Destination

by James Ellroy

  Stress stressed-out Rhino Rick Jenson. He’s on a right-wing rampage. He’s a zorched-out Zionist xenophobe hopped up on home security. He sheared shots at two innocent Arabs. It’s his Palestine pogrom. He went to work stagger-stoned. He said Muslim motherfuckers Mickey Finned him. Nobody bought it. The shooting board shot him a reprimand. He got relieved of duty.

  My headset itched. Wire warp whipped down my ears and wiggled loose wax. Static stammered, crystals cricked, voices vizzed.

  Donna: “. . . and he’s been under a great deal of stress. The chief made him take a month off.”

  Jomo-Donny: “He’s the kind of fascist who gives fascists a bad name.”

  Donna: “He’s not a fascist.”

  Jomo-Donny: “Don’t be naïve. He’s the kind of fascist who hounded the SLA and Harvey Glatman to their graves.”

  Donna: “Who’s Harvey Glatman?”

  Jomo-Donny: “I call him the ‘Sex-Fiend Saint.’ He offed three chicks and presaged the ’60s. He was hip beyond hip.”

  Donna: “Let’s talk about the Sexton script.”

  Jomo-Donny: “At my loft, okay? I want to take some pictures of you. It’ll juice my creative process on the Sexton thing.”

  Donna: “What about this ‘erotic thriller’ you mentioned?”

  Jomo-Donny: “It ties in. You’ll dig it. It’s a real sainthood scene.”

  Static stung me. Crystal cricks went crrrrrrrrr. I hooked off my headset. Tim and Dave did the same. Crrrrricks headset-hopped and caromed the car.

  We waited ten seconds. We hooked on our headsets. Fuck—no voices, no crystal crack, no static sticks. Just dead decibel air.

  I looked at Dave. Dave looked at Tim. Tim looked at me. Telepathy tapped three ways. We dumped our headsets and hauled.

  We ran into the restaurant. We whipped past waiters. Diverted diners looked up—say what? We barged to Donna’s booth. We saw half-chomped appetizers—cold crab and calamari.

  There’s the wire. There’s the body mike. They’re flat on the floor. The casing’s cracked and smashed to smithereens. There’s the back door.

  We ran outside. We dipped past Dumpsters and winged past winos on gourmet garbage hunts. We hit 6th Street. There’s the curb. Donna’s Daimler-Benz—gone.

  We reconnoitered. We reconsidered. We reconstructed the scene. Jomo-Donny wised up to the wire. He won’t lead us to the loft. He laid out loft talk. He knows we heard it. He won’t whip Donna there.

  He’s malevolent. He’s mobile. He’s got Donna roped or restrained, Mickey Finned and made meek, sedated, or subdued.

  Tim said, “She’ll fight. He’s got no idea how resourceful she is.”

  I said, “Where the fuck will he take her?”

  Dave said, “He’ll pull a Glatman. I know it. Glatman failed with his last victim. He drove her through Orange County. She got the drop on him there. He’ll try to duplicate it and succeed.”

  I saw Donna devastated. I saw Donna dehumanized. I saw Donna decimated and dead.

  It made me maaaaaaaad . . .

  THE COAL CHUTE— code 3. Dave drives. I panic-pulse. Tim cell-phone sizzles.

  He calls SIS. He issues interdictment orders. Stake out that loony loft. Make Malibu and catch Casa de Suenos. Don’t be timid. Don’t time it too tough. We’re talking TERRORIST. Try not to trip up. We don’t want to waste him. He knows the TARGET. He’s got Rhino’s dear Donna D.

  We sailed southbound. Tim called Communications and came on curt. He described Donna’s Daimler-Benz. He ran through the route most likely: the 405 Freeway down to desert cutoffs east. Alert all agencies, all units. Approach. Don’t apprehend. We’re talking TERRORIST. He knows the TARGET. Don’t dive in except to save Dear Donna D.

  We soared southbound. The Coal Chute coonected with the 405. I dipped into Donna delirium. I delved decades back. It’s ’83 again. There’s the Donna dead. There’s the Hollywood Fuck Pad. There’s the late great Russ Kuster.

  It’s ’04 again. Hail the Hot-Prowl Rape-O. There’s Rick and Donna deep in love. There’s homicidal hound Reggie. Fangs for the memories—he’s ripping rapist genitalia.

  Southbound: Surf City exits, the lights of Long Beach, that muggy mock-Vietnam, Westminster. I eyeball-scanned. Tim eyeball-scanned. We caught cars winging every which way. Westminster whips into Huntington Beach. Huntington Beach becomes Fountain Valley.

  Cars—one mad maze. Headlights hit. Rays reflect. Tailpipes cough carcinogenic. Old fogeys in Fords. Choice cholos in Chevys. A pint-sized Pearl Harbor of Jap makes and models—one big banzai.

  Headlights hit. Rays reflect. License plates light. Big Beemers, mauve Miatas—whoa now, what’s—

  THIS:

  Donna’s Daimler. Backlit bold. I see it. Tim sees it. Dave sees it. We’re almost bumper-to-bumper. The Benz is backlit biiiiiiiiig.

  Jomo-Donny’s driving. Call Donna comatose. See the center console. Her head’s lolling on the leather. She’s sprawled off her seat.

  We climbed close. Our lights lit the Benz biiiiiig. Donna didn’t move. Don’t let her be dead—please, God, please.

  We climbed closer. We clung. We tailgated tough. Jomo-Donny reacted and reached for his rearview mirror. Donna’s head slid slightly. Donna came off the console and caught him up.

  She pulled his hair. She raked his eyes. She bit bold and latched long and leeched his left earlobe off. She maimed the malignant mama’s boy Mike Tyson-like. His hands fanned faggottish. Donna ripped the rearview mirror off its mounting. Donna hit his head with it. Donna chopped his face. Donna chewed his cheeks up.

  The Benz buckled and bent right. A Jap jalopy braked brisk and dipped damage-free. A Chevy chugged off and out of the way. Donna yanked the wheel hard right.

  The car lurched and leaped lanes. The car gored a guard rail. The car hurtled and hit a huge inflated safety bag.

  HOMELAND SECURITY.

  It justified jerry-rigged justice. It mandated mucho mayhem. It took us to torture techniques.

  We deflated the bag. We dug Donna’s Benz out. We cuffed the Donna-decimated Dipshit DeFreeze and dumped him in Dave’s Dodge Dart. Donna said her wire worked loose at the restaurant. Jomo-Donny jumped her and juked her with a sedative shot.

  Traffic tripped around us. We caravanned off the freeway, huddled and hubbubbed. We wrapped ourselves in a rationale of rogue justice. Let’s fuck the Feds and move past mainstream LAPD. Let’s make like the Mossad and get down like the Gestapo. Let’s jingoize joyfully.

  I called Phone Book Tom Ludlow. I briefed him. Tom tore in torrid. His tour in Nam napalm-nudged him nostalgic. The My Lai massacre made him misty. He said he took torture toys home with him. Yeah, Rhino—I’ll roll. We’ll rendezvous. We’ll run a confession session. We’ll jack this Jomo up with some jolts.

  We rolled to the Wrangler’s Ranch Motel. We rented a room. We racked Jomo-Donny to a radiator pipe. His face bloomed blood. He sputtered, he spit, he spun in his chair. He launched leftist lunacy. He popped PC pap.

  He called us Fatuous Fascists, Cruel Crypto-Nazis, Insects for Israel. We were Prick Pro-Lifers. We were Horrid Homophobes. We were Hideous Hillary Haters, Consorts of Condoleezza Rice, and Bullies for Bush.

  We laffed. He lunged in his chair. He rolled his wrists. His cuffs cut and bore down to the bone.

  Knock, knock—there’s Phone Book Tom.

  Dave got the door. Tom wore too-tight field fatigues. He was gussied up gorgeous. His costume called out Khe Sahn, ’68. He carried a cord-covered box. Wires wiggled off of it. Dig those tight testicle clamps.

  I said, “Hi, Tom.”

  Donna said, “I like the outfit. It reminds me of a Vietnam flick I did.”

  Dave said, “Hook the cocksucker up.”

  Tim said, “We need results. Remember, this is Homeland Security.”

  Jomo-Donny sputtered and spit. Jomo-Donny kvelled and kvetched.

  “Dittoheads for Dick Cheney!”

  “Rush Limbaugh Rustics!”

  “Impede the Imperialists!
”

  It tickled Tom. He giggled. He guffawed. He uncoiled cords and plugged his box in.

  “You’re starting to look like Victor Charles. You comprende, muchacho? That means the fucking VC.”

  Sparks spun off the clamps. Current coursed kerrrrack. I said, “Give up the target.” Jomo-Donny said, “Viva PLF! Viva gay marriage! Viva Robert Mapplethorpe and freedom of expression! Viva National Public TV!”

  I nodded. Tom nudged Jomo’s knees. Tim claimed the clamps and crotch-crimped him crisp.

  Voltage voomed. Jomo jumped behind a jillion jolts. Jomo jittered and hopped in his hot seat.

  Dave de-clamped him. Donna said, “That’s for Lorna Lowenstein, shitbird.”

  Jomo jittered. Jomo jiggled. Jomo jolt-jumped. The volts voodooized him. He pissed his pants. His hair hiked à la Don King.

  I said, “Give on the target. The place, the details, the date.”

  Jomo jiggled. Jomo jerked. His pissed pants roiled with residual voltage and stormed up some steam.

  “Viva Yassir Arafat! Viva Harvey Glatman! Viva misunderstood serial killers worldwide!”

  Tim claimed the clamps. Tim crotch-crimped him. Jomo juice-jumped and screamed.

  I said, “Give on the target.”

  Donna said, “That’s for stringing me out on my Sexton play, you shit.”

  Dave popped a Pepsi Lite. The can coughed up carbonation. Dave shook it and spritzed Jomo’s balls. The Commie cord-conduit screeeeamed.

  Tom tittered. Jomo jiggled. He did the Wired-Up Watusi, the Castrato Cakewalk, the Twittering Twist.

  I said, “The target. Give it up, quick.”

  Jomo jolt-jumped. Jomo japped Donna with evil eyes. Jomo made misogynistic.

  “Osama Bin Laden’s got a thing for you, baby. That’s right, the big guy himself. He’s holed up in Afghanistan watching Hospital Hearts reruns. He paid me two hundred K to make a snuff film with you.”

  Donna flared florid. Donna popped pale and grew green at the gills. She pawed the Pepsi can. She claimed the clamps. She spritzed and crimped. She made a mini-mushroom cloud climb off the clown’s clawed balls.

  He screams. His hands hike. He pounces on his pockets. He pulls a pill. His hands hitch. He pops the pill in his mouth.

  Cyanide or strychnine/a diagnosed death dose/the fanatic’s fall-back, oh fuck—

  Jomo jumped. Jomo ratched the radiator loose. Jomo coursed with current, palsied with poison, coonvulsed and kicked off.

  I looked at Dave.

  Dave looked at Donna.

  I looked at Tom.

  Tom looked at Donna.

  I looked at Tim.

  Tim looked at Donna.

  Telepathic telegrams Teletyped and fanned out five ways. Donna said it first.

  “The target. It has to be the Academy Awards.”

  7.

  Yeah, the fucking Oscars. It had to be JEW.

  The Oscars. Hollyweird’s nite of nites. Major media meshugas. The Sheeny Shangri-la, the Mockie Matterhorn, the Kike Kilimanjaro. More Jews than the Old Testament.

  We phoned the Feds. We shared out shit. We refused to reveal our source. The Feds fielded full-on security. They cordoned off the Kodak Theater. They bombarded it with bomb dogs. They perused for purloined passes. They freely frisked celebs running up the red carpet. They moved in metal detectors. They marched among movieland machers. They bopped around backstage. Choppers churned above the building. Their belly lights burned down. Glare blazed Hollywood Boulevard.

  I went as Donna’s date. LAPD laid out loads of cops inside. We wore moth-munched, fucked-fitting tuxedos. Walkie-talkies went at our waists. We settled in for the sicko ceremony.

  I yawned. We’d bombed through big busy days. We faked a fag snuff on Deadly Donny. We dumped him in a dive motel room by the Boys’ Town Strip. We created a cruel crime scene. It consisted of coarse queer regalia. We laid in loads of Judy Garland LPs. We came up with cocaine and K-Y jelly. We trashed the room. It reeked of rump-ranger rampage. We pulled this shit in Sheriff’s jurisdiction. We figured they’d snag the snuff as fruitus interruptus and short-shrift the case.

  We liaisoned—LAPD to the Feds. We cooncocted coon tingency plans to detain dissident A-rabs. The Feds coonducted massive coontainment sweeps. The sweeps swept L.A. A-rab civil-rights groups bombed out big boo-hoo. They coonsidered the sweeps racist and reactionary. The average Angeleno reacted with coontempt. They loved the law-and-order lashing of loose liberties.

  We settled in our seats. My tux pants bound my balls too tight. My cummerbund cut me. Donna wore daffodils on her delphine-blue gown. We held hands. My eyes clung to her cleavage. She promised me primo love later. My trouser trout trilled over it.

  The show started. It smacked me smarmy and smug. It snared me up snoresville. It pulverized me into pulp. It was humanistic hoo-haw served up coongratulatory.

  Best DocuDrama—a draw—the Holocaust ties with AIDS. Natterings of “Never Again!” and hosannahs for homo marriage. It gored my goat and pricked my Protestant pride. If God wanted men to mate with men, he’d have created Adam and Steve.

  Donna delivered the Best Sound Award. Two tall techies swooned swishy and sailed sound bytes to their “partners.” Donna decked me, devastating. Her slit-leg gown sliced my soul. Stage lights stung her hazel eyes and hurled heat at my heart.

  The show shoved on. Donna dipped back to her seat. I laid low and leered at her legs. Awards, applause, speeches—specious and sparkless—sententious sentiment that sent me away. It withered me and whipped me and went on and on. Limo liberals mocked my man George W. Bush. Antigun gonifs chewed that champ Charlton Heston. I started to righteously root for a terrorist attack. Dig—Donna and I die and hit heaven on high. We clamor to our cloud. We evict evil A-rabs who flew heavenward on a fluke. We make love and romp with Reggie Ridgebacks 1, 2, and 3. We lunch at Lou’s Cloud Room with Stephanie Gorman. We stone Stephanie’s killer down deep in hell.

  The show shoved on. Losers lurked and simmered insincere, noxious with noblesse oblige. Winners winged wondrous words of thanks, hot-aired and wholesale. Best Song nominees soared soporific. It was one long course of canned corn.

  It went on forever. It twirled past the twelfth of never. It was faigelah fanfare and hard hucksterism supreme.

  Then it stopped. Donna woke me up. I was listing into her lap. I was dreambound and slapped with sleep. We were high up in heaven. We held Oscars for Best Killer-Lovers. Reggie Ridgeback writhed at our feet.

  SECURITY DE - SECURED. The cop contingent called off code 3. The Fed force disarmed and dispersed. The choppers churned away. The bomb dogs got carted back to their kennels.

  Limousines looped the Kodak. Losers and winners and proud presenters preened and prepared for parties. Donna loaded us into a limo. We spun out for Spago. She wanted one hour there. Some laughs, some lox pizza, lots of love later—okay?

  The restaurant rocked. A sound system socked songs—nudnik nominee encores. Movie machers moved and made mockie-evellian. It was Dealmakers’ Dystopia. It was stark star-fucking. The Jewnited Nations coonvenes.

  Table talk tattled all around me. Terrorism titters. Tough tales of studly studio heads. Loose-lipped liberal libels. The latest line on losers nominated and nudged out.

  I watched Donna work the room. She shot table to table. She trudged trouper-like. Tonight’s talk was tomorrow’s paycheck. She pranced and preened like a pro.

  Waiters whizzed by. I glutton-glommed glorious grub off their trays. Piquant pizza bites, gourmet goat-cheese puffs, cholesterol-clumped strands of steak. Conversations came and went. Words wafted. Percentage points, back-end bids, two busboys who never showed up.

  I yawned. This last wild week whipped my ass and drugged me out to dry. Shiite shootouts, torture tiffs, Donna jihad-jeopardized. Hajjite hegemony, dune-coon demimondes, my L.A. lap-dance loop. I was hungover on homicidal heroics. I wanted to dun Donna for long-term love and salve my soul in the sack.

  The restaurant rocked. I felt stuck and s
tifled. The concept of cool air called to me. I walked out to Canon Drive and dropped around to the alley.

  A breeze bristled. It felt gossamer good. I stood between Dempsey Dumpsters and deep-breathed. Aaaaaaah, life! Movie madness and Muslim mayhem! Ooooooooonly in America, laaaarge in L.A.!

  I stood there. Cool air cocooned me. My starched shirt wilted in the wind.

  I smeeeeellleddd something. It noodled my nostrils. Some scent sent sanguinary . . .

  I pivoted left. I peered in the Dumpster. I saw two wire-worn wetbacks. They’re dead. They’re garroted garish. Piano cord cut them—wire whips windpipe-deep.

  White coats. Flecked food flaring. Neat nametags. St. Peter, meet Juan and Jose.

  Muchachos muertos. Missing busboys. Oscar-nite obfuscation. Our movie macher mini-target right here.

  I ran into the restaurant. Table talk tattled. The joint jumped like Jerusalem and tittered like Tel Aviv. I eyeball-orbed. I surfed celebrities. I took in tuxedos and scanned skin. I saw Donna dunned for autographs back by the kitchen. Two Bedouinesque busboys besieged her. They’re wearing white coats. They’ve got neat nametags. They’re the camel cads from the Identikits.

  I ran over. I tipped tables and tore through tuxedos. I saw big bulges on the busboys. Their posteriors popped out. Call them body bombs on Suicide Sids.

  I ran. I knocked over nudged-out nominees and homo hunks holding Oscars. Donna saw me. The bomb boys saw me. Telepathy tapped out four ways.

  The Shiites pulled shivs. Donna pored through her purse and pulled her Python. The shivs shot out. Donna pirouetted and popped the punks point-blank.

  Magnum loads mangled their faces. Hollow-points hacked up their heads. Big bullets bid the Bedouin beasts back to hell.

  The restaurant reverberated. Table talk scrolled into screams. I looked at Donna. Donna looked at me. The dune devils deaththroed and toppled a table. Their body bombs tick-tick-ticked.

  I jumped. Donna jumped. We whipped off their white coats and wigged wires loose. The bombs did not detonate. The bombs tick-tick-ticked and sent seconds sounding off a built-in clock.

  The red line rested at midnight. My Timex tallied 11:59. Telepathy tapped us. We ignored ignominious screeches and screams.