Michael said “Help me put him into the tub.” So we carried him to the tub, and closed the bathroom door.
[Here comes an all-time classic line:]
About 5–7 days later, Michael and I decided we had to do something about this terrible mess.
[Can we all take a moment and howl over this one? “Five . . . to . . . seven days later . . . ” Don’t you just hate it when time just slips away from you? So much to do, the days pass by in a drugged-out haze, and you forget there’s a stinking blue body in the bathtub . . .]
It was decided that I would go to get knives or something to help dispose of the body. I went to Macy’s and bought 3 large knives; 2 chef knives and 1 cleaver. When I got back Michael told me that if I gave him 10 bags of heroin he would take care of this part. So I did and he went into the bathroom alone, and cut off both of Angel’s legs. Then, we put each leg into plastic bags, and then a duffel bag and seperately carried them, one at a time, to the river and threw them in. Probably about the next day I went downstairs to the storage area and got a large box. I cut the UPC code off the box. I brought it up to the apt. Michael put the remainder of the body into a large plastic garbage bag. I got another bag and put it over the first one. I think before Michael put it in the first bag, he wrapped it in a sheet. After the second bag I think I taped it closed. We then put the whole bundle into the large box.
[Angel shall henceforth be known as “The Bundle.” I like that.]
The smell was so unbearable that I put baking soda in to absorb (hopefully) some of the odor. I also stuck a broom handle into the box for support because the sheer weight was making the box collapse. A few hours later we took the box into the elevator and out through the main lobby into a yellow cab that happened to be right outside the door. The driver helped to tie the trunk down and we took the body to the Westside Highway around 25th Street.
[Across the street from the Tunnel.]
The taxi drove off, and we threw the box into the river.
This statement was written by me, Robert Riggs, of my own free will, my Miranda rights were also read to me, at this location:
84 Wooster St., 7th fl.
N.Y., NY
So.
There you have it.
I leave it to you, Gentle Reader, to compare and contrast Michael’s original story with Freeze’s sworn statement. There are some niggling inconsistencies (was the Drano swallowed or injected?); a few glaring omissions (like that Michael never even mentioned the pillow incident); and what about that slumbering person in the next room? What does he remember?
As for me, well, That’s it! I’ll just retire gracefully. Fade into the background. This sleuthing thing was never really my style, anyway. My “Grim and Determined” look just frightened the children and gave me gas. But, hey, don’t let that discourage YOU from gathering together, and discussing it amongst yourselves.
This story is not over yet. Not by a long shot.
“DEAR MICHAEL”
So.
How are you doing?
How’s prison life?
Oh, before I forget: be a lamb, and give Freeze a big old bear hug from me. How nice that his cell is RIGHT ACROSS THE HALL from you! I miss him so much. Why, just the other day, I received the funniest letter from him—all about Edna Ferber . . .
Keoki told me the two of you organized all the inmates in a game of $20,000 Pyramid. I’m so glad you’re having fun.
You really are so lucky, Michael. It all sounds so interesting. You’re at a twenty-four-hour-a-day party, with cute boys and interesting people who have led such fascinating lives—why, you couldn’t ask for a better setup!
It is so much harder out here in the real world, honey. I know you wouldn’t want to trade places with me. It is so difficult to make friends in Los Angeles—everybody is so stand-offish, just so busy doing their own thing! Count your blessings, girl.
Why, I hear that things are going just swimmingly with you. Keoki said that you’ve joined something called the Aryan Nation—doesn’t that sound like fun? Are they dancers? And what’s this “Prison Protection” thing that you have to pay dues for? Is it a social club?
What fun!
I can see you now, getting all dressed up for meetings and social functions . . . Oh, and the mess hall . . . lunches and dinners with your new friends! Please write and tell me all about it!
You must be pretty happy, huh?
And I was thrilled to hear that you’ve been reading up on your classics—what I wouldn’t give for ten to twenty worry-free years to do nothing but lounge around and brush up on my Middle English.
I hear you just read Crime and Punishment.
Good for you.
You realize, of course, that if you just changed the names, it could be exactly your story, don’t you?
Tell that to Diane Sawyer when she comes ’round next week. Tell her that you were merely testing the old Dostoyevskian Conundrum: if you kill an unlovable cretin, is the crime still as heinous?
It’s an interesting question isn’t it? Not as cut and dry as you might think. It’s shocking to me that everyone we know seems to think that the severity of your crime is somehow lessened because you are so beloved and Angel was so despised.
There are some, like Keoki , who have just pulled down the shutters in their mind, and refuse to let the truth shine in. You know, he actually looked me in the face yesterday and said: “I don’t think Michael really had anything to do with it, do you?”
This, after he’s had a whole year to digest it.
Bless his heart. He still wants to believe that you are the same person he met at Area a dozen years ago.
How pathetic.
Then there are others like Gitsie, dear sweet Gitsie, bless her heart. Gitsie, who just never wanted to understand what you did. She never really grasped the ethical implications of your murder, did she? She just liked being where the action was. She liked it when people got all excited and talked about SERIOUS ISSUES. I honestly believe that during all of those conversations we had in front of her, the only thing running through her head was what color to paint her toenails next. God bless her. It’s a shame she died so suddenly like that. Overdosed the day before the trial was set to begin!
Whoops.
And Jenny, what are we going to do with her? She just floats in and out, a moot presence. She doesn’t care about anything except “Oh My God, how much homework” she has to do.
And the others? Brooke. Well, she’s in prison now, too, thanks to you. But she doesn’t hold it against you.
And Jeremy. Bryan. Peter-Peter Boyfriend Stealer. They’re not sorry, they just love you anyway. Whatever it was that you did, they could care less. You make them laugh. It’s as easy as that.
And they have a point.
It’s a difficult thing to grasp—this duality that exists in you. On the one hand, you are a wicked, wicked boy—and you really are Michael, just evil incarnate, sometimes.
But on the other hand, you’re still Michael, that hasn’t changed. You’re still funny and charming and worldly and wise. You’re still my best friend.
You were always such an inspiration to me, and that’s why I was so hurt and angry about all of this.
Sometimes when I would look at you, Michael, from across the bar, or out on the dance floor, I couldn’t even see you—you shone so brightly. You were a genius. You made my mouth drop. I felt so honored that you treated me as your equal, when so clearly you were always leaping and bounding far, far ahead of me.
But you failed.
You had so much inside of you and yet you threw it away. You hadn’t finished changing the world, yet. You should be plotting corporate takeovers, making million-dollar deals, directing feature films, starting your own religion—not sitting in some overcrowded prison cell!
And, if YOU failed, how on earth are the rest of us supposed to succeed?
What are we all supposed to do now?
Remember how you laughed when I told you I was writing a book about all of t
his madness, remember your comment: “Isn’t that rich?” you said, “Isn’t that classic? How dare you, James, co-opt MY murder to make yourself look fabulous! Go commit your OWN murder and let me have my moment!”
“But, Michael,” I protested in my most sincere little Dianne Brill voice, “this whole murder thingie REALLY . . . UPSET . . . ME . . .”
And, oh, how you roared at that one. “I killed someone . . . I’M in prison . . . but YOU’RE upset—so you get to profit from it. YOU ARE TOO MUCH, JAMES ST. JAMES!”
“Seriously, darling, let’s bottom line it: . . . you know, and I know, that I am the only person left, who can (or will) paint a semisympathetic portrait of you . . . And I am the only person with the skill and finesse to render the big dismemberment scene as a warm and fuzzy Hallmark moment that you can proudly tuck into your press portfolio. So how ’bout it? Care to help out your old pal? Cough up some details for me.”
You finally relented. After all, I am your best friend.
So here we go, one more time. For the record. There are still some things I don’t understand.
For instance:
I don’t understand how Angel came to be such an important part of your life to begin with. We hated Angel.
I remember the first time I saw the two of you together, interacting like friends. It was in December . . . almost three months before the murder . . . at Bowery Bar, for the inaugural meeting of the ten-year-club—one of your last, and most blatant, stabs at Old School acceptance. I remember how diligently you identified and categorized each and every bold-faced socialite who survived the ten-year mark. You alphabetized and labeled them. I remember that no one—NO ONE—was allowed entree to this meeting unless they were duly wizened and could honestly remember our old alma mater: Area.
They were all rewarded—for slathering on the pancake makeup and discussing archaic clubland politics with you—with three free dinners at Bowery Bar and a truly cheerless party at the Limelight. What a marvelous opportunity for you to parade around and show all those various VIP-vaulting cronies how gracefully you were entering the twilight of your club-kidding years!
You looked a bit peaked to be sure (shooting up will do that to you), but isn’t it amazing how a little soap and water on the face and some laundry detergent in the wash can make all the difference? I don’t think I’d seen you this pressed in YEARS! It must have been so important for you to make a good impression . . .
Which is why we were all so shocked when you arrived with Freeze and Angel. If you remember correctly, the rest of us were strictly denied ANY guests of any type. “No riffraff,” you said. “Just old friends.” (This despite the fact that none of them were really our old friends, and most likely, WE were the riffraff they avoided.)
Angel and Freeze had not been around ten years, darling. And neither one of them was what you might call “a dazzling conversationalist.” And Angel with those silly wings—oh Michael, really—weren’t you embarrassed to be seen with him?
Obviously not. When you took your place at the head of the table, you had HIM sit at your right-hand side—traditionally a seat of honor, according to Miss Manners.
Hello! What is wrong with this picture, Michael? Dianne should have been at your right. Or Sylvia Miles.
I don’t remember that sour old milksop at Area, do you? I don’t remember his tanjy-ass at any of the Andy Warhol dinner parties that I ever went to! Just looking across the table at that molten little scavenger dressed up for all the world like a syphilis-ridden carrier pigeon . . . oh, it made my blood boil!
And watching the attention that you lavished on him . . .! Well, I wasn’t the only guest who was miffed, we’ll put it that way. As I sat with the rest of the has-beens, in the section of the table known as “Siberia,” watching the two of you just draped on top of each other, each one of you just as smug as a bug, it was a truly nauseating spectacle to behold—that’s what we all said to each other—“Why, it’s nauseating to behold.”
I mean, who blessed this unholy union of tack and greed, anyway?
And look at just how eager he was to lick your elderly butthole! Disgusting!
“Grizzle and Grovel”—that’s who the two of you were! That’s what I said, and, my, how we all laughed at that one!
That’s when you came over to our section.
I had to wipe me mouth when ya kissed me, WIPE ME MOUTH! (Spit)
Then you leaned into my ear and whispered—“Really, James, if you want any K you have to be nicer to Angel.”
Why, oh why, must we always go through pigs to get our truffles?
So I smiled and went over and gave Angel a big kiss, then a hug too. And I sat and chatted with him for a whole twenty minutes! But let me just say this about that; it took an entire half gram of cat tranquilizer to get that image out of my head, yes siree, Bob. An entire half gram to forget what an ass we made of ourselves that night.
That was the beginning, wasn’t it? I knew it then. I know it now.
Pretty soon the three of you were seen everywhere together. You and Freeze and Angel.
Just as thick as thieves!
And speaking of thievery, Michael: how was it that you and Freeze first convinced him to leave his money and drugs at your apartment, anyway? Had he taken COMPLETE leave of his senses? What, did the two of you hypnotize him? Were you holding his mother hostage? I don’t get it. Why would someone as stingy and cynical as Angel was (and we all know what a painful skinflint he was, really just impossible), why would he give you two snarf-monsters ALL OF HIS DRUGS AND ALL OF HIS MONEY every night for safe keeping?
Did he think that y’all were friends?
But somehow you did it.
I commend you—it’s a credit to our kind. Separating a dealer from his drugs AND his money?! In such grand quantities?! Over such an extended period of time?!
Good show, old chap. Really. Bully for you!
You and Freeze had carte blanche, didn’t you? You had the keys to yet another candy store, didn’t you, hon?
And that’s when things really flew out of control.
I stopped by your apartment in January for some reason; I can’t recall why. I do remember that we hadn’t seen much of each other lately. I had been avoiding you and Freeze. That needle thing was just so unattractive . . . And those open wounds of yours, all up and down your legs . . . It almost made me want to stop doing drugs altogether.
Yes, it did! I am not kidding.
You were still with that awful boyfriend of yours, Noel.
Remember him?
Beautiful!
Just beautiful!
Stunning features . . .
Could have been a supermodel.
Except for that disturbing habit he had of shooting up everything in sight.
Remember when he shot up the bottle of chardonnay?
Now, that’ll draw some disapproving stares from the maître d’, I’ll tell you that much.
Each and every time.
Some people will do anything for a bit of a buzz!
Anyway, when I came over, you were combing your hair with a fork and you offered me an eightball of cocaine. I did it, even though YOU KNOW how much I hate cocaine. It’s the Devil’s candy. I just despise it.
But there I was, all jacked up, watching you comb your hair with a fork. And I couldn’t take my eyes off those big old paws of yours. Those big old oven mitts that you call hands. I sat and really looked at them and remembered that the more fucked up you are, the more heroin you do, the drier and scalier your hands get. Isn’t that odd?
Well, my Lord, Michael, you had the hands of a Gila monster. You must have been on a three-month bender to get them as crackled and chapped as they were!
Then every once in a while, you would swipe your claw at one of the pus-filled, open wounds on your legs—I swear to God, it was like watching the Saturday-morning creature feature! It made me want to vomit.
That’s when I realized just how far this ride with Angel was going.
&nb
sp; So.
We must have done another eightball, which meant that we had to cook up some of his K. It’s really the only way. Once that ugly feeling starts creeping up, God help you if you don’t have any K.
Then after doing his K, we felt very lovely indeed, and decided to invite a few friends over, and for that we had to dip into Angel’s money (to pay for their cabs, of course).
The snow had begun to fall and accumulate on the streets at an alarming rate, until we couldn’t see outside. A solid wall of powder had dropped onto the city.
It was a blizzard, and as the hours passed and the drugs disappeared, your friends clomped in, each one louder and more frenetic than the last, until we had gathered a handsome group of junkies to share in Angel’s goodwill. Outside, it grew still darker, still whiter, and still more dangerous.
But by now gravity and heroin, those old familiar foes, were pulling at my head. So it was onto the rank and fermenting mattress in your bedroom, joined by the others. There was no going home for any of us. The streets were officially blocked off and New York City was buried alive. Four feet of snow would fall that night, and there were drifts so high, we couldn’t see out your balcony door.
There was nothing to do but hunker down for the evening.
It should have been warm and cozy on that bed, with all of us together in a big old tangled pile of drug-withered arms and legs. It should have been all sweetness and cuddles.
In fact, you toasted with a bump of heroin—an easy, breezy platitude about friendship and togetherness. And we all inhaled and said, “Here, here.” But somehow I didn’t feel it.
In fact I heard a voice that wasn’t quite my own, come out of my mouth and say something very odd.
I heard myself say that “I don’t think I’ve ever really been happy”—but of course that’s ridiculous, not something I would ever say at all. Of course I’ve been happy, loads of times. In fact, I was happy just a few minutes ago.
But there it was.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been happy,” said in a far-off voice, one that sounded old and nostalgic for a moment that hadn’t yet passed; nostalgic for today, even as I lived it. It was strangled and tight, and not coming from anywhere inside my head. A voice from far away, maybe here and now, reaching back and telling me it wasn’t real, the years we had, the times we had, the feeling of belonging, none of it was real. Soon, very soon, it would be ripped away. Soon, too soon, I was going to be tumbling and falling with you, and we both would feel the pain of separation, of being taken away from everything that we worked so hard to build.
Party Monster Page 19
