Whitehead dozed in a grubby blue armchair, shoeless, mouth agape, a disc of chewed gum wadded on the wall behind his head. Cash sat on a plastic-topped end table, next to a lamp, its shade half shredded, its base a headless golden female torso, extravagantly bosomed and freckled with white where the paint had chipped off the plaster. He smoked a cigarette down to the butt and added it to the pile in the gold scallop ashtray.
Milo hunched on the edge of the bed, at the foot end, drinking a Diet Coke and reading his notes. I sat cross-legged at the head, my back to the gold-flocked wall, trying, without much success, to get into the latest issue of Consulting and Clinical Psych.
At first glance the bed seemed the natural place to settle: a California king-sized water mattress covered with a luridly turquoise velveteen spread, so expansive that it virtually filled the room But the other detectives had taken care to keep their distance throughout the hours of waiting
The video equipment was set up on a sticky wood-grain vanity table. Before it sat a technical sergeant named Ginzburg, bald, moustached, with a bull neck and shoulders to match. Having checked and double-checked every switch and knob, he contented himself with cold coffee and a book of mathematical puzzles. The trash can overflowed with empty styrofoam cups, taco sauce containers, crumpled napkins, and wax paper greased to translucence. A half-eaten burrito stiffened next to the video monitor.
Displayed on the screen was the room next door: the Scheherezade Suite of the Studio Love Palace. The suite was no more than a room, set up identically to the one we were in, with the exception that the bed was covered in scarlet satin - upon which lay a grey man. But that kind of hyperbole seemed appropriate in a palace that was no more than a peeling motor court, a sordid little retreat just off Ventura, in the east end of Studio City, a forgotten finger of the Valley that reaches into the cookie jar called Hollywood. The sign on the roof advertised ADULT MOVIES and EROTIC MASSAGE, the former exemplified by a peep-show channel on the TV, the latter by a vibrator gizmo attached to the bed. Both were coin-operated; both had been tried by Cash and found lacking ('Call this a massage? 'Bout as energetic as a hand job from a corpse' and; 'Look at that, Cal. The guy's a stone junkie, and she's got scars and a twat you could drive a truck through. Couldn't pay me to fuck her by proxy').
There was sudden movement on the monitor: Mainwaring getting up from the bed, walking back and forth, and approaching the wall that separated the rooms. He licked his lips and stared up at the hanging plant that housed the hidden lens.
'Goddammit,' said Ginzburg. 'There he goes again. I told him not to say that.'
Cash stretched and yawned.
'Maybe I should go in there and remind him.'
Milo looked at his watch. 'No,' he said. 'Too close for comfort.'
Cash consulted a wafer-thin gold watch.
'What, eight-thirty? Thing's supposed to go down at nine-four-five.'
'Let's play it safe. Just in case.'
Cash looked at Ginzburg, who'd returned to his puzzles, then back at Milo.
'Whatever. But if he keeps doing it, I'm gonna go in there and kiss his ass.' As if on cue, Mainwaring went back to the bed and lay down with one arm over his eyes. One of his feet wagged like a puppy's tail. Cash watched him for a while, then said: 'How long have we been here, five hours?'
'About eighteen minutes,' said Ginzburg.
Cash looked at Mainwaring again, then asked Milo: 'What do you figure the chances are of this panning out?'
'Who the hell knows?'
'Got to learn to live with ambiguity,' said Ginzburg.
'Yeah, right.' The Beverly Hills detective lit another cigarette.
'Could you cool it with the smoke?' said Ginzburg. 'Place smells like cancer.'
'Fuck,' said Cash, going into the bathroom and closing the door.
Milo chuckled.
'Nothing like forced intimacy, huh, Lenny?'
Ginzburg nodded, picked up the burrito, looked at it, and threw it into the trash. It landed with a thud that opened Whitehead's eyes.
'Where's Dick?' he asked drowsily.
'In the John,' said Ginzburg. 'Beating off/
Whitehead's forehead creased. He got up, put two sticks of gum in his mouth, began chewing, and walked to the TV. Fumbling in his pockets, he came up with a palmful of change.
'Shit, all nickels. Anybody got quarters?'
Ginzburg ignored him. Milo produced three coins.
'Keep the volume down,' he said, handing them over.
"S it time?' asked Whitehead.
'Not yet. But let's play it safe.'
Whitehead looked at his watch, mumbled, 'Eight thirty-four,' and dropped the quarters into the slot atop the TV. Seconds later a loop called Jungle Love came on: a jerky, hand-held pan of a plywood-paneled room, followed by a long shot of a naked black couple squirming on a daybed in time to a rhythm-and-funk beat. The camera zoomed in drunkenly on contorted faces, fingers kneading nipples, then a series of gynecologic close-ups that revealed the man to be exceptionally well endowed.
'Figures,' said Whitehead disgustedly, but he kept his eyes glued to the screen.
The door to the bathroom opened, and Cash came out, zipping up his fly.
'Good morning,' he said to Whitehead, who nodded absently. Then Cash saw the movie and settled back down on the end table to watch.
At nine-ten the phone rang. Ginzburg picked it up, said 'Yeah,' several times, and hung up.
'That was Owens in front of the 7-Eleven on Lankershim. Might not mean anything but two sleazes on a Harley Hog just turned east on Ventura. One was a porker.'
'All right,' said Milo. He checked the blackout drapes to make sure no light was escaping. Cash went over to the TV and turned off the sound, extinguishing, mid-note, the sounds of heavy breathing and the sympathetic rasp of an asthmatic saxophone. He watched for a few seconds, proclaimed the woman on screen a pig, and drew away. Whitehead continued to stare at the silent images, jaws working, then realized he was the sole voyeur and reluctantly switched off the set. He pulled out his .38 and inspected the barrel.
Ginzburg sat up straight and fiddled with his machines.
Cash walked over and eyed Mainwaring.
'Cool fucker,' he said, 'lying there like that.'
'Don't bet on it,' said Ginzburg. 'Look at that foot.'
Twenty-five minutes passed uneventually. The momentum that had begun with the phone call from Owens began to dissipate. After threequarters of an hour it
was gone, and a numbing cloud of torpor descended on the room. I found the shifting levels of arousal draining, but Milo had warned me about that. ('Trapp's impressed with your good citizenship - quote: "First shrink I ever heard of who wasn't a crybaby pinko" unquote - so I can probably arrange it. But it's boring, Alex. We're talking brain death.')
Nine forty-five came and went noiselessly.
'Think they'll show?' asked Cash. 'Think it's them?'
'What's the matter,' said Ginzburg, 'You got something to do?'
The Beverly Hills detective thumbed his chest and
answered in a jive whine.
'I always got me something going down, my man. Something sweet and fuzzy, you dig?'
'Yeah, right,' said Ginzburg sullenly.
'Hey! What's eating you?'
Ginzburg shook his head and picked up his puzzle book. He tapped the point of his pencil against his teeth and started scribbling.
Cash muttered something unintelligible and returned to his perch on the end table. After pulling out a cigarette, he lit up and blew the smoke toward the monitor. If Ginzburg noticed, he didn't let on.
'Hey, Dick,' said Whitehead, between chews, 'how's it going with the screenplay?'
'Real good. They're looking at it over at MGM. Seriously.'
'Oh, yeah? Anybody in mind to play you?'
'Maybe Pacino, maybe De Niro.'
'Right,' muttered Ginzburg, suppressing a snicker.
Cash flicked an ash toward the monitor. 'Whatsamatter, Le
nny, baby, you jealous - '
'Shut up!' whispered Milo, pointing toward the door. From the other side came noises: the trace of a shuffle; the hint of a scrape; the mouse squeak of a heel lowering softly. As brief as a heartbeat, but for vigilance, inaudible.
All eyes fixed on the monitor.
A knock sounded on the door of the Scheherezade Suite.
The speaker on the vanity table transformed it to a hollow bark. Mainwaring sat up, eyes nightmare-wide.
Another knock.
'C'mon, answer it, asshole,' whispered Cash.
The psychiatrist pulled himself to his feet and stared at the camera, as if awaiting rescue.
'Oh, no,' murmured Ginzburg. 'Wet pants time.'
'If he doesn't answer it,' whispered Milo, 'let's go out there and bust them.'
'For what?' asked Whitehead. 'Loitering? We need conversation.'
'Anything's better than letting them go.'
The sheriffs investigator grimaced and chewed faster.
'Snap out of it, goddammit,' urged Ginzburg. 'Do you believe this? The chickenshit's going into lens hypnosis.'
Mainwaring kept staring. A third knock got him moving. He went to the door, opened it, and was pushed backward, as if by a storm gust. Stumbling and tripping, he landed on the bed, winded and terrified.
The door closed. Two dark figures entered the room. Split-second blurs of hirsute face flashed across the screen then faded to black before they could be processed mentally; the bikers had turned their backs to the camera.
Ginzburg tinkered, distancing the lens and endowing the blackness with texture and contour: greasy leather, filthy denims. To the left, a bald head atop a bottom-heavy mound larded with excess flesh, the neck supporting it segmented like a rolled roast. Inches to the right, a rangy, lean physique topped by stringy dark hair under a Marlon Brando cap. Both bikers had their hands on their hips. Mainwaring's face was a pale wisp floating in the space between their elbows.
The camera picked up glints of metal: The skinny one held a buck knife parallel to his leg; the fat one made tiny circles with a chain.
'Uh-oh,' said Milo. 'Rough stuff right away. Let's position.' He bounded up, sprinted to the door, and pulled out his .38. Easing the door open, he stuck his head out, looked both ways, and closed it softly. 'Clear. The bike's at
the back of the court, near the alley. I'm gonna let the air out, then come back and stay outside their door.'
Cash went and stood next to Milo. Whitehead padded over to the connecting door and gave each leg a limbering shake. Both men drew their weapons.
'All right, fuckbrain,' Skinny was saying, inching forward menacingly. 'What's all this about having something to sell?'
'I've already discussed that with Heather Cadmus,' said Mainwaring.
Both the bikers laughed. The movement caused the fat one to shimmy gelatinously. Soft, Old Man Skaggs had said. Like a soft sack of shit.
'Same cue?' asked Cash.
Milo nodded.
'Let's still try for incriminating conversation followed by safe body language. We want their weapons down to avoid a hostage grab or a reflex slash. But if they even get close to cutting him, go for the diversion: Pound the walls and run out screaming. Cal and I will break down both doors simultaneously.' He craned to get a look at the screen. 'Where's the blade, Lenny?'
'Still down at his side,' said Ginzburg. 'I wish they'd turn so I could get a snap of their faces.'
'I'm gone,' said Milo, opening the door and slipping out silently. Cash shut it after him and took his place.
Mainwaring propped himself on his elbows. The fat biker took a waddling step and shoved him down.
'They just pushed him,' said Ginzburg evenly. Cash and Whitehead tensed. 'He looks all right. The one with the knife is running his fingernail over the edge of the blade, could be a precursor - no, he's keeping it down, looks like he's just playing with it. Fatso's still swinging the chain.'
'I asked you a question, fuckbrain,' said Skinny. The speaker on the video recorder had distorted his voice, but it sounded vaguely familiar. I longed for a look at his face. As he talked, his head bobbed, revealing an earlobe and the ends of a moustache behind the mop of hair. But that was all.
'C'mon, putz, turn around and say cheese,' urged Ginzburg, one index finger resting upon a circular red button.
'It will do you no good to harm me,' said Mainwaring with sudden forcefulness. 'My information is locked safely away and accompanied by instructions to deliver it to the police if I don't return home by a designated hour. Mrs. Cadmus knows that.'
'Har,' said Skinny. He looked at Fat, who giggled appreciatively. 'Mrs. Cadmus knows a lot of stuff.'
'Bingo,' said Cash. 'Keep talking, fucker.'
'Then I assume we can proceed with business,' said Mainwaring calmly, and he sat up.
'I take back everything,' whispered Ginzburg. 'Guy's got balls.'
' Then I assume we can proceed with business,' exclaimed Fat, mimicking Mainwaring's English accent in a high, shrill voice. He feinted toward the psychiatrist, as if to shove him down again, then retreated and giggled, turning in the process, and revealing his face. Ginzburg began pushing the red button rapidly, snapping still photos off the videotape and displaying them on a split screen. He depressed a lever and Fat's face loomed large: bullet head shaved naked; bushy black eyebrows; lumpy, swinish features under a massive black beard.
'I'm glad we have an understanding,' said Mainwaring.
Fat passed his chain from hand to pudgy hand and laughed again.
'D'you believe this shit?' he asked his partner. His voice was still high - incongruously so coming from that massive body - and I began to wonder if it was his natural way of talking.
Skinny bent his right arm.
'Whoa,' said Ginzburg, 'he's got the blade in his palm. Holding it out.'
'Palm is bullshit,' said Cash. 'Movie stuff. You want to cut someone you grab the hilt and chop down. I just got through telling them that at MGM.'
Whitehead looked at the connecting door, then at his right foot.
'Now what?' he asked.
'No change.'
'See this?' said Skinny. 'Its name is Pigsticker. Don't fuck with us. We'll turn you into fucking summer sausage."
'It's wintertime.' Fat laughed. 'How about hot pastrami?'
'Nah,' said his partner, 'fuckhead doesn't have enough fat on him. Cut him up find and nothin' but dry bones and shit.'
'Closer to the bone, sweeter the meat,' said Fat. 'Yum.'
'You got a point there.'
'Wonder how his toes slice. Like butter, you think?'
'Nah. Too scrawny. Maybe with wire cutters, though.'
'D'ja bring the cutters?' asked Fat excitedly.
'Nah. Just Ol' Pigsticker.'
Mainwaring sucked in his breath.
'Got something to say, fuckhead?' asked Skinny.
'Mrs. Cadmus- '
'Far as Mrs. Cadmus is concerned, you're dead meat. She gave us carto bianco to do with you whatever the fuck we feel like.'
'Yeah.' Fat smiled, stroking his beard. 'We could dice you, slice you, or cut you into julienne strips. Just like a Veg-o-matic'
'And forfeit my information?' asked Mainwaring, voice beginning to quaver.
Skinny moved around to the right side of the bed, inches from the psychiatrist, the knife still resting in his hand. It was then that I got a good look at him.
'That's Antrim,' I said. 'Souza's chauffeur.'
'You sure?' asked Cash.
'A hundred percent.'
'Quiet,' said Ginzburg. 'This may be it.'
Antrim had lowered the knife so that it was leveled at Mainwaring's groin.
'Get ready,' said Ginzburg.
'How 'bout,' said Antrim, 'you forfeit your nuts?'
Mainwaring looked at him blankly, then lashed out violently with a rabbit punch, connecting with Antrim's wrist. The knife went flying. Antrim howled with pain and threw himself on the psychiatrist. Fat let out a
high-pitched scream and dived into the melee.
What followed next was a cop show scripted by a speed freak.
'Now!' shouted Ginzburg, rising to his feet. With one hand he manipulated the camera controls; with the other he pounded the wall. His mouth was wide-open, and he was howling, 'Freeze! Police!' like a banshee.
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