(LOS ANGELES, 3:30 P.M., WEDNESDAY, 7/18/62)
Double duty. All fucked-up phone work.
Monitor the Sip ’n’ Surf feed. Record Lawford-house calls. Skim Yellow Page directories. Cold-call caterers and phone-message outfits.
Double duty. With fucked-up distractions.
There were frayed wire mounts at the Lawford house. They induced sound belches past comprehension. It’s okay for now. Nobody’s calling in or out.
The Sip ’n’ Surf blasts sound. It’s “Bikini Twist Party” Wednesday. Beach babes gyrate ten feet from my console enclosure. An overamped hi-fi cranks the “Peppermint Twist.”
My headphones itched. That distracted me. The cold-call volume daunted and vexed me.
Dig it:
There are 171 caterers in the L.A. Yellow Pages. There are 256 message outfits. It’s epic dreckwork. I’ve been at it since 8:00 a.m.
That “Eleanora”/Monroe/“Rick Dawes” lead scorched me. I checked the paper-scrap Polaroid I shot and tacked to my board.
The “Rick Dawes” is full legible. The phone-service listings are illegible. The crosshatch marks beside them indicate phone numbers. The half-legible word serv indicates “service.” Monroe scrawled four lines of words that end in “serv.” The service names read as gobbledygook.
Peter Lawford hustles “Eleanora.” He mentions Beverly Hills house burglaries. Cater waiters emerge as suspects. It’s a good tangential lead. Tough shit. I can’t solicit BHPD for their 459 files. I’ve got no police agency standing. I can’t bribe my way in. It’s too risky. I’m a well-known shitbird PI.
I’ve called twenty-one phone-service switchboards. Twenty-one operators refused to divulge their client lists. I’ve called twenty-four catering switchboards. I’ve impersonated an LAPD Burglary detective. I’ve stressed “Eleanora,” “Rick Dawes,” Beverly Hills 459’s and cater waiter suspect pools. I’ve stated that I have no physical descriptions to work from. I’ve gotten “Huh?” “No,” and “Beats me,” twenty-three times. One major-domo type leveled with me.
He said, “Look, cater waiters and waitresses in L.A. are all so-called actors and actresses, and they use stage names, pseudonyms, and aliases routinely. In other words, they’re invariably hustlers, prosties, call girls and boys, pill pushers, pot peddlers, and opportunists hustling the L.A. film folk for all they can get. Burglary or fingering burglary is in no way beneath the moral range of these kids.”
I yawned and scratched my ears. The Lawford pad broadcast skreek and dead air. I was up late last night. I wrote Jimmy Hoffa a summary report. I ran my projector and screened Lois in Alcoa Presents. I thought about Lois to quash thoughts of Pat. I thought about Pat to quash thoughts of Lois. I reskimmed The Sexual Criminal. Paul de River crawled up my ass. Hey, Marilyn—why are you so hipped on this guy?
Fetish murder. Demonic delusion. Blank-eyed psychopaths. De River’s got a monkey on his back.
I yawned and walked out to the beach deck. Hi-fi reverb twanged the boards and made my shoes vibrate. I looked in at the Bikini Twist Party. The “Percolator Twist” assailed me. Twist girls shimmied. Their bikini bottoms wriggled hairpie low.
The bar and tables were SRO packed. Summer twist shows drew pierside gawkers and a big lecher crowd. I orbed a front table. Four coeds in Pali High sweaters peeled shrimp and dunked clams. The man with them stood out.
I made him. I’d met him on the PD. Sid Leffler. A West L.A. squadroom dick. Curly-haired, glasses, a nebbish type. Mid-fifties. A going-nowhere guy working divisional detectives. His part-time PD gig was “Officer Sid.” He toured westside high schools and inveighed against Commies and dope. Sid, the shtickmeister. Some kind of film-biz pedigree. Fuck him. He’s feeding underaged girls zonk-your-ass mai tais.
I walked back to the post and locked myself in. It squelched the music and muted the roar in my head. The amber console light blinked, on-off.
Outgoing call/Peter Lawford’s extension. I pulled on my headset. I caught Lawford mid-spiel.
“…and, Diana, the man loved you. I mean, he called me from the oval office to say, ‘Peter, I’m no fan of oaters, but something told me to tune in Bonanza, so you tell Miss Van der Vlis the next time I’m in town I’d enjoy—’ ”
Line warp cut him off. Bum wire mounts induce line warp. The line stuttered and spit background noise. Lawford said something, the actress said something, an off-line voice cut in.
Quit pimping for my brother, you fucking—
The actress screeched and hung up. The broadcast cleared exponential. Lawford said, “You fucking bitch.” Pat said, “You goddamned—”
Then crash sounds. Then hurled-object sounds. Then “Get your hands off me or I’ll—”
Then shattered-glass sounds, line blur, and blank air—
Line blur. Blank air. Pat on a stutter tape inside my head.
Get-your-goddamn-hands/Get-your-goddamn-hands/Get-your-goddamn-hands—
I bolted the Sip ’n’ Surf and hauled to the bluffside post. I got dead air off the console. I zoom-lensed the house. I saw no window movement and no shadows and no movement on the grounds. Both garage doors stood open. Lawford’s Rolls and Pat’s Bonneville were tucked in. I gobbled dexies and guzzled Old Crow and worked my pulse up and down.
I eyeballed the house. I ran zoom-lens circuits. The calm status quo held. I called Nat and Phil and issued directives.
Grab your walkie-talkies. Drive to the 76 station on PCH and perch. Marital tiff. Red Alert. I know this shit. They’ll pull a two-car driveaway. Nat, you tail Pat. Phil, you tail dipshit. I’ve got my handset here. Call in at one-hour intervals. Track your mileage away from the site.
I waited. I watched the house. Spots popped in front of my eyes. My arteries pinged. My feet went numb. I lost weight as I tried to sit still. My watch dangled slack on my wrist. I saw things that weren’t there. I saw the Taft Building on August 15, 1945. Pat and I stood naked, in our room across the street. We watched the Miller High-Life sign blink.
5:19 p.m. Pat enters the garage. Three kids trail her. She dumps two suitcases in her Bonneville. She backs out and peels northbound on PCH. There’s Nat’s Ford wagon. He peels out of the gas station lot and bird-dogs her.
5:53 p.m. Lawford enters the garage. He hops in his Rolls and peels southbound on PCH. There’s Phil’s Valiant coupe. He peels out of the gas station lot and bird-dogs him.
I shut my eyes. I ran Man Camera clips. I replayed Freddy and Pat, start to finish. I recalled our opening dialogue, near verbatim. My handset squawked at 6:22 p.m.
Nat reported in. Pat’s still heading northbound on PCH. She just passed Oxnard. Nat thinks she’s headed to Santa Barbara.
My nerves decohered. I popped two yellow jackets to tamp them down and quash this schizzy limbo. My handset squawked at 6:56 p.m.
Phil reported in. Lawford was holed up on Ewing Street in Silver Lake. The place reeked of love crib. He checked his reverse directory. The crib was owned by one Lorelei Gudis. Phil ran her through Sheriff’s R&I. She had twelve pandering priors. They went back to ’55.
I crossed myself. I grabbed my tool belt, a ski mask, my beavertail sap.
I could do it. I knew that. I knew I had options. I could take it just so far and stop there. I could take it all the way and frost a homicide beef. I thought, Restraint. I thought, Don’t blow the gig. If you do it, you’ll burn the gig and burn Jimmy Hoffa. He’ll kill you, no questions asked.
My head hurt. I saw spots. My numb feet put me up on my heels. I splintered a window ledge and vaulted my way in. It was sloppy work. It decreed a mock-459 ruse. I went straight to the kitchen. I filled two paper bags with sterling silver flatware and placed them by the front door. I left my pill stash back at the post. I verged on an overjolt and knew it.
The Lawfords stocked their liquor cabinet with the most and the best. I siphoned high-test juice from six bottles. My headache abated. The spots vanished. My tremors subsided. I troubleshot the six phone extensions and the downstairs bug mounts.
I replaced the handset wiring and the listen/speak microphones. I bunched the defective wires and mikes up in a tool belt pouch. The new wires and mike flanges were silicone-coated. They would not fray.
The booze jolt diminished. I prayed off an urge to fall out on Pat’s bed. I restrung the downstairs bug mounts and spackled the mount holes.
I spray-painted the dried Spackle the perfect wall-color shade. Spackle dust billowed. I vacuumed it up and hand-plucked every stray fleck of grit. I squinted my way along baseboards and started seeing double and triple. I hand-plucked every stray fleck of grit. I’m sure I did. I quadruple-checked my work. They’d detect the burglary. They’d note the missing silver. They’d never detect the surveillance gear. That meant Pat would never know.
Dipshit was shacked in Silver Lake. Phil sat on the house. I fine-tuned my hearing and willed the key in the door lock. That meant you do it. Pat took luggage. She’d be gone several days. Lawford would odds-on roll home at noon. Phil would cue me. Two short phone bursts. He’s on his way.
I passed out standing up. I woke up prone on the living room floor. I collapsed in a wingback chair and woke up in a kitchen chair. DT blobs grew faces and went for my eyes. I screamed and covered them. They ate their way through my hands and bored into my face. I muffled screams with a kitchen towel. I heard a key-in-lock sound or willed a key-in-lock sound so I’d do it. It sounded real. Peter Lawford coughed and made it real, for sure.
I slipped on my ski mask and pulled my sap and ran toward the sound. I slammed Lawford low and jammed a wad of acoustical baffling in his mouth. He thrashed and pissed his pants. He bleated. I sapped his legs, his feet, his back. I drop-kicked him in the balls. I pulled his gag so he wouldn’t gorge on puke and suffocate. He twitched and made funny noises. I sapped him in the ribs and heard bones shear. I picked up the bags of silverware and ran.