by L. J. Greene
He only nodded at Bella’s nylons where they lay like a shed snakeskin on the floor. “Pass that over, would you? For my arm.”
I kicked it to him awkwardly and he knotted it around his arm as a tourniquet. He wiped his slick hand down his trousers, smearing them red. “Now we’re in business,” he said, and pushed himself up the wall again. “Listen,” he said to me, “we’re men of the world, aren’t we? You know how it is when you get in deep with Walker. Not to mention the toff.”
“I don’t see what your gambling debts have to do with anything.”
“Don’t you?”
“Tell me. Tell me what happened.”
“Why don’t we talk over some scenarios for tonight,” King said slowly. “Then after we’re all finished here, I’ll shout you a meal at a diner and we can share all the stories we like. Steak and eggs. Bourbon in your coffee. What do you say?”
The night King had persuaded me to sign on with him, he’d taken me to a diner and plied me with steak and eggs while he pitched his services. I hadn’t had much in my stomach besides oatmeal for a solid week beforehand, and I felt like a king letting all that grease slide down my gullet. I’d taken four refills of coffee and King had topped them up generously from a hipflask. Funny, now I thought about it. I hadn’t tasted bourbon before that night.
“Steak and eggs and bourbon,” I repeated, and he nodded, smiling.
“That’s right, mate. Sounds good, doesn’t it?”
It might have sounded good a year back, but besides the bourbon, I had a newly acquired taste for quail and caviar and fine champagne. I’d had the best, though it might as well have been sawdust on my tongue. But I’d picked up something else along the way as well: I’d learned how to play the game a little better.
“It does sound good,” I said. “But I’m going to have to hear the story first, Freddie. I’ll take a punt on you if the odds seem good. Otherwise…” I waved the gun at him. “And you’d best hurry. No telling what the beautiful belle is doing in the other room.”
“Alright,” he said, with a wider grin borne of panic. “Can’t blame you for wanting to check my form, can I? Well, here’s how it went down.”
He told me a tale I recognized, of getting in too deep with Walker and his gang, of desperation, of doing things a good man, a moral man would never do. For me it had been selling my body and soul to Leo. For Freddie, it had been making his talent star in stag films. He’d got involved with the industry early on, hiring out actresses who were desperate for work, any work. Nudies and sex flicks and worse.
Halfway across the globe, Cresswickham had indulged his fetishes with impunity until he picked the wrong son of the wrong peer and found himself chased not just out of England but out of Europe. New York hadn’t proved as accommodating to his tastes as he’d hoped, so he’d hopped it to LA instead. “It’s the perfect playground for a pervert,” Freddie added. “Ain’t it just? And Pete Walker willing and ready to make a buck off anything if he can.”
I shuddered to think of those two minds meeting: Pete Walker, unscrupulous but business-like, and Cresswickham’s deviant drivers. Freddie couldn’t say how they’d first managed to make contact, but according to him, Walker had been the one to suggest selling the films through his Hollywood connections.
“But tastes changed right quick. Customers weren’t so keen on simple after a few weeks. Besides, there was more money when it was nasty, y’see. Lord Crosspatch, now, he liked the blondes. Liked to see ’em beat up a bit, slapped around. He didn’t like to watch the screwing so much, but using a bottle, or a hairbrush—” I winced, and it stopped him. “I know,” he said. “I know, it’s sick. He was a sick man, that toff. But I guess you know about that already.”
“Keep going,” I said abruptly.
They’d set up a business between them, Walker and Cresswickham. Freddie told me they’d filmed in the mansion, “in one of the spare rooms, with souvenirs provided to the highest bidder.” I remembered the nightstand filled with silk handkerchiefs next to my bed, and came close to throwing up again right at Fred’s feet.
“But Cresswickham doesn’t swing that way,” I interrupted. “So what’s he want with girls?”
Fred shrugged, his face squinched up in disgust. “Like I said, he never took much interest in the sex, not with the girls. It was the other stuff he liked to watch, the pain. And only with the blondes. But there’s a bigger market for the ladies, see. They filmed the blokes, too, but I didn’t want to know more about that than I had to. Gotta draw a line somewhere. Queer Street seemed about the place to draw it.”
It was a struggle not to shoot him then and there in his two-sided face. “Where exactly did you fit into it all?”
“Well, they owned me, didn’t they, what with all that dough I owed? So I did what they told me to do. They wanted a new fairy to do chores up at the house, I’d send ’em one. They wanted a bird who wouldn’t complain about taking it rough, I’d send ’em one. Some of those kids would do anything to hit it big. And, oh boy, they had it sweet, like you wouldn’t believe. That toff kept the fellas sitting pretty in his mansion, and the dames, he’d put them up in this here bungalow. They had all the clothes and jewels they could ever want. They got to swan around with movie stars and drink champagne. All they had to do was put up with being filmed now and then.”
“Oh, sure. You were doing them a favor.”
“Alright, they weren’t so happy about it afterwards, maybe. But they all took the money and they all walked away healthy enough when they got tired of it. But then I sent Lynette.” He looked down at his grimy hand. “She wasn’t like the others. There was something—something pure about her. She always wore white, you know? Like a bride. But it wasn’t just the clothes. She was young. She wasn’t wise in the way of things. I still regret sending her, if you want to know.”
I didn’t. It was easier if Fred King was just an out-and-out villain. Besides, I didn’t see why the other ones being jaded made it okay. But I just asked what happened next, and Fred kept talking, told me he’d convinced Lynette it was a standard audition. They doped her up the first few times. I didn’t press on the details there, though I wondered what they used. I knew about some of those pills, how they could make you feel.
“Then one day told me they wanted me to—to do it to her. Wanted me to rough her up, you know, for the camera. And to tell you the truth,” he said, defiance in his tone, “I didn’t mind so much, ’cause at least I knew I could take it easy on her.”
“But why you?”
He gave me a self-pitying look. “I guess they wanted something to hold over me, more than the money. Something to really keep my mouth shut. And like I said, I meant to be easy on her. God’s truth, I meant to, but she was so fragile. That was the problem. They kept telling me to do it harder, really give it to her—they were standing there behind the camera directing me—God, you don’t know what it was like. And I knew I’d be dead if I didn’t do it. I had to, Cole. I had to. You understand, don’t you?”
“I understand, alright.” I didn’t believe him. It seemed to me more likely that he’d wanted to do it, but I knew I’d never get that out of him. Besides, I was more worried about this mysterious ‘they’ behind the camera. Lord Cresswickham would have made sure he was there for the live show, but somehow I couldn’t picture Walker there. He wasn’t the sort who took pleasure in that kind of treatment, certainly not the way Cresswickham did. Walker’s was a clean, transactional violence.
So then who, exactly, was there? I had a terrible suspicion.
There was relief in the way King sagged against the wall. “That’s right, mate, you know what those lot are like. My God, it was awful. Before I did it they got her to sing for the camera, made out like they were auditioning her, took the mickey. It wasn’t kind of them. No, it wasn’t kind.”
I could only stare. King and I had very different ideas about kindness.
“She sang Gloomy Sunday,” he said at last. “Made ’em pause. They didn’
t like it much.”
“They,” I said. “You keep saying they. Who was there?”
“Aw, I never caught the names. Underlings. Henchmen. You know.”
“And so you killed her,” I said, when it became clear he wasn’t going to spill on who was there that night.
“No! It wasn’t me!” he insisted loudly. “Hand to God, mate. I took no part in it. Once I’d...when I was done, she’d passed out from the drugs. The toff, he’d been pushing me the whole time to choke her, and now he really wanted me to snuff her. But I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. I went to clean myself up. And afterwards, when I came back in, he’d done it. He’d killed her. They were all standing around wondering what the hell to do while Crosspatch...God. He crawled into the bed with her and cuddled up. He was bewitched with her, dead as she was, her lips all blue and her tongue—” He shuddered. “And then…”
“And then?” I prompted, but he’d closed off.
“I’d never seen anything so against nature in my life,” he snapped. “So I split. And later, the Walker Boys got rid of the body. But then all those dead blondes started turning up, and I realized Lynette hadn’t even been the first. Just the latest, after they decided to move up from streetwalkers to Hollywood wannabes. Not so rough-looking, you know?”
I was mulling over how much I could believe of what I was being told, but Fred kept flapping his mouth. He was like a burst pustule. No stopping the muck that oozes out of it, and anyway, it’s better to let it flow. He told me all about how the story blew up in the papers after the corpses were found, and word came down at once to quit with the girls for a while. “Focus on the fairies,” as Freddie put it. “Fewer of them, but they’re willing to pay more for it, the flits. Guess it’s a limited market.”
“And so you offered me,” I said grimly. “Why, I must have seemed perfect. I believe Cresswickham thought he might even start up again with the girlie films, persuade me to take part.”
“He was damned persuasive,” Fred agreed at once, trying to ingratiate himself.
I was tired of the story by then. There were parts that didn’t quite hang together, but still I felt drenched with it, ill down to my marrow, like their wickedness was catching. “I guess Bella threw a wrench in the works.”
He nodded. “Moved in here and wouldn’t move out no matter what. They didn’t want to cause a fuss and have her evicted. Weren’t sure what she knew and what she didn’t. Who she knew. Who she’d told.” He gave me a sidelong glance.
“So you came to kill her tonight.” There was something I was missing, some small point of logic. It was throbbing in the back of my brain, just outside my consciousness. “Why tonight?”
He drew in a deep breath. “Honest to God, I was just planning to warn her, get her out of the city, but it got outta hand. I never meant…”
I shook my head. “That won’t do, Freddie. I saw you.”
He considered that, and then said, “See here, you owe me. Haven’t I looked out for you all these years? Besides, what’s something like this between mates? You know how this city works.”
It struck me I’d lived in this rotten town my whole life, but it was only tonight I’d really come to understand how things worked here. I heard a small noise at the door, and knew what it was. My Magnolia Girl was no fool. She was standing there on the other side, listening in. Waiting to see if I’d pick heads or tails.
“She’s a brave girl, this one,” I said to Freddie. “You know that?”
“She’s made things mighty awkward. Awkward in a way that’ll bite you, too.”
“That’s as may be,” I said, “but there are quite a few who’ve sunk their teeth into me lately. And I’m not going to murder my neighbor in cold blood. Not for you, Freddie. Not even for myself.”
Chapter 45
He fiddled with his arm for a moment. “Alright, if that’s how you feel about it. Spot us a durry, will you?” I’d known him long enough to know what he meant, and a condemned man deserves a last cigarette, so I fished out the crumpled pack I had in my pocket.
I only took my eyes off him for a second, but it was enough. He leapt at me, grabbing for the gun, and we went down heavily. I wrestled with him, but he was a man possessed, and pinned me almost immediately. I got my head raised and bit at his wound ’til he hollered, my mouth filling up with his blood. Bella started hammering at the door, shrieking at me. But King and I were lodged up against the door so she couldn’t get it open, and I didn’t want her in there with me anyway. I wanted her to get away, get free.
“Go on!” I spluttered at her, choking on blood. “Get out of here!”
She kept on at that door. King and I rolled again, and he got up on top. He was wrenching at my wrist, trying to make me aim the gun under my own chin, and I could see in his face he meant to pop me. I felt the cold metal circle nudge into my neck. “Sorry,” he grunted, and even now I’d like to think he really meant it, except he smiled when he said it.
I closed my eyes. There was a dull crunch, and his grip on my fingers relaxed. Next thing I knew he was sliding sideways off me, and the Magnolia Girl was standing over me, breathing hard. In her hand was my old friend, the bottle of bourbon I’d given her as a gift. It was whole, but smeared red.
“You okay?” she panted. “You’re all bloody.”
I turned on my side and spat out King’s blood as best I could. I was face to face with him on the carpet. He was blinking and moving his mouth a little, like he was trying to say something. His right eye hemorrhaged as I watched. It filmed over red and then he gave a sigh and stopped breathing.
I found myself in the unenviable position of comparing the sight of one dead body to another in a single night. Cresswickham’s broken marionette was one thing, but Fred King’s body produced its own repulsions, and the smell hit me—I was reminded of Alice in her stables, shoveling shit. My stomach roiled, and I scrambled away.
Bella made sure I got to my feet, and then turned to leave. Before I followed her, I made myself look down at King again. His temple was misshapen where Bella had belted him with the bottle. I bent and closed his eyelids. I couldn’t stand to look at that demonic crimson eye any longer.
I rinsed my mouth out and washed down my face in the kitchen sink. Bella was sitting on the sofa in the living area. It was a Kagan sofa, I could tell, only this one was a different shape to the one in my bungalow and turquoise in color. She looked up at me. “He kicked it?”
“He’s gone. You alright?”
“He attacked me,” she croaked, rubbing at her throat. “He came here pretending to make nice, but when I wouldn’t let him in, he shoved open the door. I got away, and then—well, you know that part. When I thought he was going to do for you, I grabbed this from the bar.” She held up the bottle as though she’d just realized she still held it.
She wiped off the gunk from the side with a corner of her peignoir, and worked out the bottle stopper. She took a swig, coughed ferociously, and offered it to me. “No?” She waggled it. “Well, okay.” She took another draught, gagging on it. “You should’ve let me shoot him at the start. Would’ve been a cleaner end for him.”
I felt numb about the whole thing. “I was trying to help you.”
“Help,” Bella said, scornful despite her hoarseness. “Yeah, I know your type. But turns out I didn’t need your help, did I?” She was calmer now, stoppering up the bottle again and clearing her throat like she could cough away the rough treatment. She stood and shrugged off the soiled peignoir, so that she stood before me in only her slip. “I need a shower. I guess you better call the cops.”
I started laughing. “You’re going to turn yourself in?” The world had gone mad. Leo turfing me out; Fred King trying to kill me; Bella throwing herself on the mercy of the LAPD.
“Of course not. It was self-defense. He attacked me, and then you. You’ll back me up. And anyhow, he’s the Incubus, ain’t he? They oughta give me a medal for bagging him.”
I shook my head. “You heard him. He didn
’t do it.”
She gave a scornful tut. “You think he’d take the blame when his life was on the line? He did it, alright.”
It wasn’t going to end well for her, calling the cops; I knew that much. “Incubus or not, let’s pause for a minute before we do anything else.”
She replaced the bourbon on the bar and poured herself something from a different bottle. Tequila, I noticed. Neat, no ice. “Bourbon?” she asked, after she’d thrown back her drink. The bottle of bourbon still had a smudge of blood near the bottom with a hair stuck in it. It made me queasy.
“No, thanks,” I said. I doubted whether I’d ever drink bourbon again after tonight. I thought about King’s blood pouring into my mouth, and had to close my eyes and breathe hard through my nose so I didn’t gag.
“Suit yourself.” She poured another tequila, and sat down with a small sigh, curling up on the sofa, her knees under her chin. “You know, I thought it was you for a while.”
“Me?”
“Following me round the Chateau, trying to talk to me. Playing queer but always giving me the eye. Suddenly moving in next door. But then I clicked you were just chasing cooch in your off time. You gonna call the cops or not?”
I ignored her spite, sat down opposite her and rubbed a hand across my face. “I don’t like to. It’s been a messy night all round, and calling in dirty pigs won’t make a sty any cleaner. Besides, they’ll take you in.” I spoke over her protest: “They will, even if it was self-defense. They’ll take you in and keep you till they make sure.”
“What else is there to do?” she said, but I could see the worry setting in. She didn’t want the law involved any more than I did, not really.
“There’s one thing we can do,” I said. “If we have the nerve. And a shovel.”
The movies always make it look no trouble at all to dig a six-foot hole in an hour, and fill it back up. Not so. We settled for a shallow trench in a canyon east of the city, in the rumored dump-spot of the Walker brothers, and piled it over with rocks and branches. We worked like automatons, barely looking at each other, and giving instructions in monotone voices. We’d made the whole drive there in silence, except for one time I was set to run a red, and the Magnolia Girl snapped, “Stop!”
