The Road Through Wonderland: Surviving John Holmes

by Dawn Schiller

  I don’t know about Sharon’s things being missing, but I know John is a thief. My jewelry, missing items from Michelle’s, the suitcase at the airport…I recall a time I heard the dogs in the background when John was on the phone with me in Oregon. Still, I feel as if we have to do something. “He sounds scared, Sharon.” I’m out on a limb. “I believe him. There are bad people out there.”

  “I know, but…” Her tone softens. “There’s nothing I can do.”

  “Me either.” We don’t speak for a long while, both of us chain-smoking as if each cigarette might bring a fresh idea, but no solution comes.

  “Well,” she says, finally giving in to emotional exhaustion. “We might as well go to bed.”

  I wake the next day to Sharon’s voice on the phone as she calls in sick to work. “Family emergency.” Her words, starchy, cardboardlike, clear some time off with the doctor’s office.

  “Morning.” I shuffle out of my old bedroom with mixed feelings of comfort from my things that still adorn the walls, but also pain from the memories of my attempted suicide and the bitter last days here. “Any news from John?”

  “Nope. Nada.” Sharon’s tone is controlled and even. “Fresh strawberries in the fridge. Cream on the top shelf.”

  I dole out a bowl for each of us with lots of sugar, and we sit down with the dogs to methodically peruse the daily news flashes. We jump every time the phone rings, thinking it is John or news of something worse. We pass the time playing rummy and catching up with each other’s lives.

  “David, Karen, and Jamie moved away about six months ago. Thank God!” Sounding a little like her old self, Sharon exhales a blast of smoke with relief. “That’s the only good news I’ve had in a while.”

  I laugh, enjoying for a moment some lightheartedness of the past, and I play a good bluff game of cards. “Are you all right, Sharon?” I finally ask. I feel a sense of heaviness from her that parallels mine. We haven’t spoken in a long time. I remember so many things John told me about how she didn’t care about me anymore and then, on the phone with him in Oregon, about her willingness to try and start over together with the promise of no drugs. My affection for her is real, and in my mind we are all supposed to have a fresh start…together. He said Sharon too! I remind myself of our conversations when he begged me to come back to LA, and I wonder if she knows this was going to be his last big deal…for us.

  “I’m fine.” Her high-pitched tone strains as it always does when she has to talk about her feelings. “Like I’ve always told you, Dawn, the best you can do is to take all the garbage from life, stick it in a box, and put it away in a closet—somewhere where you don’t have to look at it—and get on with things.”

  “Like organizing?”

  “Exactly. I’ve been fine. Trust me.”

  Sensitive to Sharon’s personality, I leave it at that and, as usual, we don’t speak anymore of such things, instead playing cards until bedtime. We go to sleep with no further word from John.

  Tuesday morning is scorching. The finches in their bamboo cage by the window sing loudly with the sun’s praise, sweetly unaware of our troubles. It’s been nearly one week since the murders, and three days of waiting for any word. It arrives around noon.

  The phone rings. Sharon stops dead in her tracks, takes a deep breath, and calmly walks over to the telephone. “Yes? Okay? That’s fine. Just a minute.” She puts her hand over the receiver and speaks directly to me. “Do you mind speaking to Detective Lange again?”

  “No. Sure.”

  “That’s fine. No problem. Good-bye.” She hangs up. “Well…Tom Lange will be here in about half an hour. He has something important he would like to speak to the both of us about. It has to do with John…of course.” I can’t tell if she is being sarcastic.

  “Is he all right?”

  “Yep. He’s in protective custody. He got ahold of Big Tom and told him his life’s been threatened. Apparently Big Tom got him into protective custody, and now Lange wants to speak to us.”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know.” This time she definitely sounds disgusted.

  “Sharon?” I ask, deciding to break the rule of silence around the name “Big Tom.” “Who exactly is Big Tom, anyway?” After all this time, I know the man’s voice, I know he is a friend, but to my knowledge this is the first time he was ever connected to the police.

  “He’s a vice cop. What did you think?” She looks amazed that I don’t know.

  “What’s that?”

  “John’s a stool pigeon! Didn’t you know?” She sees my confusion. “An informer! Get it? John was arrested before you even got here in New Jersey…Point Pleasant, where you were born, interestingly enough. He’s been turning people from the porn business in to authorities for years now!”

  Sparks of realization ignite inside me as I remember the many times John took Big Tom’s calls with urgency. So Big Tom is helping John. Then, for the first time, I think that maybe…maybe everything will be all right. John has a friend on the side of the law, and he will protect us.

  Peeking down the courtyard from the sun-warmed porch, we watch Detective Lange, square and balding, saunter toward the cottage. Casually he looks from side to side, scoping out each cottage window and alleyway. The image of him, cautious, ready to react, proves to us that we are most likely being watched…by more than the police. Sharon herds the dogs into the bedroom while I let Lange in.

  “Dawn.” He nods. “Good to see you again.”

  “Hi. Come in.”

  “And you’re Sharon? Sharon Holmes, I take it?” He sticks his hand out for a formal handshake.

  “Yes. Hi. How are you?”

  “Mind if I have a seat?”

  “Certainly.” Sharon offers a space on the couch.

  “Well…you both probably know this is about John.”

  “Is he safe?” I ask, jumping into the conversation.

  “He’s out of jail, if that’s what you mean, and we have him in protective custody. We know he was receiving some threats from the inside.”

  “Who was threatening him?” Afraid of what I might hear, I hold my breath.

  “Well, could be a number of people. We have a pretty good guess, and that’s why I’m here.” He pauses, wiping the sweat from his head. “We have every reason to believe the two of you may be in real danger.”

  Our bodies lean in his direction like metal drawn to a magnet as we give him our undivided attention.

  “Like I said, John is being held in protective custody. He has disclosed to us that he is willing to turn over certain information in exchange for entrance into the Witness Protection Program. John has also indicated that this is something he would be willing to do…well…only if…” He clears his throat. “Only if he speaks to the two of you first.”

  “You mean speak to him…over the phone? Or…?” Sharon asks.

  “No. I’m here to ask you if you would be willing to meet with John.”

  “When? Now?”

  “Yes. Myself and my partner are ready to take you to him right away.”

  He has someone waiting outside, I think. This is real. I look at Sharon and wait for her to answer for us. I think she must want to go see him as badly as I do.

  Deep in thought, she stares at her foot on the green vinyl stool.

  “Sharon?” I prompt.

  “All right,” she answers slowly and meticulously. “For how long, and what about the dogs?”

  “So you both agree?”

  We nod.

  Tom stretches his legs, glances nervously out the window, and asks to use the phone. “I can have your dogs taken wherever you like and, well, as for how long…That’s up to you and John. But realistically, you should be prepared to be away at least a couple days, maybe longer. It’ll depend on how long it will take for all the interviews to be completed.”

  He picks up the receiver and dials. “Yeah. It’s me. Tell him they said yes and we will be on our way as soon as we close things up here. Sur
e. Hey, John. They told you. Good. Sure. Just a minute.” He places his hand over the mouthpiece and holds the phone out for either of us. “He wants to talk to you two.”

  Sharon doesn’t budge, so I grab the phone first. “John. Are you okay?”

  “Dawn? Oh, baby, I’m so glad you’re coming. You’re coming, right? And Sharon?”

  “Yeah, Sharon’s coming too.”

  “Good. Listen, baby.” I can hear him press his mouth over the receiver and whisper. “Say as little as possible. Everything is being tapped. I need you to do me a favor. Please? When you pack your things, go into my office, and in the top file cabinet drawer are my papers.”

  “Uh-huh.” My God! He wants me to sneak him some drugs.

  “Can you bring me my papers, baby? You know—my important papers. You got that?” His voice changes, becoming louder and more formal. “Very important, okay? Wrap them up like I showed ya, and they’ll be fine. Thanks, baby. I love you.”

  “Sure, John. Love you too.”

  “Baby? Is Sharon there?”

  “Yeah. Just a sec.” I look at Sharon, who still sits like stone.

  “He wants to talk to you.”

  Sharon snaps out of her daze, pulls her glasses off, and rubs her eyes hard as if to erase the next moments in time. “Hello. Yes. Okay. Love you too. Good-bye.” I figure he told her the phones were tapped and kept it short.

  “Well. Let’s get this over with.”

  The looming shape of the Bonaventure Hotel in downtown Los Angeles towers dark and gray above our heads as we approach the curved and mirrored exterior. Sharon and I are impassive in the backseat of the undercover car and barely make a sound. I am biting my already worn-down fingernails; Sharon, hands neatly placed in her lap, twiddles her thumbs.

  True to his word, Tom Lange has arranged everything expediently. The dogs are boarded with our vet, and the house is locked up and kept on a twenty-four-hour guard. Two sets of officers are stationed downtown to watch both the hotel entrances and the streets outside for any unusual activity or excess drivers-by.

  We arrive at the main entrance, met by plainclothes officers who instantly surround us and head to the main lobby. Their height and width block my view of the lobby and keep us hidden. Whisked to the twenty-second floor, swiftly and undercover in the see-through tube elevator, we are hurried out to an unassuming suite nearby. They’re even blocking us from the windows, I think. Is there a sniper?

  The room is bustling, swarming with officers of every shape and size pressing black boxy walkie-talkies to their mouths. A drug-sniffing German shepherd yanks at his leash to smell us as we enter. At the end of the king-sized bed, an oblong foldout table is propped with two more detectives waiting to search our bags. The room is the hub for this covert operation—“Operation John Holmes”—and everything moves smoothly, like a well-oiled machine. No time to ask questions.

  “We will need you to step into the bathroom for a moment, please. We need to search you before we let you in to see John.” A female officer appears to ask me and to steer me into the bathroom before I can even answer.

  “Uh, no. Sure,” I mumble. Oh shit. I hope they don’t find the pot I hid for John in the baby powder. I’ve found his “important papers”—the stash he begged me for on the phone, exactly where he told me—and I hope Big Tom will let it slide, knowing how badly John needs it to calm his nerves.

  Smoothing down her shirt, Sharon steps out of the bathroom next, and we are asked if we have anything in our bags to tell them about. “Nope. Nothing.”

  “Hello, Sharon.” A brown-haired man approaches us from the table near the balcony. “How have you been?”

  “Tom. Hi. Well, could be better…you know,” Sharon addresses the husky man in a familiar tone.

  “And this must be Dawn. I’d recognize your voice anywhere,” he says, shaking my hand in turn.

  Sharon sees my bewilderment. “Dawn. This is Tom. Big Tom.”

  “Oh. Hi. Nice to meet you finally.” A tiny sense of calm sparks in me as I realize this longtime friend is here—someone John worked with on the right side of the law.

  Another man approaches and stretches out his hand to introduce himself.

  “And this is Bob…Bob Sousa. Another lead investigator on this case,” Big Tom announces.

  “Hi, uh, nice to meet you two. We’re real glad you’re both here. If everything works out, John will be helping us…and a lot of other people.” His speech ends abruptly, and like a good detective he stops himself from going any further. “Well. Shall we?”

  He takes hold of the knob of a door connecting the room to the next, taps, and pushes it open. “Company’s here, John.”

  A flurry of officers buzzes around and clears an opening that reveals John, pale and sick-looking in a borrowed tan suit jacket and jeans, sitting on the end of a king-sized bed. “Hey, baby. You guys made it.” He stands up and comes toward us with his arms outstretched. He smiles nervously, relieved and apprehensive, eyes darting back and forth between Sharon and me, wrapping his arms around us in a group hug. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here. Everything’s going to be all right now…now that we’re together.” He kisses both of us on the cheek, squeezing hard. “Here. Let me take your bags. Do you want something to eat?” Like servants waiting for his command, John motions erratically for Big Tom to get someone with a menu.

  We are confused for a moment. “No, uh. Well—,” Sharon says.

  “Well, I think I’ll leave you all alone for right now to catch up. Don’t you think so, John?” Big Tom looks large and awkward, uncomfortable in a fat, choking tie and boxy shoes.

  “Oh. Yeah. Sure. Thanks, Tom.”

  “Right. So if you need anything, John, you know what to do.” He signals for everyone to clear the room.

  When the door shuts, John rushes up and checks the lock. “Sharon. Dawn. I’m so glad you’re here. Did they help you board the dogs and lock the house?” He steps between us anxiously and plants another kiss on each of our cheeks. “Dawn, you made it to Sharon’s. I told them to let you go…that you didn’t know anything. Let’s order something to eat. You can have anything you want. Filet mignon, prime rib…whatever you like.” His behavior is erratic, wild.

  “John?” Sharon interrupts. “What’s going on?”

  “Let’s eat first. I have a lot to talk to you two about, but not on an empty stomach. They’re paying top dollar to take care of us. We might as well take advantage of it.” John’s anxiety is extreme, and I take it to mean he’s worried we’ll be uncomfortable. He herds us over to a round table by the floor-to-ceiling-curtained windows and passes out menus.

  “All right. If you say so,” Sharon says dryly.

  As if we’re at a fancy restaurant, each of us orders a high-end dinner, which is delivered promptly by plainclothes officers armed with sawed-off shotguns—the same officers who guard our door constantly. We eat slowly and formally and make small, unfunny comments. John orders a bottle of thirty-year-old Scotch with the meal and passes around small shots to take the edge off the tense situation. From his jacket pocket, John retrieves a Tiparillo and draws in the rich, heavy smoke, offering each of us our own.

  “Well. I guess we need to get down to business.” Breaking the uncomfortable emptiness in the air, John stands up as a dictator would, cigar in hand, as if he is going to make a speech. “Sharon, I need to talk to you first, uh, in private. Do you mind?” He pulls her chair out for her.

  Without a word, Sharon complies. It looks to me as though she has shrunk a size; with tiny steps, she follows John’s looming shadow into the bathroom.

  The door sharply slams as Sharon returns from the bathroom. “He wants to see you,” she says, blandly and without emotion. She beelines over to the large picture window and pulls back the drapes to sit on the ledge overlooking downtown LA.

  I watch her stiff, robotic movements and mistake them for resolve. John steps out right behind her, wiping his red-rimmed eyes, and spies her perched at the sill. This is
hard, I tell myself.

  “Dawn?” John reaches out his hand to me and guides me to the bathroom. The room is steamy, the water running in the tub.

  “Shhh.” He puts his finger to his lips. He pulls his hair back from his forehead and wipes away another tear before taking both my hands in his. “Baby…” He clears his throat. “You know this is about the murders on Wonderland, right?”

  I look deep into his tired, sunken eyes. “Did you do something, John?”

  “No! Listen. I went that night to get the money for us to leave. You know—sell the dope. I stopped to pick up my messages first, and when I got back in the car Diles was waiting. He put a gun to the back of my head!”

  “You mean Eddie’s bodyguard?” I can feel that night on my skin as if it’s happening right now.

  “There were other guys in the car too. They forced me, baby.” He lets out a sob. “They took everything I had—the dope, the money, my briefcase with my address book! Eddie got it, and I couldn’t let him find out about you or Sharon…our families too. Your mother, my mother…And, and they took me and forced me to let them into the house…buzz them in…and stay…and watch as they murdered those people.” He is shaking, his hands pulling on my arm, slippery from the steam in the air. “They tried to get away with robbing Nash, baby. Nobody gets away with that shit. No one!” Then the weight of his confession overwhelms him. His shoulders drop; he hides his face in his hands and weeps.

  The blood drains from my face. The thick humidity and the shot of Scotch make my head heavy, and my stomach folds over on itself. I reach out to rest my head on John’s shoulder.

  “The police found my fingerprints, and now they want to blame me for the murders!”

  Easily I take John’s side. “They can’t blame you, John. What are you going to do?”

  “If I tell everything I know about Nash and…well…people—we’re talking drugs, arson…murder, baby—they’ll give us protection, put us in the Witness Protection Program. You, me, and Sharon. We can start a new life together like we wanted, baby. That’s all I ever wanted was to start over. What do you say? Will you come with me? I told them you two had to be safe first, that I’d only do this if you guys said yes!”