Hollywood Fuck Pad

1.

I died in a futile gunfight. Others fell before me. This is for them.

My promotion/transfer slip arrived—Hollywood Patrol to Hollywood Homicide. Hollyweird—rectal-raped runaways, cocaine killeristas, fag-in-the-bag body dumps. I was 31. I had four years in patrol. I was testosterone-torqued and pumped. It was fall ’83. Ray-Gun was Prez. Gates was Chief. Dragnet still reran. O.J. was a Westside splib. Rodney King was a cannibal couched in the Congo. LAPD was King!!!!!

Russ Kuster ran Hollywood Homicide. He took no shit, he brooked no shit, he brooded over bonded bourbon nitely. He favored Reuben’s, the Firefly, and the Hilltop Hungarian. Hollywood hemmed him in. He shit where he ate. He kept a condo on Cahuenga. He warred with his wife there. They battled over his bitches and his Walpurgisnachtian workload.

I grabbed Russ in the squadroom. He checked out my rhino regalia. I love rhinos. I’ve got a faux-rhino gunbelt and faux-rhino boots. My faux-rhino bedspread captivates cooze. I fucked a rhino once. A street creep slipped me a hash brownie. I flew Trans-Zulu Airways to Zimbabwe. It was so goooood.

Russ Kuster ran Hollywood Homicide until he was killed in the line of duty on October 9, 1990. (Photo courtesy of the LAPD)

Russ said, “You look like a fucking pimp. You may be useful here.”

“I welcome the opportunity, boss. And I figure a flamboyant appearance will help me on the bricks.”

Russ nodded. His teeth were nicotine-napalmed and notched down to nubs. He was stripped and striated by stress.

He lit a cigarette. “Your partner’s Tom Ludlow. You know, ‘Phone Book’ Tom. He’s got 22 notches on an old Yellow Pages. It’s against the regs, but it gets confessions. I’m not saying do it or don’t do it. I’m just saying it works, and I demand results, and if you don’t produce, you’ll be working the AIDS car and wearing triple-strength rubber gloves like a fucking proctologist. You ever pick up an AIDS vic?”

“No, boss.”

“Their limbs tend to drop off. Do a good job here and don’t subject yourself to the experience.”

I clicked my heels. Russ loved Wehrmacht protocol. My faux-rhino gun buckle rattled.

Russ said, “We need a fuck pad. We’ve got 14 married cops who need a crib for parties and nooners. We need five bedrooms for a hundred a month tops.”

I laffed. “Slum pads go for twice that.”

Russ smiled. “Imagination or coercion always works for me. No killing, though. We’re still taking heat for that old granny those guys waxed in Newton.”

HOLLYWOOD. Home of hipsters, hugger-muggers, and hermaphrodites. My hutch since ’78. I knew every crack-pipe crevice. I worked Harbor for a year and humped home. I knew the hookers, the homos, the heist men. Methheads met my eyes and meandered. K-Y kowboys kringed. My F-car featured a faux-rhino horn. Illegal, but effective. It glowed like a priapic prism.

I cruised the hot-sheet huts on Sunset. No five-bedroom pads, rats like Rodan, staphylococci-stiff sheets. I cut south on Highland. Dave Slatkin ran the LAPD Animal Shelter. It was an ex–head shop. Some diesel dykes ran it. We popped them for paraphernalia and pried up the property.

I pulled up and walked in. Dogs drooped on confiscated couches. A malcontent mastiff growled. A baleful bull terrier snarled. The shelter was Dave’s passion and an LAPD ploy. We raid meth labs and rescue guard dogs. Dave goo-goo-talks them and ladles on the love. We train them to kill burglars and find them good homes. They wear breastplates with “Trained to Kill” logos.

Dave smooched a brindle pit. I said, “Jane mind you bringing fleas home?”

“She wears a black-studded flea collar. It’s kinky shit.”

I yawned. A Dogo Argentino pissed on my shoes.

“Russ Kuster’s got a job for you. He’s got me searching for a fuck pad. He wants you to bring some station trusties in and GI the place.”

Dave yukked. “Don’t tell me. Five bedrooms for a C-note a month.”

“That covers it. Any—”

“There’s some SRO cribs on Tamarind north of Franklin. Junkie squatters, the shits. You know Harry Pennell?”

“No.”

“He works Wilshire Patrol. He’s black, and he’s got a scam going. He tries to rent pads in Brentwood. They say there’s no vacancy, and he sends a clean-cut white cop in two hours later. It’s a moneymaker. They rent to the white cop, and Harry pops up with his hands out.”

“Can he meet me—”

“I’ll tell him Tamarind and Franklin in an hour.”

The Dogo sniffed my crotch. He grew a wicked woody. I shooed him off.

“Russ said you can forensic the place. He thinks it’s useless, but he’s willing to indulge you.”

Dave sighed. “I know Hollywood history. Russ doesn’t. Those places were abortion mills back in the ’50s. I’ll bring in some luminol and turn up some blood.”

“Have fun. I’m working a movie gig at the Academy tonite.”

“Feature?”

“TV job. Rookie partners develop a jones for each other. They’re both married to ranking brass. The male’s CO tries to rape the female. She wastes his horny old ass.”

Dave picked his nose. The Dogo snagged the nugget. I said, “What do you feed these fuckers?”

Dave said, “Trusty chow. We’ve got stuffed bell peppers and kielbasa today.”

The bull terrier laid a fart. I splitsvilled quick.

HARRY PENNELL WAS fat. He wore a green leisure suit and a purple newsboy cap pinned to a wide-wing Afro. He wore a “Kill the Pigs” button. He tucked his piece and badge in his pimp boots.

Harry bragged bravissimo. He owned a car wash, an AIDS test clinic, and a dyke bar called the Munch Box. He owned two wetback garment mills, three roach coaches, and six he-she outcall whores. He got away with “boocoo shit.” He possessed a “notable” fuck flick. Dig: a deputy chief’s wife’s going down on a meter maid at Claire’s Clam Club.

Harry laid the scam out: 1. He hits the pad. 2. He flashes a roll. 3. He lays out his “bitches” and his late-nite parties. 4. The Vacancy sign disappears.

I walk up. I rap my Klan konnections and ties to the fuzz. I stress black rape-os, black slashers, black hot-prowl artistes. I stress the good news: cops around the clock. I stress the bad: five bedrooms/a yard per month tops.

It took eight hits. Eight peepholes slid back. Harry smiled. Eight peepholes shut. Peephole 8 paused. A brazen biddy wedged the door. Harry got “stable” and “fine hos” out. The door slammed. I rhino-rocked up. I badged the biddy. I riffed on the “Negro crime wave.” She said, “Prove yourself. I’ve got four lowlifes behind in their rent. If you evict them without all that paperwork, I’d be obliged to say yes.”

I followed the smell. Burnt matches/crack-pipe ether/unwashed flesh. I tracked two hallways upstairs. A pit bull lounged on a landing. He growled gravel-gruff. I chucked him my lunch: Fritos and two candy bars. He snarfed down. I hurdled him and followed the stink.

There’s a door. Let’s kick it in.

I did it. Dig the three spiked-hair neo-Nazis. Net weight: 160. Gender: a tough call. Dig the crack pipes. Dig the crackheads entrenched on Cloud 9.

Dig the open window. Dig the rosebushes below.

I chucked them out. They weighed bupkes. They hit the bushes soft. Bush thorns slashed them new tattoos. Bush billows muffled their falls.

WE GOT THE PAD. My race jive helped. I concocted “the Negro Nabob,” “the Negro Nookie Nabber,” “the Black Blasphemer,” and “the Sepia Succubus.” Granny agreed: five bedrooms/one C per month. Numerous cops/round-the-clock access/ raucous behavior—boys will be boys.

Granny showed me the crib. 3-story, warped wood and beamed ceilings, bedrooms off central hallways. A downstairs hi-fi rigged with Lawrence Welk and Mantovani.

It all worked. Thick walls, privacy between rooms. Dave warned me: Harry installed wall peeks and shot infrared footage for Bushman magazine. I told Dave I’d mock-bust him as “the Negro Nookie Nabber.”

I checked the walls and wainscoting. Dave might be right—the dark flecks might be old blood. Dave knew Hollywood crime. Dave insisted: mayhem metastasized south of Sunset and nudged its way north of Franklin. He loved to test old houses. He got visions sometimes. Not psychedelic shit. More like wisps, whines, whispers, and whimpers. I’ll say it, rhino-reluctant: Dave’s a hopped-up hip hybrid. He’s a demon dog worshiper. He’s a vibrant visionary. He cleans pads for Russ Kuster. It’s a ploy. He’s got five years on. He wants Hollywood Homicide. Two master’s degrees, visions, a psychosexual seismographic history of L.A.— he might make it faaaaast.

I grabbed the pit bull and took him to lunch. We shared three oki pastrami burritos. I dropped him off with Dave. It was love at first bite. He chomped Dave’s billy club. Dave let him have it as a chew toy. He put him on an IV drip. The tube fed him beef broth and K-9 meds. I mentioned the blood flecks. Dave said he’d glom some trusties and forensic the pad.

“I’m having visions, Rick. I’m seeing a tall, gap-toothed guy from the ’50s. I get the feeling he’s pretty obscure. He won’t be on computer programs. I might have to go to the Times morgue.”

I yawned. “I’ve got that gig tonight?”

“I heard the female lead’s a fox.”

“You got visions I’m about to get lucky?”

Dave said, “Frankly, no.”

HOLLYWOOD HEMMED ME IN. I shit where I eat. I eschewed Simi Valley. Orange County de-orbitized me. The kool Kuster kustom: Bop your beat, know your neighbors, interdict them instinctively.

I lived in a mock-Egyptian courtyard. I prized its proximity. I read in the John C. Fremont Branch Library. I lived near Harvey Glatman’s photo-death den. Dave Slatkin had Glatman visions. They astounded early psychic researchers. He lived in Whipdick, Wisconsin. He was 4 years old then. L.A. visions whipped him west and formed his cop calling. He linked old evil to still-standing structures. Cops are skeptics. Dave skewered their skepticism. Dave found Barbara Graham’s hypo kit behind the Hollywood Ranch Market. Dave found Black Dahlia rubber receipts in a vent at Owl Drugs. Hollywood—insidious instigator of morbid myth. Why work anywhere else?

And dig this:

I’m laying out love vibes for THE WOMAN. I know this much. She won’t be a Hollywood habitué. She’ll get the gestalt going through.

Arc lights popped at dusk. Day-for-night delivered. The Academy lit up.

The main building/parking lot/gym. The Elysian Park Hills. Ravines, gulleys, and snaky pathways uphill. The hills magnetized fruits. They got micro-close to malignant male authority. It was self-serve self-loathing. Rump rangers rutted in parked cars close to the cloister of cop academe.

We were fruit-free tonite. The lights looped east to Chinatown and Sunset Boulevard.

I wore my uniform. I carried a walkie-talkie. The gig prohibited rhino regalia. I humped the homo hunting ground. I dragged a litter bag. I snagged French ticklers, discard dildos, amyl nitrate poppers, S&M bar matchbooks.

The arc lights popped off. The hillside shot to sharp shadows. My walkie-talkie bipped.

I picked up. “Jenson.”

“It’s Bobby Keck. They’re dousing the hills and lighting up the bar. Come on up and meet the cast.”

I rogered and hitched up my gunbelt. My mini-gut flared and flattened. LAPD likes lean lines and cut contours. I find it homophiliac. It deters ham-hock dinners and donut desserts.

I walked up to the bar. Grips hauled boxes. Lighting louts lit lamps. I saw two civilians in cop blue. I recognized the man.

His lineage loomed large. The baldness, the big beak, the Latinate looks. He was the seething seed of Luis Figueroa and Rosemary Collins.

I recalled my casting sheet. “Figueroa, Miguel D.” The woman pirouetted and provided a profile. That’s her: “Donahue, Donna W.”

Call it cold: D for Man Destroyer. D for Detour to Heaven. W for Wickedness and Winsomeness as one.

She was svelte. She had dark hair and hurricane-hurled hazel eyes. Her gunbelt hung low and hugged her hips hard. Her badge hid her left breast and hinted at hammering heartbeats.

I walked over. I reinvented myself as rhino raconteur. I rehearsed gunfights and righteous 211s. I killed a hot-prowl rape-o last year. My faux feminism might impress her.

I opened my mouth. Donna Donahue detoured me.

“Are you a real cop or an extra?”

I said, “I shot Huey Muhammad 6X, the infamous hot-prowl rapist. I wasted two wetbacks—I mean ‘illegal-emigrated Mexican-Americans’—during a daring, short-range shootout at Taco Tom’s on Hollywood and Western.”

Miguel Figueroa said, “Wow.” He checked out Donna Donahue snakelike.

Her heartbeat hammered. Her left breast lurched. Her badge bumped and boinged.

My rhino horn hardened. Figueroa stared at me. I said, “I had a big thing for your mother. I used to dig on her in the ’60s.”

Figueroa laughed. “Maybe you’re my daddy.”

Donna said, “What did the thieves at Taco Tom’s get?”

I squared my shoulders and sucked in my gut. My belt slackened and flattened my fly. It undulated and unfurled. My Jockey shorts showed. They bore the Burger King logo: “Home of the Whopper.”

Figueroa yukked. Donna demurred. Her hazel eyes hooked up to my blues.

“What did the robbers at Taco Tom’s get?”

I smiled. “Nine dollars and a burrito tray. They burned their hands on the tray and dropped it.”

Donna’s jaw jumped. “And you shot them for that ?”

I winked. “They were after the chimichangas and quesadillas. I had to nip that in the bud.”

Donna howled. Figueroa yukked. I ran my zipper up rapidamente. A megaphone geek walked up. He vibed director.

Figueroa said, “Officer Jenson iced two cholos during the famous Taco Tom’s heist.”

The director sneered. “Amnesty International condemned that shooting. Those robber guys had twelve kids between them.”

I sneered. “Planned Parenthood commended me. I shot them in the back, by the way.”

Donna smiled. Her every glimpse hurled me to heaven.

The director said, “You think you’re a tough guy, don’t you?”

I winked at him. “I’m your daddy.”

Figueroa winked at me. “Don’t be embarrassed. He’s my daddy, too.”

The director seeeeethed. “Let’s go. We’re doing the patrol car scene next.” Donna and Figueroa walked. Donna wiggled her fingers over her shoulder. I blew a kiss at her back.

A PRODUCTION SLAVE gave me a headset. It provided cop-car access. Donna and Figueroa play patrol-partner lovers. They cuddle in their cop car. They’re married to deputy chiefs. It’s gotta go bad.

I hooked on my headset and laid around the lounge. There it goes: snap, crackle, radio pop. The director: “Let’s rehearse, kids.”

One arc light popped on. The luminous vapors crossed the hillside. Fruit Alert: butt bangers in backseat bliss. They’re bouncing cars. They’re tearing tailpipes. They’re shearing shock absorbers.

My headset stammered static and cleared clean. Donna said, “Get your tongue out of my mouth, you cocksucker.”

Figueroa said, “Come on, baby. This is the Stanislavsky method. This is shit I learned at the Actors Studio.”

Donna said, “Like father, like son. Your old man hit on me on Hawaii Five-O.”

Figueroa waxed winsome. “He taught me everything I know. He taught me acting, culture, music. Then he hit on my girl-friends and took them away from me.”

Self-pity and woe—standard Stanislavsky.

Donna said, “I heard he’s hung like a mule.”

Figueroa yukked. “Like the Big Burrito at Taco Tom’s, baby. ‘Accept no substitutes.’ ”

Donna: “I’ll call him. Hey, Luis, tell me how you did the wild thing with Rosemary Collins before I was born and confirm my theory that size skips the next generation.”

Miguel: “No, baby. It grows. El chorizo mucho grande por amor.”

I heard rustling sounds. I heard a gunbelt snap. I heard a zipper unzip. I heard Donna dead cold. “Chorizo to cocktail frank in two seconds. My dad said, ‘You’re going to Hollywood, so you might need this.’ ”

I pictured it—a Swiss Army knife—prongs, probes, and prick reducers. Figueroa said, “Don’t cut me, baby. I need what I’ve got. Shit, I’ve got a migraine. I get real motherfuckers.”

Donna said, “Check these cars out. It’s like a drive-in movie with no screen.”

Figueroa groaned—oooh, my fucking head. Donna said, “It’s gay caballeros getting their jollies. How do you shoot around something like that?”

I knew.

The hillside sloped down to a reinforced ravine. Cars drove up easy. They wiggled up winding driveways and dirt. Cars went down hard. They grabbed grass. They tore tree trunks and bumper-carred and banged the ravine. Quantum queer evictions ratcheted cars into the ravine. Garlands of garbage goosed them to the L.A. riverbed.

I ran outside. I yelled, “Lights.” Two dozen arc lights glare-glazed the hillside. I rhino-rampaged and hit cars.

I baton-bashed windows. I yanked emergency brakes. I glimpsed fruitus interruptus. I heard yelps, yowls, yodels, yammers, and yells for help. Cars skidded and skittered downhill. Cars blew by the narc arc with Divine Donna and Masher Miguel.

Donna got out. Donna jumped on the roof of her car. She saw Ramblers roll and rip the ravine. She saw Dodge Darts ding trees and die dead. I watched her. She watched the ravine collect cars. She’s got hurricane-hazel eyes. She’s got dark hair pageboy-styled. She’s got her legs dug in. She’s all LAPD wool stretched tigress-tight.

Miguel got out. He stood and watched the homos hurtle hellbound. He watched the ravine. A T-Bird toppled in. Transaxles dropped off driveshafts, drifted, and dragged rubber wrappers.

Miguel said, “I’m getting off on this. You know what Luis always says, ‘Homos expand the pool of fuckable women.’ ”

I looked at Donna. How fittingly Freudian-frazzled: the erotic image of my life as a COP.

A Bonneville banged the ravine. I heard three gunshots. I saw a man run.

Donna jumped off her car. She said, “The arc light was on him. I got a good look.”

FRUIT SNUFF: A species of HOMOcides vulgaris, inimical to Shine Killing. Fruit Snuff vs. Shine Killing—a primer.

Fruits killed in Hollyweird and Rampart. This murder vibed panic and self-loathing. The killer’s id went “Ick.” His superego sermonized: Don’t fuck men in purple Pontiacs/don’t fuck men at all.

Fruits killed like prima divas pacing. They paced. They smoked. Joan Crawford crawls to the edge. She grabs a knife. She stabs her lover 91 times. Fruits overkilled. Fruits dug the term “multiple stab wounds.” The faithless faigelah is dead. Feel better now?

Shine Killings went down in ’77 and Newton. Shine Killings went down fast. Willie owes Shondell 10 scoots. It’s a crap-game debt. Remember—we rolled behind Muhammad’s Mosque #6. The men mouth multitudinous “motherfuckers.” Willie gets bored and shoots first. Pow! Shondell be walking that deep River Styx. He’s close to Mecca or Mama or the Big Liquor Store. We follow his blood drops. He’s almost dead. He sees Saint Peter. Saint Peter’s guzzling Schlitz malt liquor and wearing a porkpie hat. We get there. We say, “Who killed you, homeboy? Tell us fast.” Shondell says, “Willie X.” That’s how we grab his black ass.

The hillside pulsed in pandemonium. The lights lured paunchy paparazzi. Rampart Patrol and Rampart Detectives showed. I gave a statement. I said I hit the lights to flush some hobnobbing homos. Exodus—let my people go!

Cops prowled the ravine. Miguel described the suspect. He had a monster migraine. My cabeza, oh, fuck.

Donna had the best view. She built a likeness with a sketch artist and an Identikit guy. Said suspect: white male, skinny. Bad zits, fat fangs for teeth.

Suspect: unknown. Victim: one white male wrapped in the wrecks. We walked down. Donna stuck close. We looked for lurking witnesses. We saw none.

Nine cars piled at the ravine ledge. No eyewits at all. They ran. They swam. They grappled garbage and floated on cardboard flotillas.

We found the purple Pontiac. The death car was lavished like Liberace. White interior/tuck & roll/lavender love balls.

The dead man covered the backseat, ass upward. K-Y crawled out his crack. A cop lifted his head. Shattered teeth and big-bore bullets flew.

A cop scoped out Miguel. “You look like Luis Figueroa.”

Miguel said, “He’s my daddy.”

A cop said, “Fucking fruit snuff.”

A cop said, “They’re all named Lance or Jason. Every fruit snuff vic I ever worked.”

Donna said, “Ten bucks that he’s got another name. Come on, put up.”

A cop extracted the stiff’s wallet. A cop riffed sleeves. Bingo— California driver’s license/Randall J. Kirst.

The cop paid Donna off. I lounged in her eyes. Hurricane beacons beamed.

A loudspeaker blared. “It’s a wrap! LAPD says we can’t shoot until this mess gets cleared up!”

I looked at Donna. Donna looked at me. I said, “I’ll drive you . . .”

Donna said, “I’ll drive myself.”

I LOITERED at the Academy. Miguel tried the “I’ll drive you home” bit. Donna flipped him off. A tech crew brought a winch in. They hauled fruitmobiles off the ravine. The Rampart geeks wrote a bulletin. The gist:

Randall J. Kirst, HOMOcide victim. Sodden fruits wanted! Reclaim your keester kayaks at LAPD impound! Submit to fruit snuff interviews! Insincere apologies for the work of Detective Rick Jenson!

I lounged in the bar. The print guys worked outside. They smeared the purple Pontiac. I found some Donna Donahue head shots. They voodoo-vapped me. A notion nudged my head.

“Witness needs protection! LAPD guards her! Round-the-clock watch!”

Yeah, but:

Miguel Figueroa saw him, too.

Yeah, but:

The fuck pad had five bedrooms.

Yeah, but:

Rampart had the case. Their jurisdiction/their job.

Yeah, but:

Russ Kuster had clout. Rampart owed Russ favors. I witnessed the snuff.

Good odds. I grabbed the Donna shots and rolled.

THE HILLTOP HUNGARIAN RESTAURANT:

A strudel structure on the Cahuenga Pass. A goulash gulag, the shits. A hut for homesick Hungies and Russ Kuster’s preferred brooding pit.

I drove over and walked in. Russ was snout deep in schnapps. Six couples slurped slivovitz. An accordion clown played for chump change.

Russ saw me. He pulled out a bar stool. I straddled it.

“Tell me you found the fuck pad.”

“I found the fuck pad.”

“Tell me there’s not some catastrophic fuck-up to mark your first day at Hollywood Homicide.”

“Welllll, there’s this . . .”

Russ grinned. “Rampart dicks called me. You passed your test. You felt the need to tell me you fucked up yourself.”

I unclenched. I whipped out the Donna shots. I spread them on the bar.

Eyeball alert—Russ looked, lingered, leched.

“Tell me she’s the sole witness and she’s afraid for her life. She saw too much. The killer wants to nullify her before she testifies. She needs a room at our fuck pad, and she’ll be properly grateful.”

I said, “No.”

“No?”

“No, there’s a second wit, a male, and she’ll smell a shuck in six seconds.”

Russ lit a cigarette. “The male’s a fag, right? He doesn’t play into the scene.”

I shook my head. “He’s no fag.”

“What are you talking about? He’s an actor, right?”

“He’s an exception. Trust me on—”

“O.K., we’ve got the dish and the world’s only non-fag actor, and a fruit snuff in Rampart that they only nominally care about. We want . . . what’s her name?”

I said, “Donna Donahue.”

“Right, as a guest, so you need me to call Rampart and get us assigned to the case.”

The accordion went off-key. Bela Marko strapped it on. Bela was Russ’s batshit bête noir and meshugina misdemeanant. Bela played bad squeeze box. Bela stole waiters’ tips. Bela dined-and-dashed. Bela sold weed in the parking lot. Russ kicked his ass regularly.

Bela kicked off some screechy anthem. Bela waved the squeeze box man’s cup. Bela table-hopped.

Table one: the cold shoulder. Table two: a quarter and a dime. Table three: half a chewed breadstick. Table four—a dyke duo— two kicks in the nuts.

Bela shook the bellows. Bela dropped the squeeze box. Bela stumbled outside clutching his nuts.

Russ laughed. Russ sipped schnapps. Russ said, “Donna Donahue is mine.”

I shook my head. “My case, right? Come on, I’m a rookie. It’s a nowhere fruit snuff.”

Russ nodded. “You’re right. Nobody else will want it. Now, look in the mirror.”

I did. I saw myself. I saw Russ. I looked away. Russ jerked my head back.

“Look at us. You look like a harness bull with bad sunscreen. I look like William Holden in Sunset Boulevard. You want the case, you want to take Donna Donahue around and show her mug books and show her Taco Tom’s and the place where you capped Huey Muhammad 6X, fine. When she comes home to the safe house, I’ll be there with bourbon and Brahms.”

I stood up. Russ said, “Be sure to tell her you planted that throw-down piece on Huey.”

I LIKE TO sleep with dogs and muse on women. Cross-species warmth promotes insight and empathetic vibes. Donna Donahue deserved the sensitive Rick Jenson. A six-dog night would calcify my callow and callous side. Yeah, I waxed Huey X and the Garcia brothers. I dug it—but I didn’t love it. Donna had to grok the moral split.

Dog Night was a ritual.

I bagged my F-car. I drove by Sombrero King and bought six oki pastrami burritos. I got on my two-way. I gave them Donna’s name. They kicked back:

Donahue, Donna Welles. Brown/hazel, 5′6″, 113, DOB: 3/13/56.

Good stats. 27 to my 31. Good Westside address.

The food and dogs consecrated life. The ride roused the dead.

I went by Carlos and Gower. I felt Ian Campbell’s ghost. I heard bagpipes. I smelled onion fumes and cordite. I went by the Hollywood Sears. Robert Cote fell there. I saw arterial blood gush. I heard morphine syrettes snap.

I hooked over to the shelter and hauled out the chow. Growls and bays echoed inside. I unlocked the door, hit the lights, and kounted K-9’s. Six was right—the pit bull, the Dogo, the bull terrier, an Airedale, the Aussie shepherd, and Reggie the Rhodesian Ridgeback.

Food first.

I fed individually. It prevented dogfights and canine chaos. Yum, yum—fried pastrami, fried cabbage, fried tortillas. The fart index would soar tonight.

Dave stashed blankets near the dog crates. I laid six out on the floor. I kept six for covers. I grabbed a pillow and tossed it down in my middle spot. The dogs piled on. We all stretched out. The Airedale and pit hemmed me in. We burrowed under the covers. I said, “What’s shakin’, you big-dick motherfuckers?” I answered for them—my voice/their imagined responses.

“I want a beach pad.” “Fuck that—I want a Bel-Air crib owned by some hebe in the movie biz. He’s got six juicy daughters to penetrate with my air-to-ground Airedale missile.” “Fuck that shit. I want to live at the Pacific Dining Car. I could roam the floor, sniff crotches, and score steak at will.”

The dogs started to snooze. Their warmth engulfed me. I lay still and laid out my lament.

“There’s an actress. She’s got kaleidoscope-flecked hazel eyes. She’s got a sturdy sense of herself, doesn’t fall for cheap lines, and outdoes me in the looks department. I’ll bet she comes from money. She’s the woman. I want her, whatever it costs, whatever it takes. Dig that, you big-dick motherfuckers!”

No dog yipped or barked to affirm my pro-love prologue. The bull terrier cut a fart.

Donna: my man-oh-man metaphysic and priapic précis.

She grew up nonplussed by her beauty. She was jazzed and vexed by boys in pursuit. She got the actor’s gestalt: assume varied identities and cherish your cheap leap at the moon. Learn your core. Hold it close. Don’t buy that courage-as-ruthlessness shit that defines Hollywood. Know this: It’s just yuks and fucks and a dubious place to appease appetites. Levy the love tools the Good Lord gave you. See through Roguish Russ Kuster and Maladroit Miguel. Find THE MAN. He waxed the Garcia Brothers. He capped Huey X. He took bad lives and saved good lives. He wants to know you.

Donna, sleep now.

I WOKE UP at dawn. I changed clothes. I brushed fur off my suit. The ridgeback eyeballed my crotch. I wondered how Donna viewed size. I turned on the radio. Whamm-o, straight off: “And the LAPD’s Hollywood detective squad—not Rampart’s—will investigate last night’s homicide in the shadow of a movie shoot on the grounds of the L.A. Police Academy. Detective Russell Kuster said, “We’re adept at solving faggot snuff—I mean the murders of people of alternative lifestyles. We’re on the job.”

Job me, dickbreath—Donna Donahue is mine!

I WALKED THROUGH the squadroom. I got a catcall cacophony. Fuck—Russ blew the word on our “rivalry.”

I met my partner—“Phone Book” Tom Ludlow. He said, “Let’s roust queers until we get one to confess. All those guys got father and guilt complexes. You sweet-talk them, I’ll do the heavy work.”

I laffed. He picked up his Yellow Pages. Dig the dried bloodstains. Dig the spit stains—Tom probably French-kissed it.

I said, “Later, Tom. I’m driving a witness around today.”

A cop yelled, “Rhino’s in love!” A cop yelled, “Rhino sucks Chihuahua dick!”

Russ called me over. I straddled his spare chair. Russ slipped me his Canoe cologne. Subtle pimps and furloughed Marines preferred it. I splashed it on.

Russ said, “Nobody on my squad smells like a 3-way with Lassie and Rin Tin Tin. Now, moving along, here’s your day. First, you go by the Wilshire Sheraton. Slatkin’s giving a seminar there. You find him and tell him to get the best trusties available and spiff the fuck pad, while he forensics to his heart’s delight— then you reinterview Donna, show her some mug books, and talk her into the pad.”

I said, “I’m on it now.”

“Tell her Huey X was on a rampage. You diverted it. Tell her you subscribe to Ms. magazine. All the liberals and carpet munchers read it.”

THE SHERATON— Dogman Dave blasting full.

A small banquet room. Cops at long tables. Coffee urns/donuts/hard bagels.

Dave hogged the mike and lectern. Dave waved the pointer stick. Dig the cat on the screen: Stephen Nash/’50s lust killer/ fruit-snuff artiste supreme.

Knife murderer Stephen Nash stabbed a boy twenty-eight times and bragged, “I’d never killed a kid before. I wanted to see how it felt.” (Los Angeles Times Collection, Department of Special Collections, Charles E. Young Research Library, UCLA)

Big, burly, curly-haired, gap-toothed. Monstrous shit-eating grin.

Dave soliloquized. “For sheer viciousness and braggadocio, Nash stands alone. He was a proudly affirmed homosexual in the mid-1950s. He killed out of both a psychopathic resentment and for the sheer fact that killing sexually aroused him. His exact death toll remains unknown. There’s the three in the Bay Area, the gay hairdresser in Long Beach, and the 10-year-old boy under the Santa Monica pier. Nash’s killing spree ended in November ’56. He hinted at more killings, but never named names, and five victims since his summer ’54 parole from San Quentin seems like a low number.”

I bit a bagel. A tooth cracked. I tossed it away.

Dave said, “There’s a rumor that’s floated around for years, that during a portion of his free time in ’54 and ’55, he was befriended by an actor who took amateur movies of ‘colorful’ L.A. characters, along with tape recordings of some of their ramblings. Don’t laugh—I know some of you scoff at my psychic shit—but I’ve seen a big, white Spanish house in conjunction with all this.”

A cop yelled, “It’s Reggie the Ridgeback’s house.”

A cop yelled, “No, it’s that Airedale’s pad.”

Dave grinned. Dave said, “Reggie’s your collective daddy.” Dave flipped the whole room off.

I walked up to the stage. A woman cop yelled, “Stephen Nash is my type! I could turn him straight!”

Dave said, “Gas chamber. August 19th, ’59.”

I flipped the mike off. Dave and I huddled.

I said, “Russ wants the clean-up today. If you really want to score some points with him, scrounge some water beds and a sound system.”

Dave snapped his fingers. “Roger that. That clown at Appliance King’s dealing Quaaludes. I’ll talk to the D.A.”

I yawned—fucking Reggie slept on me. A sleep deficit loomed.

Dave said, “That cologne stinks. Russ is trying to fuck you up with Donna.”

“Does the whole world know?”

“Yeah. It’ll probably be in Variety tomorrow.”

DONNA SAID, “It’s a shuck.”

I said, “Nix. You’re a material witness. The killer saw you. You need round-the-clock protection.”

We stood outside the Academy. The crew set up shots. Donna wore faded jeans and a beige turtleneck. She looked like Exeter or Andover or some swank school with no jigs.

I said, “Miss Donahue, this is no shit. These fruit-snuff geeks get off on icing women, too. I read it in Ms. magazine. And, I have it on good authority that before I dropped Huey Muhammad, he was on his way to kill a woman.”

Donna smiled. “I’d prefer the Beverly Wilshire, but I’ll settle for the Biltmore or New Otani downtown.”

I rhino-revamped my pitch. “Miss Donahue, the LAPD is undergoing severe budget cuts, but we do have at our disposal a five-bedroom house in Hollywood, inhabited by hardened detectives 24 hours a day, and you are graciously invited to stay there under our protection.”

Donna laughed. Rhino-revise that—Donna roared.

“I’ve got two cop cousins. I’m conversant with the term ‘fuck pad.’ A policeman named Kuster was here an hour ago. He leered at me sidelong while he lured Miguel into the so-called safe house with the promise of God knows what kind of goodies, most likely female.”

I crashed. I crumpled. I withered and whimpered and went rhino-recumbent.

“Shit, you’re my damsel in jeopardy.”

Donna smiled—incipient/preemptive/almost.

“It’s ‘damsel in distress.’ ”

“O.K.”

Hazel eyes hammered me. “Did I catch a Freudian slip there?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said ‘my,’ not ‘our,’ meaning the rest of the horndogs.”

I rhino-revived. “Shit, I just want to be around you while I’ve got the chance.”

Donna smiled—regal/resplendent/real.

“O.K., I’ll stay.”

Don’t sweat now/don’t sway now/don’t swoon now—

A grip yelled, “Hey, Jenson. Some guy named Ludlow called. You’re supposed to meet him at the impound ASAP.”

THE IMPOUND IMPOSED IMPERIOUS—six long Japtown blocks. The poof Pontiac posed by the fence. Tom Ludlow leaned against it. He hugged his phone book/teddy bear.

I pulled in and parked. Tom pulled his hip flask. Aaaaaah— Old Crow and Sprite—Breakfast of Psycho Vietnam Vets!

I said, “Did it ever occur to you that you’re a remorseless alcoholic psychopath?”

Tom belched. “Yeah, it did. I got that way ’cause my new partner sleeps with grungy-ass dogs.”

Touché.

“Do you always carry that phone book?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you ever read it?”

Tom picked his nose. “I read the names of the women, then I call them up, say nasty things, and try to make dates with them.”

I laffed. I scanned the impound. It was the Audi Auschwitz, the Buick Bergen-Belsen, the Dodge Dart Dachau.

A tech man walked up. Frappé Freddy—no smile/no jive.

He pulled a master key. He unlocked the Pontiac’s trunk. He let the door pop.

I looked in. I inventoried:

K-Y jelly, one tube, 1/2 squeezed. Boy-banger books: Cock It to Me, Shlong, For Those Who Think Hung.

Stamped on back: Porno Vista Boox/Selma Ave/Hollywood.

Loose twenty-dollar bills. Bank-inked. Dried ink coating the trunk.

Tom said, “I don’t get it.”

I did.

The killer wants butthole. The vic’s got bank cash. The killer’s clueless: The vic 211’d a bank. He stores the gelt in his trunk. They’re pouring the pork. The killer loops back for lubricant. He sees bankrolls. He pops one. Ink jets spray. He’s packing a piece. Rock it—Rhino lites the lites and pops windows. The killer shoots the vic. The killer beats feet. Donna eyeballs his ass.

I nudged Tom. “Call the Feds and Central Robbery. Get the stats on 211’s going back a week.”

Tom slapped his phone book. “Hey, I’m the senior partner, and I got some important calls to make.”

“I’ll give you a call. It’s a freebie, because we’re partners now.”

Tom grabbed his pen. I said, “Carol F. Brochard. 213-886-1902.”

“Who is she?”

“My ex-wife.”

“Wow!”

“She’s a nympho. She pulls trains for spooks. She’s a real mud shark.”

Tom went ugggh. The tech guy said, “I’ll scrape an ink sample and get the numbers to Dave Slatkin. He’ll match it to the dye batch.”

I said, “Thanks.” Tom Ludlow ran to a phone.

DIG IT:

The Hollywood Fuck Pad.

I walked into the macho-maimed maelstrom. Dig what I saw:

Trusties hauling disco balls. Appliance King coolies lugging water beds. Detective “Condom Cal” Coleman walking the room-to-room rubber route. The biddy landlady—replete with Camels and oxygen tank.

There’s Dave Slatkin. He’s checking out a wall crack.

I said, “What—”

Dave cut in. “That impound clown called. Some shitbird clouted the Hollywood Federal at Santa Monica and Cole four days ago, and I made the ink comparison off a fax slide. There’s a surveillance photo of the guy stomping a bank guard, and he matches the late Randall J. Kirst. SID took his prints at the morgue, and guess what? They matched a latent on the teller’s ledge.”

I leaned on the wall. “We solve a 211, but come up short on the snuff. Kirst was a horny motherfucker. He drives around with his stash in the trunk on a pork run.”

Dave squinted at wall flecks. “Or it’s a lovers-thieves’ altercation.”

I shook my head. “They’d have gotten a motel room.”

“You mean a pork pit like this one?”

I looked around. Trusties rolled TVs on dollies. Va-va-voom— fuck flix in every room.

I said, “What’s Russ doing?”

“Canvassing, borrowing guys and hitting the fruit bars near the Academy. He’s got Ludlow leaning on registered sex offenders.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, ouch, but it works.”

I heard growls, sobs, shivers, and oh shits. It sounded like Migraine Miguel. I figured I’d console his ass and divert him from Donna.

I walked upstairs. Miguel rolled his head on a wall beam.

I said, “Bad one?”

“Yeah, with accompanying pix—you know, recurring shit.”

I leaned in the doorway. “Tell me.”

Miguel said, “Recurring since age 1, in 1950-fucking -6, where the same big pervo guy is chasing me through my house, with my mother chasing him, bashing LP records over his head. Headache, nightmare, day flash, the fucking trinity.”

Miguel looked up. Fresh-dry eyes/no twitches/no temple throbs.

I said, “How do you handle it?”

“The Collins way, man. Fantasy and vodka.”

Grunts graveled next door. Triple X/staged sex/some zit-backed cat with a monster curved shlong.

I drove by the station. I left Donna messages at her pad and the set. Porno Vista Boox/Selma near Highland/probable surveillance film.

I checked the squadroom. Phone Book Tom held sway.

Six interrogation booths. One pervert per. Tom in booth 4.

He swung like Ted Williams. The hip pop, the crisp follow-through. The suspect was cuffed to a chair. He ducked 40%. Tom batted .600.

Teeth dribbled. Pages riffled. Blood dripped.

I walked out. Rhino reg #6: phone-book jobs on rape-os and child molesters only.

SELMA: A DRAG- QUEEN drag off Sunset. Homo from the get-go. Prostie boys and chicken-hawk Charlies. Porno book bins and backseat fellatio. Lice like Lassie and burned-rear-end rubber. Malignant microbes like Mount Matterhorn.

And Donna Donahue—right by the bookstore—a bliss blast in LAPD blue.

I double-parked and jumped out. Donna said, “I didn’t have time to change, but it bought us some time here.”

“Say what?”

“I impersonated a cop. The bookstore guy’s cueing up his surveillance film from two days before the robbery. We can stand in a stall in back and watch.”

I walked in first. The clerk ignored me. The clerk salaciously salaamed to Donna. He pointed us down “Dildo Drive”—a mobile-mounted, salami-slung corridor. Packaged porno reposed on racks and shimmied off shelves. It was a donkey-dick demimonde and Beaver Boulevard.

We ducked dildos. We made the booth. Donna doused the lights. I tapped a projector switch. Black-and-white film rolled.

We saw pan shots. We saw ID numbers. We saw Sad-Sack Sidneys slap sandals in slime.

Donna said, “I already checked the credit-card receipts. Nothing from Randall J. Kirst.”

I nodded. “Nobody—not even turd burglers—want credit-card receipts from the fucking Porno Vista.”

Donna said, “Right. We’re looking for two men making purchases together—the victim and the killer I saw.”

Police smarts in forty-eight hours—add breeding and brains. I said, “What kind of work does your family do?”

Donna laffed. “They manufacture toilet seats.”

I yukked. My gut distended. I hyper-humped it back in.

Film rolled. We saw dykes buy dildos. We saw kollege kids buy Beaverrama, Beaveroo, Beaver Den, Beaver Bash, Beaverooski, and Beaver Bitches. We saw flits flip through The Greek Way, Greg Goes Greek, Greek Freaks, More Is More, The Hard and the Hung, and The Hungest Among Us. I laffed. Donna laffed. We bumped hips for kicks. Donna’s gunbelt clattered.

Moby Dick’s Greek Delite, Moby Dick’s Athens Adventure, Moby Dick Meets Vaseline Vic. We yukked. We howled. We bumped hips. Donna yelled, “Now!”

I punched Stop. The frame froze. The clerk ran back. The clerk ogled Donna.

I poked him. The clerk said, “That’s the dead guy from the TV news on the left. The other guy is Chickie or Chuckie Farhood. From his height, I’d say it’s Chickie. Chickie’s queer, but tough. Chuckie’s a chubby chaser that likes fat chicks. He runs fat outcall whores out of the counterculture rags. And I mean fat. Real quarter-tonners with cheese, and—”

Donna poked him. “Get to it.”

“Okay, Chuckie lives at the Versailles on 6th and Saint Andrews. Chickie steals cars and sleeps in them, and you didn’t get this from Burt D. Lelchuk. I’m a clean man in a dirty business.”

THE VERSAILLES/6th and Saint Andrews—Koreatown, aaah sooo.

We rolled south. Complexions combined and palate-popped yellow. Crime stats crawled low. K-people kept to themselves. I was Rickshaw Rick here. Dig the signs—all Korean—no coons with Olde English 800.

We hit the address. Fuck it—let Donna roll, too.

We checked the mailbox bank. Donna tapped 106—“Farhood.” A K-lady said, “Velly fat woman, no can climb stairs.”

We walked to 106. Donna knocked. I heard TV noise. A woman yelled, “I’m in bed! I can’t get out! I’m too heavy!”

I heard a coughing fit. I heard “The door’s open.”

Donna turned the knob. We walked in. Wig the walls: photo-phased by 8-by-10 testaments—monuments to morbid obesity.

Six hundred-pounder pix. Eight yards, the Big Ten. Donna looked around and down. I prayed for aerobics in heaven.

A cracked door. That voice: “I’m in here.”

Donna pushed the door open. The bed: an endomorph endeavor—big/wide/bolted down. On it: a nude woman, horribly fat.

I said, “Police officers. We’re here to—”

Donna yelled, “Gun!”

Instinct: I hit the floor. Actor’s instinct: Donna piled on me.

I pulled my piece.

I dropped it.

I saw the gun. I saw the shooter: a mini-man under Fat Mama.

He fired. Two shots went wide. Donna pulled her gun. Donna fired. Fuck—empty actor’s prop.

Fat Mama reached under a pillow. Fuck—it’s a .44 Mag. Mini-Man shot over my head. I rolled. I dumped Donna. She pulled off my ankle piece. Velcro snapped. Fat Mama aimed and fired. A wall section blew out.

Donna stood up.

Donna walked to the bed.

She aimed. She shot Fat Mama in the head. She shot Fat Mama in her fatty mass. Fat Mama buckled. Mini-Man got exposed. Donna shot him four times in the face.

THINGS WENT SLO - MO.

I called Russ. Russ called Wilshire dicks. The Wilshire guys brought extra throw-down guns. I gave a statement. It was my gun. I assumed credit/blame per guidelines. Russ called the shooting board a lockdown. Donna wasn’t even there.

Russ brought her Ativan and scotch. She snarfed it. We stood in the hallway. We hugged and stood head-to-head.

Donna said, “Say something nice to me.”

I said, “You know who you are now.”

SHE WOULDN’T GIVE up her uniform. It was bloodstained. It was dirty. She wouldn’t go home and change. She wouldn’t visit the set. She wouldn’t scrounge fresh threads.

The pills and booze zorched her. She stared out her window. She stared at people. She said, “Brave new fucking world.”

I said, “You saved my life.” I called her “Partner.” She said, “Brave new fucking world.”

Dusk hit. I drove to the fuck pad. Donna fell asleep. I wedged a bulletproof vest under her head.

I walked inside. Russ was playing Bruckner for the heathens. Symphony 7/movement 2. Lyrical shit/music for honors.

Full house.

Cops in Jockey shorts/women in robes. Couples standing in hallways. Couples staying up to see Donna—you could plain tell.

Dave brushed blood from wall cracks. I said, “Where’s Miguel?”

Dave coughed. “He saw some detail on the wall, you know, some nightmare shit. He went to his mother’s place.”

Russ said, “Your girl’s something. She’s too much woman for me.”

Bruckner soared. It was an elegy for a century dead. Donna walked up and stood in the doorway. She got a wild locomotive ovation. The sound deafened her. She bowed. Blood dripped off her badge. She said, “Brave new fucking world.”

WE DROVE WEST. A light rain hit. Russ’s cocktail wore off. She said, “Let’s go see Miguel. I worry about him sometimes.”

“Where does he live?”

“Rosie’s place. Roxbury north of Sunset. Big, white Spanish place.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“No. I want to say hi, and get under some covers with you and see if I can cry with some more pills and scotch.”

I drove to Beverly Hills. Donna showed me the pad: big/Spanish adobe/George Gershwin’s ex-crib.

We parked and knocked. Rosemary Collins answered. She saw us. She saw a cop and an actress. She did mental math. She went, “Sssshhhh. Miguel’s had a rough one, too.”

We walked inside. We just made it. The rain went haywire. Donna exercised Hollywood etiquette.

She hit a bathroom. She popped the medicine chest. She popped some prescription shit. She found a liquor sideboard. She guzzled straight scotch.

Rosie winked at me. She was big and fat now. She’d gone down behind every appetite.

I said, “Where’s Miguel?”

She walked downstairs. Donna stagger-followed her. I came up last. Rosie said, “Old Luis’s archives are down here. He made these doco films in the ’50s.”

Film cans on chairs. Film cans on shelves. Film cans stacked shelf to ceiling.

There’s Miguel:

Passed out in cop blue. Gone behind Belvedere vodka.

I tossed a blanket on him. Rosie tucked his feet under it.

I said, “Can we stay here tonight?”

Rosie said, “Sure. Third bedroom on the left upstairs. I’ll run Donna through a shower.”

Donna stumbled to a bathroom. I found a bathroom and stripped. I saw bullet-graze marks on my cheek and shoulder. Dry blood flaked off.

I showered and found a robe. I stretched out on the bed. Rosie walked Donna in. Donna’s robe dwarfed her.

Rosie killed the lights and shut the door. Donna snuggled into me. The darkness felt right.

Donna said, “Can we make love in the morning? I’m too wrecked now.”

I said, “Sure. It’s my best time.”

The bed dropped a thousand yards and settled back up with us in it. A sync settled in—her heartbeat, my breath.

2.

“Brave new fucking world.”

Her first morning muse. I woke with a chart-busting chubby. Delightful, delirious—Dangerous Donna now.

I’d notched next-door nightmares. Luis Figueroa’s voice. The partial pop of a self-described killer. Film-sprocket click. Luis called the cat “Steve.” Faded fuzz sounds.

I mapped some mental math. Mid-’50s. Luis’s home movies. Dave Slatkin’s pet perv Stephen Nash. Dave’s vision: the sparkling Spanish house—Rosie’s Roost?

Donna nudged me. “I said ‘Brave new fucking world.’ ”

My chubby chugged out and up. Piss-deflate it or pave new penile paths with Donna—quick call.

I said, “It’s our world now.” Donna leaned in. I kissed her neck. I kissed her cleavage clung to Rosie’s robe. She pulled my head up. She kissed my bullet bites. Our lips latched and launched the world’s longest kiss.

I swirled in it. I tasted my morning breath. I mowed medicinal scotch off her tongue. We held the kiss. We ripped off our robes. I dropped into Donna delirium. She rhino-reciprocated. We tasted each other all over. We flared freckles and tweaked toes and centered on our center parts. We savored our scents there. She pulled me in. It lasted ten seconds or ten hours. It was all eyes-closed climax and breathing one breath and one hard holding until I thought our bones would break.

We rerobed and coursed through the casa. Donna rapped with Rosie. I nudged Miguel next door.

He fiddled with film cans and cataloged cassettes. I said, “Luis knew some wild characters.”

Miguel lit a cigarette. “Delusional types. He’d give them a few bucks and get their shit down on film. It was his variation on the—you know—study the surreal to learn the real. It’s sort of like Donna yesterday. She wasted two freaks, so now she can play a cop better.”

I laffed. “Can I see those films you were watching last night?”

“No, you may not. You banged Donna this morning, so I’m jealous. When the jealousy wears off, I’ll let you see them.”

I said, “Fair enough.”

Miguel blew smoke rings in my face. “Enjoy it while you can, man. Donna goes through men like Rosie goes through Häagen-Dazs.”

I coughed away smoke. Donna yelled, “Rick, the living room! We’re on TV!”

Miguel said, “Get me some creeps I can off, Jenson. Donna’s got the upper hand on life experience now.”

I fast-walked to the living room. Rosie wore a muumuu. Donna wore bloodstained LAPD blue. She was the statuesque still point of Stanislavsky.

Russ Kuster talked from the tube. “Officer Jenson’s slaying of Charles “Chuckie” Farhood and his female accomplice Melissa “Mama Cass” Cassavailian was entirely within LAPD shooting policy, and I am sure he will be exonerated at today’s shooting board.”

A quick cut. A handsome newsman: “Miss Suzie Park Kim of the Versailles Apartments has a different story to tell.”

A quick cut. A korpulent Korean diesel dyke filled the screen.

“No, no, no! I see TV actress in uniform with policeman! She killed Chuckie and Mama Cass! I see her on Hawaii Five-O! Donna something! She stone fox—yum, yum!”

Donna grabbed me. “I should pack and run. Chuckie’s brother’s got a bullet with my name.” I grabbed her back. I smelled her hair. I caught Alberto VO5 and our lovemaking sweat.

“I’ve got the shooting board. You stay here and watchdog Miguel. He’s torqued on his dad’s old films. I’ll be back later.”

Donna nodded. Rosie said, “Come on, baby. Häagen-Dazs and bonded bourbon. Breakfast of champions.”

RUSS MET ME at Parker Center. Room 463—Internal Affairs.

I said, “Update me.”

Russ ratched earwax with a paper clip. “The dead guy’s Chuckie Farhood. He’s the heterosexual chubby chaser. Chickie’s the fruit, and here’s his MO. The late Randall J. Kirst and Chickie were part-time fuck-film actors, and Chickie 459’s pharmacies, steals dope, and sleeps in cars that he steals. He’s a swish psychopath. He goes to straight and fag porno theaters, takes pixes off the screen with a high-speed camera, and sells them to porno bookstores. That’s all shit we coerced out of that clown at Porno Villa.”

I said, “He must have a darkroom somewhere.”

Russ said, “Correct.” He handed me some Chickie Farhood mugs. I said, “Stolen car reports—”

Russ cut in. “We’ve got six teams from West Traffic checking stolen-car reports and canvassing for wits, and six SID teams and a rover van to dust for prints. We’ve got a meeting at Central Vice in two hours. You and Tom Ludlow are to hit the fag bars and porno theaters, anywhere Chickie can ‘work’ and hide out. We’ve got 12 teams total, and Chickie hit a Rite Aid pharmacy last night. Left three latents and stole a fuckload of Seconal, Amytal, and Tuinal. What that means, I don’t know.”

I scratched my balls. “Suicide attempt?”

“Maybe. Before the meeting, go by the fuck pad and talk to Slatkin. Our resident genius is freaking out about something.”

I scratched my nose. I smelled Donna.

“I’ll hit the pad, then go by the Versailles and chill out that Korean bitch. She’s flapping her mouth about Donna.”

Russ shook his head. “Low priority, especially if Chickie’s on a suicide run.”

“Russ, shit, she’s—”

“No. And if you see that fucked-up snitch of mine, Chuy Nieves, put some hurt on him. He’s been telling street creeps I gave him up to the Sheriff’s on a hot-prowl job.”

I hitched up my rhino-horn gunbelt. “What about Donna?”

Russ sighed. “The last I heard, Donna could take care of herself.”

THE SHOOTING BOARD— precisely pro forma.

Wasp cop kills pornopreneur and Mama Cass. Wasp cop’s bullets waste welfare wench and ex-caped ex-con with felonious faigelah brother. Suzie Park Kim’s musings—meshugina.

The board deliberated. I sat alone. I poked my skin for Donna scent-sightings. I found arm and ankle aromas—aaaah, the Stanislavsky-stopping studdess!

The board returned. Unanimous decision: killings in police policy.

Deadly Donna—Manslaughter Two mandated to mush.

I INSUBORDINATELY ITINERIZED. Koreatown kame first—gag fat Suzie fast.

I daydreamed per Donna. I called up some caution. Don’t propose until next week.

Chuy Nieves notched into my noggin. He was Kuster’s kustom snitch. He hot-prowled UCLA dorms. He flashed his herpes-hammered hamster at comely coeds. He got screeches and screams back. Russ caught him. Russ made him his sniveling snitch. Now he rebelled. Now he screamed for a “screen test.”

I got to the Versailles. I checked out the adjacent alley. Fuck— Doomonic Donna and Sick Suzie captured in catfight configuration.

Donna in bloodstained blue. Suzie in a mauve muumuu.

They yelled. They yodeled. They yipped. I ran back. Suzie tried to beat on Donna and caress her concurrent. I interceded. Suzie belly-bumped me. I flew. Donna caught me. Sick Suzie mouthed off.

“I saw you shoot Chuckie and Mama Cass! Man was here—he show me picture of you—movie reference book—Donna something. Man Chuckie’s brother. He show me picture. I munch your socks off, yum, yum.”

Chickie—back for revenge—gone now.

I started to lecture Donna. “I told you to stay at Rosie’s. You can’t go around impersonating a cop all the—”

Shots. Big-bore right to left, over the alley fence, ring-a-ding ricochets. Bam—the dyke socks one in her eye socket. She goes down dead. Her flab flares and flattens. Fuck—it’s a 6.8 earthquake.

Donna jumps up. Donna fires over the fence. Fuck—fake uniform/live bullets.

I vaulted the fence. My rhino horn hung up on a fence post. I got impaled upside down. Donna shoved my ass. I de-impaled and dumped to earth on my derrière. Donna fired at fleeing Farhood. Her shots went wild. They pinged pavement and skimmed skyward. I proned out and fired a full clip. I fanned Farhood’s hair. I narrowly notched his Nikes. I blew the full clip.

Donna jumped the fence. I said, “Real bullets?”

“Miguel convinced me. He called it Stanislavsky plus.”

I CALLED IN the 187. Russ Kuster arrived. Wilshire dicks followed. I described the scene. I omitted Donna’s gun. The cops eyeballed Donna and asked for autographs. Donna wrote “Brave new fucking world” and “Love, Donna” on their ticket books.

We gave formal statements and humped to Hollyweird. We argued per Donna’s props: blue suit and flesh-flaring bullets. Donna said, “Hollow points. I’m a feminist. I want to kill this cocksucker in the name of oppressed women worldwide.”

We drove on. We headed to the fuck pad. I saw Chuy Nieves at Sunset and El Centro.

I braced the brakes. I careened from the car. I chased Chuy. Chuy chugged slow—methedrine malignancy and three packs a day. I waggled his wetback ass. I cuffed him. I dragged him to the car. I tossed him in the backseat.

Donna said, “As a liberal, I should protest.”

I said, “Former liberal. Now dig on the ‘screen test.’ ”

I punched the gas. I hit 60. I hit the brakes. Chuy hit the front-seat/backseat mesh. It was crisscross/crosshatched metal. It left tic-tac-toe tattoos.

I hit the gas. I hit the lights and siren. I hit 80-plus. Chuy hit the mesh. His nose broke. I hit the gas. I hit 70. Chuy mashed the mesh headfirst. Dig his hip haircut: hatch marks scraping his scalp.

I stopped the car. I got out. I hauled Chuy out. I dumped him in the gutter. I said, “Don’t talk out of school about Russ Kuster.”

I got back in the car. I said, “Please don’t say ‘Brave new fucking world.’ ”

Donna said, “Let’s get a motel room, watch fuck flicks, and make love.”

“When Chickie’s dead or captured.”

“You’re going to waste his faggot ass, aren’t you?”

I said, “Donna, there’s never been a woman like you.”

WE HIT the fuck pad. There’s Dave Slatkin on the porch. He’s shivering, shaking, all shook up.

We parked and walked over. I said, “Tell me.”

Dave shook and shimmied. “The house is evil. I found blood mixed with polio vaccine and cranial fluid in a wall crack. I went by the Hollywood library. Three little boys disappeared from the polio clinic at Queen of Angels in April ’56.”

Chills churned through me. “You’re thinking Stephen Nash.”

Dave nodded. “We’ve got to bring in scent dogs and dig up the yard.”

I whispered. “We’ve got to get Farhood first. Be realistic. Nash is dead, the kids are dead.”

Donna whispered to me. “The man-in-the-street shit. Doesn’t Miguel have something like—”

I shushed her. “Dave, go back to the shelter and chill out with the dogs. There’s a meeting at Central Vice. I’ll cover for you.”

Dave shivered. “I keep seeing that big white Spanish house north of Sunset.”

I CALLED a cab for Donna. I told her to go back to Rosie’s and watchdog Miguel. Go through his old man’s film cans. Be careful. I’ll explain later.

We kissed good-bye on a shitty Hollywood side street. My whole life was one big blur.

CENTRAL VICE. Parker Center—Room 506.

Yours Truly at the lectern. My plastic rhino horn perched near the mike. I updated, I preached, I assigned.

Twenty-four cops listened. Detectives, SID men, clue clowns. Russ gave me a fact sheet. I riffed off of it.

Forty-two fruits claimed their cars. None knew Randall J. Kirst or the Farhood brothers. A few bun buddies said they’d “seen them around” and no more. I gave the Valley porn theaters and bars to eleven two-man teams. The names drew laughs: Dee-Lux Dicks, Fort Dicks, the Ramrod, the Manhole, the Colonoscopy Club, the Boy Toy, Boys R Us, Locker Room Larry’s, Lance’s Lancer Room, Leather Leo’s Love Nest, and Ten-Inch Tommy’s.

I ended with a slide show and a macho-maimed musing. The slide featured bare-chest mugs of Chickie Farhood. Bad zits— Mount Matterhorn pustules and blasting-cap blackheads. The whole room went ugggh. My musing: “He’s got pharmacy downers. He’s armed and dangerous. Take him out the second you see him.”

I PAIRED WITH Phone Book Tom. We hit West Hollyweird. Tom traded his phone book for a beavertail sap. We hit Pussycat theaters. We lingered for the straight fuck-and-suck action. We talked to cashiers. They’d “seen Chickie around”—“the cat with the zits, right?” We shined penlights in patrons’ faces. We caught guys slamming the ham. We caught a policewoman doing deep throat in Sharon Shags Sherman Oaks. Tom made a note to call her.

We hit fruit bars—Jason’s Jamboree, Lariat Lee’s, Rudy’s RUMPus Room. We got one lead: Patrons called Chickie “Zits” and “Pus.” One fag called him “Date-Rape Dave.” Chickie tried to slip him some Rohypnol. Tom howled. He started calling me “Rohypnol Rick.” He said it’s the only way I’d get laid. We hit more straight theaters. We saw John Holmes do an ad for the Donkey Dan Dick Extender. It involved pulleys and possible prostate problems. I made a note to call Donna about it.

We walked back out to our F-car. The radio blared. I picked up. West Traffic found Chickie’s car in Griffith Park.

THERE IT WAS: a ’79 Toyota cum ’56 NASH.

Parked on a bluff. Cityside view. Egregiously exhibitionistic.

Choppers chugged overhead. Russ and two bluesuits blockaded the car.

Tom and I got out. Dig the infernal interior:

Demonic dashboard: duct-taped Stephen Nash news pix and clips. Nash gnashing his nublike teeth. Nash ghoulishly giggling. “ ‘I’m King of Killers,’ Boy Slasher Sez.” Nash braggingly brandishing lead pipe and knife. Nash blinking back flashbulb flare. Nash knife-wielding and pipe-posing. “King of Killers stabs boy 28 times under pier. Brags ‘I’d never killed a kid before. I wanted to see how it felt.’ ”

A canvass crew crawled into the hills. I checked the backseat. Foto Fiend Farhood created a cruel-ass collage.

Stephen Nash with flared fly. John Holmes’s jumbo Johnson jumping out. Political paste-up: Devil Dick Nixon gobbling his gonads.

Russ said, “He left it here for us to spot. SID got his latents off the dashboard. The car got clouted two days ago at Ted’s Ranch Market. He won’t come back. He’s too hip. We’ve got six canvassing crews tracking stolen cars within a four-mile radius. He had to steal some fresh wheels.”

Tom banged his phone book against his leg. Dried blood dropped off the pages.

I said, “Tips?”

Russ said, “Percy’s Perch. It’s a fruit bar on Ventura. The barman said he’s got information. You and Tom go over and brace him.”

I saw an 8-track tape secured in a sound system. I hit the ignition. Tom tapped some dashboard dials. HIS voice, fogged by ’56 fuzz:

“I’m the King of the Killers! I’ll go to my death like any malevolent monarch! I’m the monster of mass-production killing!”

PERCY’S PERCH:

A poof palace in palate-popping purple and pink. Nancy boys in niggered-out Naugahyde booths.

The barman was a sweaty swish in spangled spandex. He saw us and steered us to a back room.

No introductions. Spandex Spanky spit it out.

“Chickie has AIDS. He’s slipping guys that date-rape drug and deliberately giving them the virus.”

He popped a cassette in a console TV. Spliced footage screed the screen. There’s Harrison “the Hunk” Ford in Star Wars. There’s Sylvester “Steroid” Stallone in Rocky. There’s Chickie Farhood made up as Stephen Nash. It’s a fantastic faux cluster fuck.

The swish said, “Chickie shoots the stuff off regular movie screens and splices himself in. God forgive us, but there’s a market for such blasphemy.”

We walked back to the bar proper. I saw a cadre of cadaverous Calvins downing daiquiris and massive martinis. Spanky said, “Chickie’s victims. They’ve got four months between them to live.”

I said, “Let’s kill him.”

Tom fanned his phone book. “I got no problem with that.”

I DUMPED TOM at the fuck pad. I rhino-rolled to Roxbury Drive.

There’s Rosie. There’s Donna. There’s Miguel bombed on Belvedere.

Donna took me aside. “Rosie got tanked and explained Miguel’s visions. Stephen Nash tried to attack him. Rosie chased him and beat him with a stack of 78 records. She shattered sixteen copies of ‘You Belong to Me.’ ”

“Did you go through the old film cans?”

Stephen Nash starts his last ride. (Los Angeles Times Collection, Department of Special Collections, Charles E. Young Research Library, UCLA)

Donna nodded. “I found it and cued it up. Brace yourself. ”

We walked to the next room. A screen covered one wall. I doused the lights. Donna ran the projector. Stephen Nash gnawed at the camera.

“I snatched the three snotty-pants from the polio joint and beat their heads against the wall of this rooming house where I was staying. I cornholed them postmortem and buried them out back. It was April. I figured the fuzz would get me sooner or later. I found me the ugliest bitch I could find and fucked her blind. I put a big banana on her stomach and made like she was a boy. She had pimples all over. I heard she popped twins right when they sent me to death row.”

Offscreen: Luis Figueroa’s voice. “I find this hard to believe.”

Nash: gap-toothed/floppy-mouthed/curly-haired/beady-eyed/ baaaaaaad.

I believed every word.

The room lights flicked on. I saw Miguel walk in. He said, “I remember him now. I haven’t had a migraine since Donna showed me the film.”

I said, “Rosie saved your life.”

Miguel nodded. “I’m going to buy her all the Häagen-Dazs in Beverly Hills and a case of Wild Turkey.”

I kissed tears off Donna’s cheeks. She said, “Can we make love now?”

WE FOUND aroom. The bed belonged to two baying beagles. We booted them. They chose two chaise lounges and watched.

Percy’s Perch. Pimple-piled killers. Camera-eyed K-9’s. Brave new fucking world.

We dusted dog dander off the covers and climbed on. Donna wore static-stark cashmere now. She peeled off a pink turtleneck shift. Shiver-sparks sparked spangled light.

I shucked my shirt and pants—threadbare third-world threads. Donna hauled off my “Home of the Whopper” shorts. Naked in a nanosecond—heaven in a hound dog’s hutch.

I remember the one long kiss. I remember blue veins synced to her heartbeat. Her breasts tasted like essence de Donna and sharp shower soap. Her mouth meandered and made me moan. Lip locks and licks made me pitch to her pivot-spot.

We fitted finally. Her call—I was orphaned in her orbit and didn’t know where I was. Beagles bayed. It lasted ten years or ten seconds. Our climax was a climb up the pyramids and a ten-planet pirouette down.

DONNA STIRRED FIRST. “Miguel and I have missed six shooting schedules. We might get fired.”

I said, “Chickie’s all over the media. We’ll get him soon.”

“I don’t want it to end. How do you go back to guest shots and dates with actors after something like this?”

I kissed her neck. “You don’t. You stay with me.”

Donna shook her head. “I’m a move-on-but-always-live-in-L.A. kind of girl.”

I shook my head. “It’s not a life sentence. You’ve been through too much to be who you were.”

Donna smiled. “I feel like an adventuress. I came to Hollywood, I was Andover and Wesleyan, it was grins and giggles, and now I’ll see Stephen Nash the moment I wake up for the rest of my life.”

“You’re right. And I’ll pick up the phone and call you when I’m scared or bored, and we’ll meet for coffee and talk around the wild shit of fall ’83 and how it changed us.”

I cupped her breasts. I felt a ka-tick murmur under the right.

“You’re saying you can’t be subordinate to any man.”

Donna squeezed my hand on her heart. “And I imagine it’ll last until I’m 47 or -8 and I’m afraid of being alone.”

I shook my head. “You’ll have a grave and terrible beauty then. You’ll get the face you earn, and Stephen Nash and me and Chuckie and Mama Cass will be part of it.”

Donna burrowed into my chest. It hit me then—the cop part. Chickie clouted a Rite Aid. He stole Seconal, Amytal, Tuinal. He did not steal demonic date-rape Rohypnol.

Donna said, “I love you. I’ll never just walk from all of this.”

I said, “I love you, and I don’t think I’ll ever love anyone more.”

Donna touched my lips. “Rick, don’t say that. You’re 31 years old.”

“I’ll rephrase it, then. I’ve got a kick-ass will and volition, and I’ll never let myself love anyone more.”

LUIS’S HIP HACIENDA. A kooky kasa in Coldwater Canyon. Wild warped wood whipped out at raucous right angles.

We pulled up and parked. Miguel said, “Typical actor’s pad. Build as you go, between residual checks. The cocksucker starts out with Hamlet and ends up with Count Borga, Vampire for scale.”

Donna mock-swatted him. “It’s the world we chose, and we’ll be lucky to do as well as he did.”

“The cocksucker cheated on my mom during their honeymoon, then bird-dogged half of my bitches.”

Donna mock-swatted him—harder. “Women are not‘bitches.’ ”

Miguel said, “Excuse me. ‘Chicks.’ ”

Donna nudged me. “Can I kill him?”

I laffed. “If you’ll marry me as part of the cover-up, yeah.”

Donna said, “I’ll consider it.”

Miguel flipped off the kasa. “Hey, Luis, eat shit and die, you old cocksucker.”

The old cocksucker cold-cocked my headlights. I braked and missed him. He was Miguel fifty years hence. Balder, Disneyesque Dumbo ears, blackhead-blotted beak. Garb: madcap madras golf shorts and an “I Choked Linda Lovelace” T-shirt.

We got out of the car. Father and son embraced. Papa pulled a pint of Padrone from his waistband. Miguel took two gulps. Donna declined. I took two—aaaaah!

They saltily soliloquized in Spanish. Luis talked fast. Miguel talked slow. I heard “mujer magnifica” “chinga su madre,” “Count Borga—dinero grande.”

Miguel turned the talk a ingles. “Stephen Nash? Hoto sicótico. TV news, that killer. Come on, Daddy, speak English.”

Luis whipped it out. Luis pissed in the driveway. His dick was divertingly donkeyesque.

Luis said, “It pays to advertise.”

Donna said, “For those in the market.”

Luis stumbled up his steps. The living room was a dump. We followed. Dave Slatkin lamented from a wall TV.

“We dug up the remains of the three children at the backyard location today, utilizing dogs from the LAPD’s animal shelter. The boys had been missing from the polio ward since April 1956. Their broken pelvises denote a posterior-based sexual attack.”

Ronald Reagan replaced Dave. Luis pounded Padrone. I badged him. “LAPD. Here or downtown.”

Luis slipped on a crown and robe. Dig the nametags attached: “Property of the Count Borga, Vampire set.”

Miguel grabbed a phone book. Miguel patted it. Miguel cracked the crown off Luis’s head.

Dig the joltingly Jack Webb-like Dragnet drawl:

“Give us the straight dope, Pancho. You worm-eating wetbacks get no truck with my partners and me.”

Donna grabbed the phone book. Donna hit Luis in the head.

“That’s for whipping it out and hitting on me on Hawaii Five-O.”

Hollywood—man-o-Manischewitz!!!!

Luis humbly hurled Latin. I’m priapically Protestant—it was gravel Greek to me. Miguel said, “Sssh. It’s the prelude to confession.”

We all stood stock-still. The count chugged Padrone and chanted “nam-myoho-renge-kyo.” We waited. He tossed the jug at the TV. The TV shattered. He corrosively confessed.

“It was ’54. I’d lost it. I had no more self to transmit to the screen. I met Steve Nash. We got in a fender bender. He recognized me. We talked. He’d just robbed a liquor store. He was a heist man. He carried a knife and a pipe. He proudly stated that he was a butt banger, but I’d be safe because I wasn’t his type. I fell into his sway. We smoked reefer and ate Benzedrex Inhaler wads together. I drove while he robbed stores. He never spent money. I held his stash, and I’ve still got it. He ate dog food exclusively. He drank Thunderbird wine. I thought he was real, and false and reinvented, and I believed roughly half of what he said. He fucked filthy winos in our poolhouse. It drove Rosie crazy. He used to joke with you, Miguelito. It drove Rosie crazy. Once she broke a stack of records over his head. He meant you no harm, mi hijo, I swear it.”

The count picked his nose. The count took a deep stage breath.

Donna patted her phone book. “Wrap it up, Chico. Rapidamente, or I’ll yank your green card.”

The count went contemplative.

“I thought he was schizophrenic or the world’s greatest actor. His all-dog-food diet netted me $108,995, all of which is in that top cupboard. He told me he killed three polio-afflicted children, and I never believed him. Then they found that boy under the Santa Monica pier. I wept when he went to the gas chamber. He was evil, but his genius meshed with mine, and together we will reach our zenith as I portray Count Borga, Vampire.”

I said, “You’re a fucked-up cat, Luis.”

Donna hammered his head with the phone book, two-handed.

Miguel grabbed the drawer gross with greenbacks. He said, “ Yo te amo, Papa, you cocksucker.”

IT WAS LATE. We were tired and hungry. Loose lettuce lolled in my trunk. I called Kuster on my 2-way. Chickie Farhood—still at large. Massive manhunt. Habitual haunts held down. Homicide men at known homo huts. Camouflaged cops trawling the Swish Alps.

We drove southeast. The Pacific Dining Car—“Open All Nite.” We hit Highland southbound. We saw shelter lights shimmer. We pulled up and walked in.

Bull terriers barked. Bloodhounds bayed. Airedales went aoooo! Reggie the Ridgeback rammed his snout under Donna’s skirt.

Jane Slatkin was asleep. Three-dog night. Litter-mate Labs.

Dave sat on the floor. Donna shoved Reggie off. He sniffed Miguel’s crotch and snickered.

I said, “He’s still out there.”

Dave nodded. “The big white house was the Collins pad, right?”

Miguel said, “Right. You’re a fucking psychic genius, man. Want to go to the Dining Car?”

Dave shook his head. I said, “Stephen Nash ate an all-dog-food diet.”

“Proving there’s some good in all people.”

Donna scratched Reggie’s ridge. He almond-eyed her with looooove. Dave said, “I had a certified vision. There is an afterlife, and dogs run heaven. Jesus, Buddha, and all those other cats are just shills to keep squares walking the straight-and-narrow.”

Reggie snout-skimmed Donna’s skirt. Donna dodged him. She said, “ Jesus, and this is all real.”

WE HOGGED a booth at the Car. We pounced on porter-house, tore into T-bone, fattened our fangs on filet mignon. Donna said she’d adopt Reggie. Miguel said he’d adopt the two bull terriers. We piled into pecan pie. Donna held my hand in her lap. We yawned in unison. Our pads were too far to tango to. Let’s roll to the Hollywood fuck pad.

Donna said, “What did your dad do with his Oscar for Hamlet ? I didn’t see it at his dump.”

Miguel laffed. “He hocked it to Schwab’s pharmacy for phenobarbital and booze.”

I said, “Maybe he’ll mount a comeback with Count Borga. ”

Miguel said, “Nix. It’s a grade-Z turkey headed straight for TV.”

A waiter walked over. Donna pointed to some steak scraps. “Will you wrap this up for my dog?”

WE DROVE to the pad. It was dark and dank quiet. No window lights, normal TV or fuck-flick flares. No laughing or lip-smacking of late-nite libidos.

We walked in. I hit the living-room lights. It was too tidy—no dropped drawers or gunbelts shed for the sheets.

Donna yawned. “I’m going up to the roof. I want to look at the lights and extend this whole adventure.”

Miguel said, “I’ll go with you.”

They walked upstairs. I eyeballed the stairways and landings. No kitchen lights. No de rigueur disarray.

Donna and Miguel hit the roof—I heard gravel grab. I walked upstairs. No hall lights. No sconces skimming light. No bathroom lights, no light-lit walkways to the johns.

Five bedroom doors—identically shut.

My neck hairs nipped and nudged me. I opened one door. I hit the wall light.

There’s Condom Cal Coleman and a mulatto meter maid snoring. They passed out dressed. There’s a nightstand. There’s a Jim Beam jug. There’s a red capsule popped and white powder residue.

The Rite Aid 459. The stolen barbiturates—

I tiptoed. I opened doors. I got insidious instant replays. Snores. Clothed couples. Barely broken bottle seals and popped-pill residue.

I ran upstairs. The roof door was open. There’s Donna and Miguel by the south ledge, grooving and grokking the view.

I pulled my piece. The door slammed back. It hit my nose. It tore my teeth. I dropped my gun. It fell down the stairs. It sheared a shot accidental.

I stumbled. I staggered. I saw the Antichrist: Chickie Farhood made up as Stephen Nash.

I pulled my throw-down. Chickie caught it and kicked it away. He slammed the door. My fingers got fucked. Three thread-dangled off the knucklebones.

Gravel ground, grabbed, crackled, and crunched. I saw Donna and Miguel.

They grabbed Chickie. They pulled his hair. Donna gouged his eyes. Miguel kicked him and stuffed gravel in his mouth. Donna ripped an eye out. Chickie screamed. Miguel lashed a belt around his neck. Four hands tightened and pulled.

I saw Chickie scream. I saw Chickie thrash, spasm, and spit gravel. I saw the ledge. I saw Donna step on his face and make him eat mica-flecked grounds. I saw Miguel lift his legs and throw him off the building.

The shooting board cleared me. One call to Kuster—case clapboard-closed. Donna drove me to Cedars of Lebanon. The ER docs saved my fingers.

I badged the night nurse. Donna slept in my hospital bed with me. The morphine drip made for mad nightmares—all Stephen Nash.

They released me next noon. We all met at Hollywood Homicide: me, Donna, Dave, Russ, Miguel.

We agreed. The house was evil. It had to burn. The Nash stash would fix the landlady—some swank oldster’s crib for life.

Chuy Nieves had a firebug brother. Street name: Matchhead Manuel. Russ said he’d call him.

We watched it burn. We sat across the street and drank canned daiquiris. I held hands with Donna. The fuck pad ignited. Fire-men showed. The roof caved in. Kitsch house to kindling in twelve minutes flat.

I walked Donna to her car. We kissed. She said, “We were fucked by this and made by this, and I’ll never love anyone more than you, and I’ll go through men and cut them loose because I’m an actress with appetites and nothing in my life will ever be this goddamn motherfucking real.”

I brushed soot from her hair. “I’ll remember every moment. That’ll see me through.”

She got in her car. She threaded past fire engines. She drove west on Hollywood Boulevard.

I died in a futile gunfight. Others fell before me.

Russ Kuster died 10/9/90. It happened at the Hilltop Hungarian. Bela Marko was drunk. He had a laser gun. He aimed it at customers. Russ told him to stop. Marko refused. Marko shot Russ. Russ shot Marko. They killed each other. It took six seconds flat.

Donna attended the funeral. We held hands. We wept at the eulogy.

Dave and I rose within LAPD. The big one—downtown Homicide. Donna and Miguel became TV stars and did feature work. Donna never married. I’d see her on the street sometimes. We’d hold each other and whisper-talk for an hour at a crack. People thought we were nuts. We embraced for two hours in a rainstorm once in Beverly Hills.

I never married. Everything Donna said outside the burned-down house proved true.

I lived to age 96. Donna’s still alive. She’s got a recurring role on a nighttime soap job. The show’s about as good as Count Borga, Vampire.

Here’s how I died.

I was in a mall in Orange County. I was old and frail. I still carried a gun. A very old Mexican cat walked up to me. He had tic-tac-toe scars. I remembered immediately: Chuy Nieves/the screen test.

Chuy had a big Glock. I had a big Browning. We blew each other away instantaneously. The papers called it the “Oldsters’ O.K. Corral.”

Dogs run heaven. Donna’s generations of Reggie Ridgebacks call the shots. There’s lots of clouds and a fuckload of dogs. The food’s good. You get to have sex with people you really love. You get to relive your earth life and hit a Pause button. I always go back to fall ’83.

I miss Donna. I want to get hammered by those hurricane-hurled hazel eyes up close once again. There’s only one catch. I never want her to die.