. "To this."
"Why the hell did you bring that?"
"Are you kidding? You're the one who said he killed Bob."
That I couldn't argue with.
"All right," I said, "but what happens when we catch him?"
"We tell him to lay off us," Mike said.
"We need to go to the cops."
"Oh, sure. Sure we do." He shook his head. He looked as if he were dealing with a child. A very slow one. "Aaron, going to the cops now won't bring Bob back. And it's only going to get us in trouble."
That's when we heard the shout. Neil; it sounded like Neil.
Maybe five feet of rust-colored grass separated the yard from the alley that ran along the west side of the apartment house.
We ran down the alley, having to hop over an ancient drooping picket fence to reach the backyard, where Neil lay sprawled, faced own, next to a twenty-year-old Chevrolet that was tireless and up on blocks. Through the windshield, you could see the huge gouges in the seats where the rats had eaten their fill.
The backyard smelled of dog shit and car oil.
Neil was moaning. At least we knew he was alive.
"The son of a bitch," he said when we got him to his feet. "I moved over to the other side, back of the car there, so he wouldn't see me if he tried to come down that fire escape. I didn't figure there was another fire escape on the side of the building. He must've come around there and snuck up on me. He tried to kill me, but I had this—"
In the moonlight, his wrist and the switchblade he held in his fingers were wet and dark with blood. "I got him a couple of times in the arm. Otherwise, I'd be dead."
"We're going up there," Mike said.
"How about checking Neil first?" I said.
"I'm fine," Neil said. "A little headache from where he caught me on the back of the neck." He waved his bloody blade. "Good thing I had this."
The landlord was on the first floor. He wore Bermuda shorts and no shirt. He looked eleven or twelve months pregnant, with little male titties and enough coarse black hair to knit a sweater with. He had a plastic-tipped cigarillo in the left corner of his mouth.
"Yeah?"
"Two-F," I said.
"What about it?"
"Who lives there?"
"Nobody"
"Nobody?"
"If you were the law, you'd show me a badge."
"I'll show you a badge," Mike said, making a fist.
"Hey," I said, playing good cop to bad cop. "You just let me speak to this gentleman."
The guy seemed to like my reference to him as a gentleman. It was probably the only name he'd never been called.
"Sir, we saw somebody go up there."
"Oh," he said. "The vampires."
"Vampires?"
He sucked down some cigarillo smoke. "That's what we call em, the missus and me. They're street people, winos and homeless and all like that. They know that sometimes some of these apartments ain't rented for a while, so they sneak up there and spend the night."
"You don't stop them?"
"You think I'm gonna get my head split open for something like that?"
"I guess that makes sense." Then: "So nobody's renting it now?"
"Nope, it ain't been rented for three months. This fat broad lived there then. Man, did she smell. You know how fat people can smell sometimes? She sure smelled" He wasn't svelte.
Back on the front lawn, trying to wend my way between the mounds of dog shit, I said, "'Vampires.' Good name for them"
"Yeah, it is," Neil said. "I just keep thinking of the one who died. His weird eyes."
"Here we go again," Mike said. "You two guys love to scare the shit out of each other, don't you? They're a couple of nickel-dime crooks, and that's all they are."
"All right if Mike and I stop and get some beer and then swing by your place?"
"Sure," I said. "Just as long as Mike buys Bud and none of that generic crap."
"Oh, I forgot." Neil laughed. "He does do that when it's his turn to buy, doesn't he?"
"Yeah," I said, "he certainly does."
I was never sure what time the call came. Darkness. The ringing phone seemed part of a dream from which I couldn't escape. Somehow I managed to lift the receiver before the phone machine kicked in.
Silence. That special kind of silence.
Him. I had no doubt about it. The vampire, as the landlord had called him. The one who'd killed Bob. I didn't say so much as hello. Just listened, angry, afraid, confused.
After a few minutes, he hung up.
Darkness again; deep darkness, the quarter moon in the sky a cold golden scimitar that could cleave a head from a neck.
5
About noon on Sunday, Jan called to tell me that she was staying a few days extra. The kids had discovered archery, and there was a course at the Y they were taking and wouldn't she please please please ask good old Dad if they could stay. I said sure.
I called Neil and Mike to remind them that at nine tonight we were going to pay a visit to that crumbling stucco apartment house again.
I spent an hour on the lawn. My neighbors shame me into it. Lawns aren't anything I get excited about. But they sort of shame you into it. About halfway through, Byrnes, the chunky advertising man who lives next door, came over and clapped me on the back. He was apparently pleased that I was a real human being and taking a real-human-being interest in my lawn. As usual, he wore an expensive T-shirt with one of his clients' products on it and a pair of Bermuda shorts. As usual, he tried hard to be the kind of winsome neighbor you always had in sitcoms of the 1950s. But I knew somebody who knew him. Byrnes had fired his number two man so he wouldn't have to keep paying the man's insurance. The man was unfortunately dying of cancer. Byrnes was typical of all the ad people I'd met. Pretty treacherous people who spent most of their time cheating clients out of their money and putting on awards banquets so they could convince themselves that advertising was actually an endeavor that was of consequence.
Around four, Hombre was on one of the cable channels, so I had a few beers and watched Paul Newman doing the best acting of his career. At least that was my opinion.
I was just getting ready for the shower when the phone rang.
He didn't say hello. He didn't identify himself. "Tracy call you?"
It was Neil. Tracy was Mike's wife. "Why should she call me?"
"He's dead. Mike."
"What?"
"You remember how he was always bitching about that elevator at work?"
Mike worked in a very old building. He made jokes about the antiquated
elevators. But you could always tell the joke simply hid his fears. He'd gotten stuck innumerable times, and it was always stopping several feet short of the upcoming floor.
"He opened the door and the car wasn't there. He fell eight floors."
"Oh, God."
"I don't have to tell you who did it, do I?"
"Maybe it's time—"
"I'm way ahead of you, Aaron. I'll pick you up in half an hour. Then we go to the police. You agree?"
"I agree."
Late Sunday afternoon, the Second Precinct parking lot is pretty empty. We'd missed the shift change. Nobody came or went.
"We ask for a detective," Neil said. He was dark-sportcoat, white-shirt, necktie earnest. I'd settled for an expensive blue sportshirt Jan had bought me for my last birthday.
"You know one thing we haven't considered?"
"You're not going to change my mind."
"I'm not trying to change your mind, Neil, I'm just saying that there's one thing we haven't considered."
He sat behind his steering wheel, his head resting on the back of his seat.
"A lawyer."
"What for?"
"Because we may go in there and say something that gets us in very deep shit."
"No lawyers," he said. "We'd just look like we were trying to hide something from the cops."
"You sure about that?"
"I'm sure."
"You ready?" I said.
"Ready."
The interior of the police station was quiet. A muscular bald man in a dark uniform sat behind a desk with a sign that read INFORMATION.
He said, "Help you?"
"We'd like to see a detective," I said.
"Are you reporting a crime?"
"Uh, yes," I said.
"What sort of crime?" he said.
I started to speak but once again lost my voice. I thought about all the reporters, about how Jan and the kids would be affected by it all. How my job would be affected. Taking a guy down to the basement and tying him up and then accidentally killing him— Neil said: "Vandalism."
"Vandalism?" the cop said. "You don't need a detective, then. I can just give you a form." Then he gave us a leery look, as if he sensed we'd just changed our minds about something.
"In that case, could I just take it home with me and fill it out there?"
Neil said.
"Yeah, I guess." The cop still watched us carefully now.
"Great."
"You sure that's what you wanted to report? Vandalism?"
"Yeah; yeah, that's exactly what we wanted to report," Neil said. "Exactly."
"Vandalism?" I said when we were back in the car.
"I don't want to talk right now."
"Well, maybe I want to talk."
"I just couldn't do it."
"No kidding."
He looked over at me. "You could've told him the truth. Nobody was stopping you."
I looked out the window. "Yeah, I guess I could've."
"We're going over there tonight. To the vampire's place."
"And do what?"
"Ask him how much he wants."
"How much he wants for what?" I said.
"How much he wants to forget everything. He goes on with his life, we go on with ours."
I had to admit, I'd had a similar thought myself. Neil and I didn't know how to do any of this. But the vampire did. He was good at stalking, good at harassing, good at violence.
"We don't have a lot of money to throw around."
"Maybe he won't want a lot of money. I mean, these guys aren't exactly sophisticated."
"They're sophisticated enough to make two murders look like accidents."
"I guess that's a point."
"I'm just not sure we should pay him anything, Neil."
"You got any better ideas?"
I didn't, actually. I didn't have any better ideas at all.
6
I spent an hour on the phone with Jan that afternoon. The last few days I'd been pretty anxious, and she'd sensed it, and now she was making sure that everything was all right with me. In addition to being wife and lover, Jan's also my best friend. I can't kid her. She always knows when something's wrong. I'd put off telling her about Bob and Mike dying. I'd been afraid that I might accidentally say more than I should and make her suspicious. But now I had to tell her about their deaths. It was the only way I could explain my tense mood.
"That's awful," she said. "Their poor families."
"They're handling it better than you might think."
"Maybe I should bring the kids home early."
"No reason to, hon. I mean, realistically there isn't anything any of us can do."
"Two accidents in that short a time. It's pretty strange."
"Yeah, I guess it is. But that's how it happens sometimes."
"Are you going to be all right?"
"Just need to adjust is all." I sighed. "I guess we won't be having our poker games anymore."
Then I did something I hadn't intended. I started crying, and the tears caught in my throat.
"Oh, honey," Jan said. "I wish I was there so I could give you a big hug."
"I'll be OK."
"Two of your best friends."
"Yeah." The tears were starting to dry up now.
"Oh, did I tell you about Tommy?" Tommy was our six-year-old.
"No, what?"
"Remember how he used to be so afraid of horses?"
"Uh-huh."
"Well, we took him out to this horse ranch where you can rent horses?"
"Uh-huh."
"And they found him a little Shetland pony and let him ride it, and he loved it. He wasn't afraid at all." She laughed. "In fact, we could barely drag him home." She paused. "You're probably not in the mood for this, are you? I'm sorry, hon. Maybe you should do something to take your mind off things. Is there a good movie on?"
"I guess I could check."
"Something light, that's what you need."
"Sounds good," I said. "I'll go get the newspaper and see what's on."
"Love you."
"Love you, too, sweetheart," I said.
I spent the rest of the afternoon going through my various savings accounts and investments. I had no idea what the creep would want to leave us alone. We could always threaten him with going to the police, though he might rightly point out that if we really wanted to do that, we would already have done it.
I settled in the five-thousand-dollar range. That was the maximum cash I had to play with. And even then I'd have to borrow a little from one of the mutual funds we had earmarked for the kids and college.
Five thousand dollars. To me, it sounded like an enormous amount of money, probably because I knew how hard I'd had to work to get it.
But would it be enough for our friend the vampire?
Neil was there just at dark. He parked in the drive and came in. Meaning he wanted to talk.
We went in the kitchen. I made us a couple of highballs, and we sat there and discussed finances.
"I came up with six thousand," he said.
"I've got five."
"That's eleven grand," he said. "It's got to be more cash than this creep has ever seen."
"What if he takes it and comes back for more?"
"We make it absolutely clear," Neil said, "that there is no more. That this is it. Period."
"And if not?"
Neil nodded. "I've thought this through. You know the kind of lowlife we're dealing with? A, he's a burglar, which means, these days, that he's a junkie. B, if he's a junkie, then that means he's very susceptible to AIDS. So between being a burglar and shooting up, this guy is probably going to have a very short lifespan."
"I guess I'd agree."
"Even if he wants to make our life miserable, he probably won't live long enough to do it. So I think we'll be making just the one payment. We'll buy enough time to let nature take its course—his nature."
"What if he wants more than the eleven grand?"
&
nbsp; "He won't. His eyes'll pop out when he sees this."
I looked at the kitchen clock. It was going on nine now.
"I guess we could drive over there."
"It may be a long night," Neil said.
"I know."
"But I guess we don't have a hell of a lot of choice, do we?"
As we'd done the last time we'd been here, we split up the duties. I took the backyard, Neil the apartment door. We'd waited until midnight. The rap music had died by now. Babies cried and mothers screamed; couples fought. TV screens flickered in dark windows.
I went up the fire escape slowly and carefully. We'd talked about bringing guns, then decided against it. We weren't exactly marksmen, and if a cop stopped us for some reason, we could be arrested for carrying unlicensed firearms. All I carried was a flashlight in my back pocket.
As I grabbed the rungs of the ladder, powdery rust dusted my hands. I was chilly with sweat. My bowels felt sick. I was scared. I just wanted it to be over with. I wanted him to say yes, he'd take the money, and then that would be the end of it.
The stucco veranda was filled with discarded toys—a tricycle, innumerable games, a space helmet, a Wiffle bat and ball. The floor was crunchy with dried animal feces. At least, I hoped the feces belonged to animals and not human children.
The door between veranda and apartment was open. Fingers of moonlight revealed an overstuffed couch and chair and a floor covered with the debris of fast food, McDonald's sacks, Pizza Hut wrappers and cardboards, Arby's wrappers, and what seemed to be five or six dozen empty beer cans. Far toward the hall that led to the front door, I saw four red eyes watching me, a pair of curious rats.
I stood still and listened. Nothing. No sign of life. I went inside. Tip-toeing.
I went to the front door and let Neil in. There in the murky light of the hallway, he made a face. The smell was pretty bad.
Over the next ten minutes, we searched the apartment. And found nobody.
"We could wait here for him," I said.
"No way."
"The smell?"
"The smell, the rats. God. Don't you just feel unclean?"
