Sex and Violence in Hollywood

by Ray Garton

  Before he left, Detective Wyndham gave them another smile. And a wink.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  It was a hot day, capped by a layer of carcinogenic filth that obliterated the blue sky, masked the mountains in the distance, and turned the sun’s burning shine into a dull, cloying glow. Everything was corpse-gray, even the clammy air.

  “We haven’t been watching the news,” Carter said. “If we had, I bet we would’ve known there was trouble.”

  “I have been watching the news.” Adam said. “And listening to it, and reading it. But not all the time. It gets depressing after a while.”

  They were in the Mercedes, on their way to see Billy Rivers. Adam had called Alyssa, told her he would not be able to pick her up when she got off at two. She had not asked for an explanation, so Adam had not provided one.

  After Wyndham left, Adam had wanted to turn on the television, tune in to some local news. Carter insisted they go see Billy and find out if anything had happened out in the desert that they should know about.

  A chilling thought materialized in Adam’s mind and came out of his mouth before he had a chance to examine it. “What if we’re being watched?”

  “What?”

  “What if we’re under surveillance?”

  Carter searched the rearview mirror as he turned onto Ventura. “You think we shouldn’t go see Billy?”

  “I don’t know. How would that look? I mean, if they’re following us, and we go to Billy’s...do you think they’d connect him to the desert?”

  “Maybe. I didn’t know how close he was to Diz and his family until we went out there. He’s like their Renfield, or something, it’s creepy. If the cops know anything about Diz, then they probably know Billy, too.”

  “Then what should we do?”

  “I could call him,” Carter said. “But he screens his calls, and if I left a message on his machine—nah. Bad idea.”

  “Do you think we’re being followed?”

  “How the hell should I know if we’re being followed? It was your idea. Usually, the whole point of following someone is to stay out of sight so they don’t know they’re being followed, so if they know what they’re doing—”

  “Just drive around for a while,” Adam said. “Keep an eye in the mirror, see if there’s one particular car that stays with us.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “Something...cop-like.”

  Carter turned and glared at him for a few seconds.

  “I don’t know, something that looks dull and drab, you know what I mean? Don’t plainclothes cops like Wyndham drive the kind of cars spinster aunts drive?”

  “Maybe in the movies. In real life? I dunno. Did you see Enemy of the State? They could be following us with satellites, for all we know.”

  Adam rolled his eyes. “Okay, forget I said anything. It was probably a stupid idea, I’m just being paranoid. Let’s go over to Billy’s.”

  “Hey, I’m not being a smartass. I’m serious about the satellites.” Carter slowed and parked at the curb outside Gravy Train’s, a small hobby shop where he bought many of the ingredients needed for his gory hobby. “I’m gonna pick up a couple things while I’m here. You stay outside and see if anybody hangs around, okay?”

  They got out of the car. Adam leaned against the wall beside the shop’s entrance while Carter when inside.

  Ventura Boulevard was one of the Valley’s main arteries, its traffic constant. It ran seamlessly through one town after another, towns set apart only by their names: Studio City, Sherman Oaks, Encino, Tarzana, on and on. The vehicles traveling the boulevard ranged from the most battered and abused to the most shimmering, most expensive.

  No one slowed or stopped any distance behind them. Traffic raced by in both directions. Adam looked up and down the sidewalk. A blue-and-white patrol car slowed to a stop at the corner. The uniformed officer at the wheel waited for an opening in traffic. Pulled out, turned right. Adam realized he was staring baldly at the patrol car and turned away, pulse quickening. Looked at the intricate miniatures displayed in the hobby shop’s window. The patrol car’s reflection slithered over the glass and disappeared.

  Back in the car, Carter drove in silence for a while. Went around a few blocks.

  “Nobody’s following us,” Adam said.

  “Any helicopters?”

  “No helicopters. Let’s go to Billy’s.”

  There seemed to be no surveillance on Waving Palms Estates. At least, no one was staring from inside a parked car. That was how Adam imagined someone who was watching the apartment complex would look. A dark shape sitting in a parked car.

  That’s just in the movies, Adam thought, disturbed by how detached from reality he found himself to be. It seemed everything he knew, or thought he knew, had come from movies or television. Suddenly, he felt uncertain about what he knew and did not know. Of how things worked in the real world.

  “Oh, great,” Adam muttered as they stepped into the courtyard and started up the stairs. “It’s Jabba the Manager.”

  Floyd watched them from his lawn chair, naked but for Bermuda shorts and flip-flops on his feet. Another ballgame played on the radio. He leaned forward as if to speak, but said nothing. Just watched them.

  “Ignore him,” Carter whispered.

  They stopped outside Billy’s apartment. Carter rapped his knuckles on the glass door.

  There was a shuffling sound below. Wet breathing. “He ain’t there,” Floyd said.

  Adam and Carter turned around slowly, looked down.

  Floyd’s loose, rubbery lips pulled back over his gums into something that approximated a smug grin. He offered no further information.

  “Is he coming back?” Carter asked.

  “Oh, no. He ain’t comin’ back. The po-leeth came and took away all hith thtuff.”

  They did not move or look at each other.

  “The...police?” Carter asked. “You’re sure?”

  Floyd nodded enthusiastically, still grinning. “Oh, yeah, they wath the po-leeth, awright. Uniformth and everything. Two of ’em, not countin’ the two guyth from the FBI. Cleaned out hith apartment. Carried everything out in bockthes wearin’ rubber gloveth.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Adam breathed. “Let’s go.”

  Carter was already moving along the rail, watching Floyd. “What did he do?”

  Floyd shrugged as his tongue squirmed in its cave. “Dunno. I figgered you guyth’d know better’n me.”

  “No,” Carter said as they went down the stairs. “We don’t know.”

  Floyd waddled toward the foot of the stairs to meet them. “I thaw ’em haul off a couple computers, figgered maybe he wath lookin’ at that kiddie porn. Y’thee that on the newth all the time. But hell, I dunno what he did. Figgered you’d know better’n me, ’cauthe I never—”

  “We don’t know,” Carter snapped as he brushed by Floyd.

  They crossed the street, got into the Mercedes.

  Floyd stood and watched them, elbows jutting at his sides.

  Carter turned on the radio, already tuned to a news station. “Maybe we should go over to Billy’s parents’ house.”

  “If the cops cleaned out his apartment, what makes you think his parents’ house would be safe? Maybe they’re just waiting for him to show up there.”

  “But what do they want him for?”

  “How the hell do I know?”

  “If the police and the FBI—can you believe that? The fucking FBI?—if they know about Diz’s place in the desert—”

  “That’s not necessarily the case,” Adam said.

  “But if they do, why haven’t we heard about it on the news?”

  “You sound like Floyd.”

  “Compare me to that toothless manatee one more time and I’m gonna kick your ass out of the car.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean. Just because it’s not on the news doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened. But there might be something in the newspaper. Let’s get one.”

  Carter d
rove around a block, headed back the way they’d come on Ventura. They went to DuPar’s, a coffee shop in Studio City, and bought a paper from the vending machine outside on the way in.

  They had left two perfectly good sandwiches to go stale in Carter’s studio and were still hungry, so they ordered lunch with their coffee. Waiting for their orders to arrive, they combed the newspaper for some clue as to what had happened to Billy. The lunch crowd was gone and the dinner crowd would not start showing up for a few hours.

  The Los Angeles Times provided them with nothing.

  “But Bizarro was funny,” Carter said.

  The waitress brought Adam’s Denver omelette and Carter’s Reuben.

  Relief settled in as Adam took a bite of the omelette and chewed slowly. If there was no story, there was no danger. Not yet. He asked, “What do you think happened to Billy?”

  Carter shrugged. “Maybe drugs. Isn’t that why they take all your stuff? If you get caught selling drugs?”

  “I guess so. I’m not sure. Did he sell drugs?”

  “He always had plenty of wacky weed around. He always gave it to me, but maybe he sold it, too. Maybe that’s how he financed his habit.”

  Adam remembered the beautifully crafted masks and body parts in Billy’s apartment. They were more than a hobby to Billy, as with Carter. He thought the word “habit” was appropriate.

  “I’m gonna call his parents,” Carter said.

  “You think that’s a good idea?”

  “What could it hurt? Billy and I are friends. There’s nothing unusual about me trying to track him down.”

  “At his parents’ place?”

  “Well...I haven’t done it since he moved out. But so what? So fucking what?”

  Adam could see Carter stirring up his courage, working himself up to make the call in spite of his fears.

  “Yeah, I’ll call, and if I get the answering machine, I just won’t leave a message, and if somebody picks up, I’ll just ask if Billy’s there, that’s all.” He wiped his hands on a paper napkin and slid out of the booth. Went to the pay phone at the front of the diner. Made the call. A couple minutes later, he hung up and returned to the booth, looking frustrated. “He’s not there.”

  “Who answered?”

  “I’m not sure. Some woman.”

  “Did you ask her if she—”

  “Yeah, yeah, she said he wasn’t there and she didn’t know where he was or when he would be back.”

  Suddenly, the omelette took on an unpleasant flavor. Adam drank a couple swallows of weak coffee to get the taste out of his mouth.

  “If this has something to do with Diz’s place,” Carter said, “it would have to be in the news, wouldn’t it? I mean, something that big? Especially if Mr. C. was telling the truth about his Hollywood connections. Reporters would be all over it.” He watched Adam. Waited for a response. “Well? Wouldn’t they?”

  Adam stared at the slowly growing ring of moisture around the bottom of his sweating glass of ice water. He boarded a train of thought that took him places he did not want to go.

  Carter went on eating as Adam drew inward for a few minutes.

  “Maybe not,” Adam finally said.

  “What? Maybe not what?”

  “A raid on a place like Diz’s would be a big operation. It would involve the DEA, the FBI, not just local cops.”

  “Shit, just like Floyd said, the FBI.”

  “Maybe the BATF, too.”

  “The BA what?”

  “Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. If they didn’t want any press coverage, I’m sure they could avoid it. For a while, at least.”

  “Why would they avoid it?”

  “Think about it. Those Hollywood connections Mr. C. mentioned? Famous people, maybe even some important people. He’s probably got files on all of them. If the feds just wanted to close him down, they might make a big show of it. But if they wanted to get his clientele, too, they’d have to be very quiet. Otherwise, they’d have time to disappear.”

  “You think maybe...the place has been raided?”

  Adam shrugged. “It’s possible.”

  “But that doesn’t mean they know anything about us, right? It’s not like we signed a guest book, or anything.”

  “We did something worse than that. We walked around under all those damned security cameras.”

  “So what? We were there once, and not very long. That’s not gonna connect us to blowing up—” Carter’s voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s not gonna connect us to anything else, right?”

  Adam sighed. “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe none of this has happened, anyway, right?” Carter was talking to himself as well as to Adam. “I didn’t recognize any of the names that detective read. Did you?”

  As things fell into place in his head, Adam’s skin shrank. “Mr. C.,” he muttered.

  “What?”

  “One of the names on the list...Cunningham. What was it, Waldo? Waldo Cunningham?”

  “So?”

  “Maybe that’s the C. in Mr. C. Cunningham. And that other name...Mistress Montana...that one’s been bugging me ever since I heard it.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t know, at first. But I think I do now. Let’s go back to your place.”

  They said very little on the way back. Listened to the news, but heard nothing relevant. At Carter’s house, they went straight upstairs to the studio. Froze outside the door and listened.

  Someone grunted on the other side. Quiet but intense. Adam and Carter locked frightened eyes for a moment. Then Carter rolled his, opened the door and went in.

  On the partners desk, Adam’s laptop was still online. A thin, pale, blonde woman sat cross-legged on an unmade, dirty-looking bed on the monitor. The stump of her right arm, amputated at the elbow, was moving in and out of a plump, rosy-complexioned woman with no legs who lay writhing before her.

  “No problem,” Carter said. “It’s just the horny amputees.”

  Adam sat at the desk and muttered, “Can’t leave them alone for a minute.”

  “They’re such cut-ups.”

  “That’ll probably cost me an arm and a leg,” Adam said. He typed the URL of a search engine that specialized in finding pornographic websites, waited a moment for it to open. Typed “Mistress Montana” and hit the ENTER key.

  “What are you doing?” Carter asked.

  “I told you about meeting Mrs. C. in the bathroom at Diz’s?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did I tell you what she was wearing?”

  “Oh, yeah. Scary”

  “Didn’t Billy say Diz’s mom was a dominatrix? That she had a website?”

  “I don’t remember. Why?”

  Adam scrolled down, scanning the results of the search. Carter pulled his chair around the desk and sat beside him.

  “Ah-ha,” Adam said. He clicked on a link that read “Mistress Montana’s Underworld.” Seconds later, a small window opened in the center of the screen informing Adam that no connection with the website’s server could be made. He tried again, with the same result.

  “You think Mrs. C. is Mistress Montana?” Carter asked.

  “It’s possible. If so, and Mr. C. is Waldo Cunningham...” He left the sentence open as he clicked on a link to another mistress’s site. It opened quickly.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “If she has a site, maybe she advertises somewhere. I want to surf around, see if I can find a banner. I want to see a picture of her.”

  “You think her website is shut down?” Carter asked.

  “If Mistress Montana is Mrs. C. and that boy farm out in the desert has been raided, yes, the website is down. Here.”

  Carter looked over Adam’s shoulder. “The Dungeon Shop?”

  “An online store. S and M supplies, sex toys. And links to kinky sex sites.” He pointed to a rectangular banner at the bottom of the screen. It was a link to Mistress Montana’s Underworld, and provided a picture of the mistress hers
elf.

  “Free Willy,” Carter said.

  Adam’s cheeks bulged as he exhaled. Mistress Montana was Mrs. C.

  Carter did not have to ask. The expression on Adam’s face was enough.

  “What do we do now?” Carter asked.

  “Nothing. We can’t do a Goddamned thing except wait. And see.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Never before had time moved so slowly for Adam. It occurred to him that the longest summer of his childhood had moved faster. That even Pearl Harbor had moved faster, and with a performance by Ben Affleck.

  The news had never taken up as much of Adam’s time before. He listened to it on the radio, watched it on television, read newspapers, scanned news sites on the Internet. While searching for a story about a den of drugs, explosives, and child pornography being raided in the desert, Adam absorbed other news without even trying. Political and civil unrest around the world, natural disasters everywhere, political and show business scandals, murders, rapes, child molestations, and ominous drops in the stock market, as well as in box office receipts and television ratings. It was endless, all of it depressing.

  He spent as much time alone as he could. His worries turned him inward, made him quiet and brooding. He did not want to inflict that on anyone else. When he was with Carter, they spoke very little. When they did, it was usually to rehearse their planned stories should the worst happen. When they did not, their silences were clamorous with dread.

  Since Wyndham’s visit on Thursday, he had been unable to sleep. No nightmares, but only because he could not sleep long enough to have them. Just long enough to drool on his pillow a bit before jerking awake. He woke Alyssa each time.

  He did not want to chase her away, but feared she would start asking questions. He knew his behavior was probably normal under the circumstances, but was still afraid it would give him away, somehow reveal his guilt.

  He supposed smoking marijuana did not help the paranoia he already felt about possibly being arrested, going to prison, being sentenced to death. But that and Xanax were all that kept him from ripping out his hair, screaming his head off and crawling out of his skin like a shedding snake.