"I know that you appear in the nightclub acts. I've heard that in your stage act, audience volunteers sometimes are made to act foolish…"
"You will do nothing under hypnosis that you wouldn't do in the waking state," Kreuzer said in a reassuring manner. "And I promise not to suggest any stage behavior to you. I am here to simply cure you of your smoking habit. I consider you my patient and you should trust me as you would any doctor."
"What happens if I go into a trance and don't wake up? Could I get stuck asleep?"
"That question is the one I'm most frequently asked," Kreuzer said patiently. He folded his hands. "The answer is that no one has ever been stuck in hypnosis. The state of hypnosis is nothing more than a state of deep relaxation. It's similar to the way you feet at night just before you fall asleep. It is a healthy, gratifying experience that can help one to control one's bad habits."
Mrs. Wallace set the cigarette case down on the table. She rubbed her hands on her dress. "I have the urge for a cigarette right this very minute."
Kreuzer gave her a fatherly smile. "Are you ready to relax and lose your desire to smoke?"
She nodded.
"You may find it easier to relax if you lie down on the sofa," Kreuzer said, "or you may sit up if you'd like. This is your choice."
She lay back on the sofa, adjusted a decorative pillow under her head, then straightened her dress to cover her knees.
Kreuzer slid a glass ball pendulum from his pocket. He hung it slightly above her eye level. "Focus on the pendulum. You will find that as you do your eyes will become tired and want to close…more and more tired…more and more difficult to keep them open…" He repeated the phrases over and over again. In a minute she closed her eyes. "Now you can feel the tension being released from the bottoms of your feet and a deep feeling of relaxation moving slowly along the muscles in your legs…now your arms are starting to feel heavy and so comfortable…and the muscles in your neck…so, so relaxed…relaxed and comfortable and more pleasant than you have felt in a long, long time."
After a half hour of such patter Kreuzer noticed the deep abdominal breathing, the sure sign of a trance. "You are becoming more and more relaxed with each and every breath that you take." He stood up and strolled quietly around the room. He took a small notebook out of his back pocket and sketched a diagram of the living room.
Walking on his tiptoes, he crept up the stairs and into the master bedroom. He sketched another diagram. Back down the stairs. He thoroughly examined the paintings in the hallway, then returned to the living room. Mrs. Wallace swallowed. Kreuzer put the notebook and pen away. She was still breathing deeply. Because of the position of her head, a face-lift scar above her ear was evident.
"More and more relaxed with each and every breath that you take," Kreuzer said softly. "We are reaching the end of our pleasant period of relaxation. When you awake, the smell of cigarette smoke will remind you of the disagreeable smell of a hospital. You will be strongly repulsed and disgusted by the smell of cigarette smoke and you will find any contact with cigarettes to be an unpleasant experience. To you, cigarette smoke will be as acrid as the fumes of disinfectant on a contaminated hospital floor. In a moment I will snap my fingers three times. At the third snap you will come awake feeling relaxed and rested, as if you had a full night's sleep, but you will not consciously remember the suggestions I have made to you about cigarette smoke." Emil Kreuzer snapped his fingers three times.
Mrs. Wallace stirred. She opened her eyes.
"How do you feel?" he asked.
"I feel rested." Mrs. Wallace rubbed her eyes.
Kreuzner picked up the cigarette case. "I'm afraid you won't be needing this anymore," he said as she sat up.
Kreuzer took off his eyeglasses and cleaned them on his necktie before he stood up to leave. "You were a very good patient. A fine, fine patient." Kreuzer handed the cigarette case to her. She stared at it for a moment, then set it back down on the table. Kreuzer pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. He offered them to her.
Mrs. Wallace stared at the pack. She said "No, thank you."
"I want you to hold the pack to your nose and inhale."
The woman obeyed. She coughed and dropped the cigarettes on the floor.
"They smell awful!" she said with features contorted.
"You have been a very good patient. I'll come back and see you in two weeks to check on your progress." He patted her hands.
Mrs. Wallace gave him a check for four hundred dollars and he left. Outside, he started the Mercedes-Benz and followed the wide Beverly Hills streets to the freeway toward downtown Los Angeles. He glanced at his wristwatch. Unless there was heavy traffic or an accident tie-up, he would have just enough time to make it to his monthly appointment with his parole officer.
Emil Kreuzer parked the Mercedes-Benz in a parking lot next door to the Federal Building and made his way to the ninth floor. He entered the double doors of the Federal Parole Office and gave his name to a young black woman wearing designer jeans and a leotard top. She motioned him to one of the musty sofas lining the walls of the waiting area. The men and women sitting on the sofas had the familiar, more-than-bored expression that was the mark of those who shared the prison experience: the zombie face of those who shuffled in line to take a shower, had their feet fall asleep during dreary, chickenshit counseling sessions, read the same magazine for the fourth or fifth time and listened to the same smelly cons cud-chew the same bullshit stories over and over and over again month after boring month.
Emil Kreuzer took a seat on a sofa next to a lanky black man wearing a flat cap. The man stared at him for a moment. "Remember me?" he said. "I was in D Wing. You got released before I did."
Kreuzer looked at the man disdainfully. He shook his head.
"You're Mr. Hocus Pocus," the black man said.
Kreuzer flashed a cold smile. He leaned back and rested his head against the wall. Having closed his eyes, he took deep breaths until he sank deeply into restful relaxation. As usual when he practiced self-hypnosis, time seemed to fly. His name was called and he sat up. The black man was gone. Kreuzer stood up and wandered through an open doorway and down a hallway to his parole officer's office. Oddly, as he stepped into the messy office, he realized that although he had visited him monthly for five months, he had forgotten the man's name.
The parole officer, a prematurely bald, sunburned man who could not have been over thirty years old, held a Dictaphone to his lips. "…and I have found that the parolee's ego needs exceed her social abilities in effective terms as relates to her probable adjustment to family, general societal and job pressures…" He clicked off the machine and set the microphone on a cradle. He looked at Kreuzer as if he had walked in the office with a paper bag over his head.
"I'm Emil Kreuzer." And I can't remember your name either, fuckface.
The parole officer nodded. He swiveled around in his chair and sorted through a stack of files. He found a file and turned around to the desk. Having licked his thumb, he flipped through pages.
"Are you still employed?" the parole officer said without looking up from the file.
"Yes, sir."
The parole officer opened his desk drawer. He pulled out the usual memo pad printed with little boxes. He filled one of the boxes with a check mark. "Where?"
"The same place. The Magic Carpet nightclub."
The parole officer made another check mark. "And during the last month have you been arrested?"
"No."
"Have you associated with any persons known to you to be convicted felons?"
"No."
"Have you used any dangerous drugs?"
"No."
The parole officer made another check mark. He looked up. "Not even marijuana?"
"Sir, I don't need to get high on marijuana. Since I've been out of prison, I've been high on life." You bald-headed blob of shit.
The parole officer scribbled something on the memo pad. He paper-clipped it to the front of
the file and tossed the file in an "out" box. He pressed an intercom button. "Send in the next one," he said. As he picked up the Dictaphone and began to speak, Emil Kreuzer stood up and left the office.
On the way to his West Hollywood apartment, Kreuzer drove slowly along Sunset Boulevard. Though it was early in the day, the usual assortment of street hustlers, whores (they all seemed to be wearing straight skirts slit up the side), bun boys (tight jeans, tennis shoes and tropical shirts) and black pimps (outrageous hats and shoes) paraded about in front of the gaudy motels along the boulevard that once catered to star-struck tourists. Young hitchhikers of both sexes lined the curbs on both sides of the street like human ornaments. Everyone was waiting to meet strangers.
A teenage girl wearing a loose-fitting blouse and white shorts stood next to a bus bench with her thumb out. She had a small canvas knapsack on her back. Her sandy hair was naturally curly and her features were attractive. Kreuzer thought she looked like a high school cheerleader. He made a right turn and drove around the block. He pulled up to the bus bench and the teenager approached the car. He could see that she had freckles. "I'm going to Malibu," she said.
"I'm going right past there." Kreuzer leaned over and unlocked the passenger door. She shrugged off her knapsack and climbed in the front seat.
"I'm Dr. Kreuzer," he said. "What's your name?"
"Charlene." She stared out the window. "What kind of a doctor are you?"
"A medical doctor. I specialize in the practice of psychiatry."
"I bet you meet some really weird people."
"As a matter of fact, I work mostly with young people."
"Are they all crazy?" she said, showing mild interest.
"Just kids with problems. Most of them have run away from home and have second doubts about it. They're glad to be out from under the pressures they had at home, but on the other hand they are unhappy with the usual hassles of life on the street." He glanced at her. There was no visible reaction.
Charlene stared at the road.
"What's in Malibu?" Kreuzer asked.
"A job. This guy I met told me there was a coffee shop opening up. They need waitresses."
"May I ask how old you are?"
"Fifteen and a half."
They passed a movie theater. On the marquee was a color blowup of a long-haired movie star hugging a chimpanzee.
Charlene pointed at the theater. "I saw that movie," she said. "It was really neat. This guy trains these monkeys to be spies and they parachute into Russia. This one monkey was riding around on a dog. I really laughed."
"I love animals," he said. "I have horses and dogs at my ranch in Santa Barbara. I go there every weekend."
"I love horses, too," Charlene said. "At home I had a scrapbook with pictures of horses. And when I was fourteen, I worked in a stable. My uncle got me the job…Can I turn on the radio?"
"Certainly."
As Charlene fiddled with the dials, he tried to look down her blouse. She tuned into a station with screaming rock music. Her hands tapped her smooth thighs to the beat.
"Have you ever worked as a waitress before?" he asked.
Charlene shook her head. "No, but this girl I met said that you can make a lot of money in tips."
"Do you have a Malibu work permit?"
She turned toward him with a puzzled look. "What's that?"
"Malibu is an environmental impact area. No one can be hired without a special work permit. As I understand it, there's a four-month waiting period for permits. I'm afraid you're not going to have much luck finding work in Malibu."
"Shit."
"Are you still interested in horses?" he said in an offhand manner.
She nodded.
"I have an opening for a horse groomer at my ranch. "You're certainly welcome to fill out an application if you'd like."
"Gee, that'd be great."
"I live nearby. We can stop and you can fill out an application."
"How do I know you're really a doctor?"
He pulled a phony business card out of his shirt pocket and handed it to her. "It pays to be cautious. That's exactly what I tell all my young patients. It's better to be safe than sorry."
Nothing was said for a while. They passed a restaurant that featured transvestite waiters.
She examined the card again and looked him over. "Okay," she said finally. Charlene fiddled with the radio as he swung onto a side street and headed north toward the Hollywood Hills.
Emil Kreuzer's apartment was furnished handsomely with a black L-shaped sofa and matching reclining chairs. The prints on the wall above a modern-looking fireplace were of sad-eyed children. They were mounted on either side of a phony University of Berlin diploma. Charlene stared at the diploma for a moment, then wandered to the bay window. The view was of the Hollywood business district. Finally she strolled to the sofa and sat down.
Kreuzer picked up a small box off the coffee table. He opened the lid and offered Charlene a marijuana cigarette.
She hesitated. "Doctors use it too," he said. "It's harmless. I even allow my patients to use it." She took one of the neatly rolled cigarettes, which he lit with a lighter.
"This is like a movie star's house," Charlene said.
"It used to be owned by John Wayne."
"Jeez."
"You've had problems with your family, haven't you?" Kreuzer asked in a fatherly tone.
"How did you know that?"
"I'm a doctor. I get paid to recognize these things."
Using her hands to cup smoke, she took a powerful drag on the cigarette. She blew out smoke. "My father is an asshole, that's why I ran away."
"It helps to talk about it."
"I went to the beach with two of my girl friends and when I got home late he called me a whore and grounded me for a month. I just couldn't stand it anymore."
"And your mother?"
"She left two years ago. She wrote me once." Another marijuana puff.
Kreuzer stood up, went to the kitchen and brought back a glass of water. Having set the glass on the coffee table in front of Charlene, he handed her a small white pill. "I want you to take this," he said. "It will help you to express your thoughts and resolve some of your problems."
She stared at the pill for a moment.
"I am a doctor, Charlene. There is nothing to worry about. Go ahead and take the pill. It will make you feel more pleasant and comfortable than you have in a long, long time; pleasant, secure and relaxed."
Charlene took the pill, puffed more marijuana.
A few minutes later she leaned back. Her eyes shut. She mumbled something about her mother. Emil Kreuzer took the burning roach out of her hand and dropped it into an ashtray. "Can you hear me, Charlene?" he said. She didn't answer. He quickly straddled her on the sofa. Having unbuttoned her blouse, he massaged and licked her firm breasts. His hands rushed to her panties. Because of the fastener and the fact they were at least one size too small, it took him longer than usual to pull them off.
It was 1:00 A.M.
Travis Bailey parked in front of a store whose display window was full of mannequins wearing mink and sable coats. He climbed out of the car and trotted across the street to a door with a three-foot-tall eye painted over it. Above the eye, polished brass letters spelled:
The Magic Carpet
Dr. Emil Kreuzer-One Night Only
He nodded at the valet parking attendant standing in front and went in.
Inside, a well-dressed crowd sitting at cocktail tables stared at a small stage.
Emil Kreuzer stood in the middle of the stage holding a microphone. In mellifluous tones he reeled off hypnotic patter to a dark-haired young woman sitting in a chair. Because of the stage light his tuxedo and powder blue dress shirt appeared to have a fluorescent tinge. Suddenly he grabbed the woman's arm and raised it in the air. "Stiff!" he commanded. "Your arm is stiff! As stiff and rigid as a steel bar!" He took his hand away and the woman's arm remained pointing straight up in the air. "Now as you try to m
ove your arm, you will find that you are unable to do so. The harder you try to move it, the more stiff and rigid your arm becomes." The woman tried to move her arm but couldn't. The crowd murmured. Someone in the rear of the room spilled a drink and said, "Damn."
Kreuzer touched the woman's arm again. "At the count of three your arm will return to normal and fall pleasantly and comfortably into your lap," he said. He counted to three and the arm dropped. The crowd applauded heartily. He snapped his fingers and the woman opened her eyes. He shook hands with her. She returned to her front-row table. The applause continued as Kreuzer bowed from right to left. The curtain dropped and the show was over.
Travis Bailey found his way behind the stage into a small office. He sat down at a desk covered with wholesale liquor receipts.
Minutes later, Kreuzer plodded into the office. He locked the door. Having removed his tuxedo jacket, he hung it over a chair, then pulled off his bow tie. "What the fuck happened?" he said through gritted teeth. "I've been biting my nails for three days."
"It was an accident," Bailey said without expression. "He got in my way."
"Any feedback?"
Bailey bit his lip for a moment. "Carr was nosing around Hartmann's place but I think he was just filling in details for his reports. I'm not worried."
Emil Kreuzer pulled off his shirt and undershirt and tossed them on the floor. He got a towel out of a desk drawer and wiped his sweaty chest and arms. "You'll have to watch out for Carr. He's a snake. He'll creep up on you when you least expect it. He's mean and he won't give up. When he put me in the joint years ago I never knew what hit me. He just pulled the rug out."
"It was your idea to call him in on the stakeout," Bailey said. "I told you I wanted to do it alone."
"Calling him in was … all things considered … without question, the best thing to do," Kreuzer said, gesturing. "With the Feds involved, no one will ever question what went down. With the owner of the house being a federal witness in Tony Dio's bank scam case, the incident will wash as a contract hit that went sour. There will be a grand jury investigation and they'll subpoena Tony Dio and every other wop in the San Fernando Valley. They'll take the Fifth. The grand jury will adjourn and that's that. I'm telling you the whole thing will wash. And you'll have a plausible reason for refusing to reveal who your informant is. You're just trying to protect him from the Mafia."
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