Orange County Noir

by Gary Phillips

  I couldn't deny it. The film, two and a half years in the making, had become an obsession. When nothing else seemed to be working out for me, the doc became my anchor.

  I spent months interviewing former inmates of that West Virginia prison, delving into their criminal lives before jail, coaxing out their stories of what they did to survive in hell, and describing in pathetic detail their eked-out existences as old, broken, forgotten men. Three of my subjects had already died. Two by their own hand.

  But not Hank Watson. There's a brief montage of him do ing his strenuous jail cell work out in the Bakersfield YMCA where he now resides. "Sixty push-ups, sixty seconds," Hank said, looking into the camera. "Just for starters."

  I made sure to document my subjects' participation in the bloody prison uprising of 1980 that left twenty guards dead. There had been torture, things done to others that could only have been dreamed up by minds on ice.

  There's a good chance Hank had been manning a blowtorch.

  "Without tenure, Josh, it only makes sense for you to leave Chapman. Move on when the semester's up."

  "Sarah and I were counting on this. You're really sticking it to me, Hudson."

  My time spent on Freedom Kills had taken its toll on Sarah and me. She had called the engagement off, and she wouldn't put the ring back on until I was done shooting. Hank especially creeped her out.

  "Are you in, or are you out after the next semester?"

  "Tonight's tough, Hudson," my mind grinding out the possibilities.

  Hank Watson, convicted of murder in 1958, was coming over to our apartment. The old friendless relic had appreciated all the attention I'd paid to him. If I asked him to, he'd wait for me in one of those coffee shops in Old Towne spooking the college girls reading Derrida.

  "Lifetime employment, Josh. These days, you have to schlep mail to find that."

  I could make this work. Sarah and I needed this. I could turn this for good. "It's a deal, Hudson. You're going to owe me."

  "Tenure."

  "Yeah. Who's driving?"

  Orange was unreal in the spring. It wasn't just the surprise scent of blooming buttercup roses that came rolling into Hudson's open car window as we drove through quaint Old Towne. It was the preserved Americana of it all. Most of the office buildings dated back to the Roaring Twenties. While neighboring Anaheim was a revolving door of strip malls and booty motels, Orange kept its history intact. I'd never seen more antique stores in my life, but they made sense in an antique, lost-in-time town like this.

  You could count on things not changing here. Sarah and I loved it.

  "Will you man-up and stop calling your wife?" Hudson commanded.

  "Don't worry, I didn't tell her I was about to break into a coed's room to steal a batch of love letters."

  Sarah was working late at the hospital, and wasn't due back home for hours. I left a message on her cell, hoping I'd be done with Hudson's little B&E before Hank came calling.

  The truth was, I didn't want Sarah coming home and finding Hank hanging around. "That twisted old ghost loves you, Josh," she'd said recently. He had become just as obsessed with me as I was about capturing his gruesome stories for the doc. He'd turn up at places I went. I chalked it up to old man loneliness, and he thankfully faded away when we moved to Orange County.

  Hudson turned down a tree-lined street sporting a collection of some of Orange's hundred-year-old Victorians. He rolled up to an imposing, unlit two-story with a receded garage tucked away on the side.

  I was surprised to see Hudson pull out a key and unlock the garage door.

  "I thought we were breaking in."

  "We are, you fool. Jeannie gave me a key to the garage so I wouldn't have to park on the street."

  "You two were very hush-hush, eh?"

  "I'm an old hand at this, josh. At my age, you'll jump through hoops of fire for a piece of tail a half century your junior."

  "I hope to grow up by then."

  "Your testicles need to drop first."

  The neighborhood was quiet. Operating under moonlight, we carried a ladder out of the garage and around to the back. The turn-of-the-century Victorian, surrounded by cedars, a chestnut, and the ubiquitous jacaranda, had been converted into student housing. "Jeannie said she was going away with all her housemates," Hudson whispered. "I'm sure they're drunk and naked by now."

  We placed the ladder against the beige wooden side. "I'll go first," Hudson growled. He spryly scampered to the second story and disappeared inside the bay window. If carrying a ladder and holding Hudson's hand was all I'd have to do, I thought, then this was the right move. I followed him up.

  Inside was dark and silent. I could smell patchouli mixed with stale beer. I treaded down the hardwood floor of a hallway, a staircase behind me and three closed doors in front.

  "Hudson," I whispered loudly.

  No response. He'd only beat me by maybe half a minute, but he was nowhere in sight. He clearly wasn't on the stairs, unless the old fart had fallen over the railing.

  If someone appeared, my story would be that I was here to discuss a grade with Jeannie and I'd simply let myself in.

  I tried the first door and peered inside. Nobody home. I quietly shut the door. Where the hell is Hudson? I went to the second door when my resolve left me. Something's not right. I'm out of here.

  The door opened before I could turn away.

  "What took you so long?" Hudson reprimanded.

  I entered the room. Filtered moonlight revealed a scattered mess. I bumped into a chair with jeans tossed over the back. A vanity stood near the door, which Hudson quietly closed behind its. Across the room, a lumpy bed with a fulllength mirror at its head.

  "How about some light?"

  "As YOU wish."

  Jeannie's pretty face was above the edge of the bedsheet, as were her hands, each tied to an opposite post. Her feet were bound similarly.

  "Whoa," I muttered, taking a step back. "Is she ... ?"

  "I just want to say it wasn't a rape." His voice stunned me. I turned to face him. He was holding a gun. "I didn't have to force myself, of course. She was willing as always. Things just got a little too rough, and I choked her out." He looked down at his hands. "Didn't know I still had it in me. That kind of power." He shook his head. "The house was empty, except for the two of its, and then it was time for my appointment with you. When I left, my path was clear."

  "We better get those letters and take off, then," I lamely offered.

  "I don't know where the damn letters are. Doubtless they will turn up. That's why I need you."

  "Is this a joke, Hudson?"

  "Strip down and get in bed with her."

  "Have you forgotten your senility pills?"

  "I may be old, but I've lived more life than you. And I will continue to do so while you're buried, unsung, and turning into compost."

  I didn't move.

  "I'm prepared for this, Josh. Hands on buttons."

  "Hudson, stop now. What you did here was clearly an accident. You were in the throes of passion with a woman half your age. A third or so, really, but it doesn't matter. Can you imagine the press?" My mind was working quickly. "It was a crime of passion. They'll paint you as this incredible stud."

  Hudson seemed to mull this over. His body sagged, as if someone let all the air out. "You're right. I don't know what I was thinking. I'm through. I might as well go out a la Entertainment Tonight. They'll no doubt unearth my Academy Award speech."

  "Without a doubt."

  "Just turn around and give me a head start. I have some business to clean up."

  "Of course, Hudson."

  I raised my hands and turned to face Jeannie. I always thought she was pretty, but on closer examination, I realized she was just kind of ordinary. Her youth was the main attraction.

  I heard a soft pop and fell hard to my knees. It was like every nerve ending in my right foot had been blown apart.

  "I have a silencer, Josh. And at the angle I shot you, it would appe
ar as if you pulled the trigger yourself. By accident. A case of nerves, like anyone would have after murdering their unbalanced, immature mistress. And then you cuddled her corpse before blowing your brains out."

  I cradled my foot. I was afraid to take my shoe off in case the whole thing fell apart.

  "Those rumors Jeannie spread, I guess they were true after all."

  "No, they weren t. No one will believe it," I said, shuddering.

  "They'll believe it." Hudson stepped closer. "Are you cry ing, josh? I always knew you were a pussy. You young Turks can never back up the talk."

  I had nothing to say. I was in the most horrible pain of my life, and he was gloating.

  "Get undressed and get in bed and I'll do the rest. I've considered having you write a suicide note, but I think things will be self-apparent."

  I felt my fingers work the buttons on my shirt. I stood tip painfully, balanced on one foot.

  "And don't worry about Sarah. I'm a great consoler."

  "You won't get away with this." My voice was measured and soft.

  "Trousers."

  It was hard to pull them over my sneaker. I was taking my time about everything. Slow seconds were all I had.

  "Now into the arms of Morpheus," Hudson said.

  The bed was surprisingly warm. I got in one knee at a time. I didn't want to touch her cold body. I didn't want to see her dead naked flesh under the sheet.

  I heard a crack, and the sound of metal hit the floor, followed by a groan.

  I looked around.

  Finally.

  Hank, baseball bat in hand. He picked up the gun.

  Hudson cradled his elbow where Hank had walloped him.

  "Put your pants on, boy," Hank said. He tossed the bat to me, kept the gun on Hudson. "Unless you three want your privacy.

  It had been a year, and he looked the same. Crew cut. Red neck. Same thick glasses taped in the middle, frames issued by Moundsville thirty years ago. Big ooglie eyes. Slight paunch. Pendleton, same one.

  And the veins. They protruded like electrical wires on every visible inch of his creased skin.

  "Looks like I done broke up a party."

  "Hank," I Said. "What took you?"

  "It's all right now. Just don't lose your lunch. Already got to clean the blood residues from your leaking hoof." He said residue slow, drawn out, like I suppose they did in the '30s in West Texas, where he was from.

  "I know you," Hudson said, still painfully clutching his arm. "You're from Josh's documentary."

  Hank grinned. "Reckon I am."

  Hudson watched me, then looked back to Hank. "What are you doing here?"

  "I'm here for my friend Josh. He left me a message."

  "Didn't trust you, Hudson, about the tenure. Hank and I were going to keep the letters and you were going to keep your promise." I took a gulp of air.

  "You learned something from its old-timers," Hank said appreciatively.

  I nodded.

  Hudson couldn't take his eyes off Hank. "I'm a killer now too," he said. It was his turn to have a soft, measured, shellshocked voice.

  "Oh yeah? Who'd you kill?"

  "Her."

  "Her?"

  "That's what I said-"

  Hank backhanded him.

  Hank has big, sharp rings on his fingers. He calls them his class rings, because they "educate others when they be needin' it."

  Hank rubbed his hand. "No back talk, and it's `yes sir' here on out. Now who'd you say you killed?"

  "The girl on the bed," Hudson replied through his bloody lips. He pinched his face with effort as he grumbled the word «si " r.

  I guffawed when I heard him say it.

  Hudson shot me a look.

  "You don't say," Hank retorted. He lifted up the bedsheet to take a long look.

  Hudson shifted uneasily, as if a powerful stranger was checking out his girlfriend on a lonely street corner.

  "I know dead, son," Hank intoned. "And she ain't it." He felt her neck. "There's a pulse. Strong too." Hank slapped her lightly. "Wake up, pretty princess."

  Hudson turned gray. He fell back against the wall. "What is this?" he gasped. "What the hell is this?"

  Hank examined her neck. "You bruised her, but you didn't break the hyoidal bone. That's what shows death by strangulation. Reckon you was too weak." He felt the top of her blonde head. "Bump on her noggin too. That's what knocked her out."

  Hank ran a finger down a crack on the mirror, just out of sight below the mattress. "For an old guy, you did a number on her." His laugh was a series of wheezes.

  Hudson took a faltering step toward her.

  "Jeannie ..."

  "With the light brown hair," Hank sang. He walked over to the minifridge and pocketed the salt shaker sitting on top. "This and some ammonia should wake our sleeping princess right up." He turned to me. "Keep an eye on him. And keep him away from the girl. He's done enough to her."

  "Where are you going?" I asked.

  "Don t'plex up, josh. I'm coming right back." Hank handed me the gun and stepped out of the room.

  "We can still get out," Hudson whispered. "You can't trust him. He's an ex-con, full of tricks."

  "I can trust you?"

  "I made a mistake. Jeannie's alive now. Can't you see the ground's shifted?"

  I studied him. The man's man took out his pipe.

  "Our word against his, josh. They'll believe any story we agree to. He's a nonbeing."

  "And Jeannie?"

  "She's alive. She doesn't know anything except we got a little overzealous in the sack. There's been no crime, you idiot. Can't you see?" Hank puffed empty pipe air. "I guess I love her, josh."

  My foot throbbed painfully, but not nearly as bad as when I was pulling my pants off. "You shot me," I whispered. "That's got to be a crime."

  "Right," he said. "Right. I'll fix everything, josh."

  I looked at him, but I wasn't seeing him anymore. I was seeing me, in that bed, and Sarah finding out.

  And funny enough, I thought of my guys from the doc. My guys, and how they had made the cruel guards plead.

  "I'm a legend in my field, josh. Things will happen for you under my guidance. But we might have to shoot him."

  Guidance. I'd so needed it, someone to take an interest. Someone to help me get ahead.

  "Don't be buying his wolf ticket, josh."

  Hank strode back in the room, holding a bottle of ammonia. He set it and the salt down on the fridge. "Smelling salts."

  Hudson looked sick.

  Hank took the gun. "Unless you want to hold onto it."

  I considered it. "That's okay."

  "Had to drain the weasel too," he explained. "Happens every hour, these days. So what you wanna do, josh?"

  "I guess we call the police," I said half-heartedly.

  Hank took a deep breath.

  "Josh," Hudson pleaded. "I didn't know what I was doing. Tenure, whatever you want, it's yours. Please." He was sniffling. Minutes ago, he'd called me a pussy.

  "I don't know what this `tender' is he's offering," Hank said. "I found you naked. He was going to smoke your ass, boy. Who knows how this'll all play out." Hank put his hand on my shoulder. "Now, if you could do anything you wanted, anything, what would you do?"

  Hudson would've killed me. He had wanted my Sarah. I was still shaking.

  I realized someone had shown me the way.

  They all had.

  You dip into the dark place. You reach out and grab it.

  "They should find him in women's clothing," I blurted.

  There was a silence in the room.

  "Done," Hank said. "Some kind of kinky, left-wing sexmurder-suicide dilly. The reporters will love that." He smirked. "Makes me wish I went to college myself."

  Hudson all but peed his pants.

  I looked at Jeannie.

  Hank nodded in her direction. "She's the price of doing business."

  Hudson stepped forward. "You can't touch her. I won't let you.

  "I
can do anything I want."

  "I, I won't let you," Hudson repeated weakly. This may have been his finest moment.

  There was a pause, broken by Hank's wheezed laughter. "I can't keep it up no more. She's dead. Was from the start. Cold as a rack of lamb." He rubbed the back of his creased neck. "Just a little test, Josh. See if you'd turn on of Hank." He settled down, then turned to Hudson. "Go through her closet. Pick something pink."

  "And frilly," I added.

  Later, Hank and I drove his 1972 VW van to Hudson's to retrieve my car. Hank had tended to my foot, but Sarah was going to have to clean it up. I'd have some explaining to do. Hank didn't think I'd need to go to the hospital.

  "I just hope I beat Sarah home," I said.

  "Sarah already came home."

  I looked at Hank. His eyes stared back, distorted and enlarged by his broken, prison-issue glasses.

  "She was there when I knocked."

  I was clutching my seat.

  Hank looked me over. "Look like you seen a ghost, boy."

  "You said Sarah. . ."

  "Yeah, but she wouldn't let me in. I don't think that wife of yours trusts me."

  I exhaled, deeply relieved.

  "Anyway," Hank continued. "I know you always like seeing me when I turn up. So there I was, and here I am. You're gonna have to have a talking to her, do something about her attitude."

  I was definitely going to have to do something.

  The house is beautiful, a two-story Craftsman from 1912 with polished hardwood floors you can slide ten feet on in your socks. Sarah briefly tended her rose garden in the back, but the weeds have gained the upper hand since she moved in with her mother in Newport.

  There's a guest house in the back, with its own bathroom and even a little yard of its own.

  That's where Hank lives.

  I couldn't really explain to Sarah why I had allowed Hank to live in the back. Hank and I are like blood brothers now, he explained to me later. We'd both rescued each other, me from certain death, him from loneliness and obscurity. Maybe suicide. Now we got each other's backs, he said.

  Sarah thought it particularly bizarre how Hank would sit there cackling on his porch over that old copy of the Orange County Register. The one with the headline, Dress-Clad Prof and Coed in Murder Suicide.