The (Original) Adventures of Ford Fairlane

by Rex Weiner

  “One more thing,” she said. “They say that bad company is worse than no company at all.”

  When I checked the main room, the band was packing up the amps and rolling the drum cases down the stairs one step at a time. Strat was gone. Bad company?

  Hollywood twinkled in the dark like cheap jewelry on a fat dame’s arm. The address on North Cahuenga turned out to be the Double Zone, an after-hours juke joint popular with the purple-haired set. The door opened to the right faces, and for a few bucks you could dance, get drunk, fall on the floor, and waste your brain cells until dawn.

  When I walked in, the place was packed. The elite of LA’s club scene was there: Kickboy Face and the Slash crowd, some ex-Germs, a few Screamers, a couple of Weirdos, and some visiting denizens of Skinhead Manor. Belinda of The Go-Go’s, all dolled up in a pink party dress, sat at a corner table, touching up her lipstick. She caught my eye and waved me over.

  “Well, if it isn’t the detective from New York City,” she said, snapping her compact shut. Her friends, seated around the table, giggled. “Have you found Wanda yet?”

  I replied negative.

  “You won’t find her, you know.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re from New Yawk. You don’t understand Los Angeles,” she said. “This is our town.”

  “Maybe you’ve got the beat,” I said to the blonde lead singer, “but I’ve got a job to do.”

  The truth was that everything was coming up blanks. I drove around the city trying to figure it out. Who killed Mitch Mitchell? Who kidnapped Wanda? Who was trying to kill me? The letters on the Hollywood sign all turned into question marks. I decided to get some shut-eye. A phone call to Karl, the manager at the Magic Motel, confirmed my guess: the boys in blue were staking out the place. Karl was willing to sneak me in the back way and put me in a basement room, which is where I woke up twelve hours later with my nose being tickled by the business end of a machine gun.

  “Get up slowly,” said the owner of the weapon, “and put your hands behind your head.”

  “They made me do it, Ford!” Karl was trussed with rope on the floor.

  “Shut up!” said one of the others. There were four of them standing in the room. Two of them I recognized. They looked like the ones I’d seen exiting Mitch Mitchell’s office the day he was murdered. Like the ones who’d nearly filled my face with lead the other night on Sunset. Their heads were shaved close, like tennis balls. Their eyes were like cubes clicking at the dead end of a bar glass.

  “Shut up!” said Skinhead Number One. “Wasting you guys would be easier to me than falling off a cliff.”

  Chapter 5

  Mysteries of the Cuckoo’s Nest

  Over in the corner, trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey, Karl groaned. By the look on his face, I guessed they’d left this part out of his hotel management course.

  He wasn’t the only one sweating. These guys meant business. Behind their eyes was an ugly movement, like, as the late Jim Morrison said, their brains were squirming toads.

  “Okay,” I said, tossing all my marked cards on the table, “you can wipe me out as a witness. But it’s too late. The cops have your descriptions. They know I saw you coming out of Mitchell’s office that day. They’ve got the place surrounded right now. I tipped them.”

  The skinheads stared. Would they swallow the bluff?

  “What the Sam Hill is he talking about?” asked one.

  “Got no idea,” said the other.

  “We don’t know no Mitchell,” said Skinhead Number Two. “We’re just after your pal Strat Kaster. He owes us plenty dough for a batch of ’ludes we sold him.”

  “We tried to blast him last night on Sunset, but you got in the way,” laughed Skinhead Number Three. That put Wanda’s boyfriend in a whole new light.

  “I’ll tell you where Strat is,” I said, “but I’m telling you the cops are looking for two skinheads I saw leaving Mitch Mitchell’s office three days ago.”

  “What’d they look like?”

  I was going to tell them when the door suddenly began bouncing around on its hinges. “Police!” yelled a voice from the other side.

  “If you guys want to get out of here, untie me, now!” said Karl. The skinheads loosened the ropes. Karl hauled out a giant ring of keys, selected one, and pulled back the throw rug. In the floor was a trapdoor. He unlocked it and we descended into a black hole.

  “This tunnel was used by Janis Joplin to escape fans when she used to live in the hotel next door,” said Karl. That must be why, I thought to myself, this was called the Magic Motel.

  We emerged in the basement of the hotel next door. In a minute, we were tearing down La Brea in the skinheads’ Dodge Charger. I had to talk fast now. I described the guys I’d seen coming out of Mitchell’s office, every detail from the crew cuts to the chains on their construction boots.

  “Which boot?” said Skinhead Number One.

  “Which boot what?”

  “The chain. Which boot was it on?”

  “The left,” I said.

  Skinhead Number One cracked up. “This guy’s a detective and he don’t even know the difference between an LA skinhead and a South Bay punk!”

  “See?” said the skinhead sitting next to me. He was pointing to his right boot. A thick steel chain snaked around the heel and ankle. “We wear ’em on the right. South Bay punks wear chains on the left.”

  “We hang out at the Starwood,” said Skinhead Number Three. “Those guys hang out at the Cuckoo’s Nest in Costa Mesa.’

  “That’s exactly where the guy you’re looking for is going to be tonight,” I lied.

  “Let’s go,” said the skinhead at the wheel, gunning the accelerator as he wheeled onto the Harbor Freeway on-ramp. They might not find Strat Kaster, but I’d get a chance to nail Mitchell’s killers.

  The cassette player was wound all the way up. Germs, Bags, Circle Jerks, Dead Kennedys, Urinals, poured out like molten steel. The skinheads passed around a paper bag full of Testor’s and huffed themselves into toluene heaven. Near Torrance, we paused at Off-Ramp Liquors for a couple of six-packs.

  Now we were really rolling down the big-wide 405. Once past the high-ticket hump of Palos Verdes, the wasteland began, a hellish strip of raped coastland carrying a rash of refineries, tract houses, used-car lots, trailer parks, and aerospace boondoggles on its sucked-out belly. It looked like the sort of place where you had a choice of lying back and dying a mellow death or getting up on your hind legs and screaming. Skinheads were in the last category, and it was getting dark.

  We jumped off the freeway and headed toward the ocean. After Huntington Beach, the surfside shacks got funkier. The Pacific Coast Highway slid underneath the headlight beams. Finally, we turned left on Placentia and raced up to Seventeenth. A ribs and brew joint called Zubies, popular with hippie surfers, stood on the corner. Next door, set way back in a crowded parking lot, was a barn-like building swarming with kids…the Cuckoo’s Nest.

  A watery-eyed wimp name Marty worked the door. When asked for five bucks apiece, my companions just pushed him aside and we went in. The place was jammed. They were waiting for the band to come onstage, equipment all set up and everything.

  “Who’s playing?” I asked a kid.

  “The Stinking Scumbunnies,” said he. “They’re the headliners. The band coming up now is Freda and the Frantics.”

  Suddenly, the crowd roared. The band walked onstage and grabbed their stuff. I recognized the bass player and the lead guitarist right away by their skinned heads and the chains on their left boots: the two guys who’d exited Mitchell’s office. Then the lead singer came out and took the mike, a slim, blonde, spikey-haired girl I knew only too well. Freda and the Frantics was actually Wanda and the Murderers.

  Their first song opened up like a sonic boom. No more rockabilly now, Wanda was taking Lyd
ia Lunch out to dinner. Her voice rasped and wailed and drove the room into a frenzy. A guy over to my left began moving his arms like a propeller—a dance they call the slam. He slammed into somebody. Somebody else slammed back. In seconds, the floor was a battleground of brawling, bruising slammers slamming happily to the music.

  But Marty the doorkeeper was pissed and chose that moment to bring in two long-haired bouncers who tried to put the arm on us for not paying. It was a mistake. Skinhead Number One pulled the machine gun out of his pants leg and loosed a few rounds into the ceiling. The lights flickered out. Punches flew. Next minute, the whole house was a bloody riot. Beach punks versus longhairs, who had rushed over from Zubies.

  The band flew backstage. I followed. Wanda cowered in the dressing room. The two beach punks were packing up fast.

  “Look,” said one, “it’s the detective.”

  “All three of you are coming with me,” I said, drawing my .44. “I’m taking you two guys in for murdering Mitch Mitchell and kidnapping Wanda. You’ll be in San Quentin for a couple of lifetimes.”

  “Drop it, Ford!” said a voice in back of me. I knew who it was before I turned around.

  Chapter 6

  The Permanent Chill

  Outside the dressing room, the battle raged. Beer-bellied longhairs from Zubies Bar next door were piling in, lusting for a punch-up with the short-haired punks. The manager put on a Judy Collins record to try and calm everyone down, but it just made the punks meaner. It was mods versus rockers…sixties versus eighties.

  In the room where we stood, the sound of fists crunching jawbones was muted.

  The sound of a gun hammer being slowly pulled back and cocked drowned out everything else. The pistol felt icy against the back of my neck.

  “Drop your piece, Ford,” said the voice with a familiar quaalude drawl. I dropped it. The .44 hit the floor. A Frye boot kicked it out of reach. I was ordered to join the two punks against the wall at the same time that Wanda was told to walk forward slowly.

  Strat Kaster grabbed the girl, pulling her to him, while keeping us covered. His eyes twitched. The gun shook in his hand. His mouth twisted into a smile.

  “I knew if I followed you, you’d lead me right to her,” he chuckled.

  The two punks next to me looked nervous. The fight outside was growing louder.

  Sirens wailed in the distance.

  “Look,” I said. “Why don’t you and your girlfriend take off right now? The cops’ll be here any minute. I’ll make sure these two guys take the rap for Mitchell’s murder.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible,” said Strat, twitching like a needle. “You don’t seem to understand the situation.”

  “I’m not his girlfriend!” said Wanda.

  “Shut up!” he snarled.

  “You long-haired creep,” she sobbed.

  “Why, I’ll…” He made as if to slap her, but couldn’t as the plasterboard wall of the dressing room caved in and a wave of brawling bodies broke across the floor. My skinhead pals from LA were on the crest, working over a quartet of bearded guys.

  They went for Strat as soon as they caught sight of his Eagles-esque mane. He grabbed Wanda and fled through the backdoor.

  Skinhead Number One tossed me a set of car keys.

  “Bring the car around to the back!” he yelled. “We’re getting outa here!”

  I snatched my gun off the floor and looked for the two punks. Too late. They were out the door and running across the parking lot. I bolted after them, but they were in a ’54 Chevy and racing after Strat’s ’63 Corvette. Screw the skinheads, I thought, and climbed into their black Dodge Charger. A patch of smoking rubber was all I left behind.

  On the freeway, it was like the Indy 500. Strat and Wanda had the early lead until Long Beach. Then the two punks pulled alongside and tried to elbow the Corvette off the road. Strat dodged behind an eighteen-wheeler and kept it between them. By Torrance the Chevy was sucking wind. Rodney was spinning Public Image Ltd over the airwaves, the perfect soundtrack for a hundred-mile-an-hour car chase up the Pacific coast. I kept the two cars in my sights and kept humping the accelerator.

  Strat was heading for LA, that was sure. The punks seemed more worried about Wanda than about my nabbing them for Mitchell’s murder. And what got me tangled up was Wanda’s reaction to Strat. No cartwheels. Just the opposite. According to him they were sweethearts, except that Mitch Mitchell kept them apart to save her singing career. Maybe Belinda and her Go-Go crowd were right. Maybe I didn’t understand Los Angeles. Or maybe I was spending too much time in too many cars on too many goddamned freeways.

  Strat had definite plans. When he got to the city, he hopped off the freeway. On Olympic, he tried to shake us as he headed west. The first red light he jumped was a big mistake. A passing patrol car did a U-turn and joined the race.

  The Corvette screeched around the corner at Highland. He peeled north toward Hollywood. By the time he reached Franklin, he had three cop cars on his tail, plus the punks, plus me. Traffic from the Hollywood Bowl was all backed up. Strat put his wheels on the sidewalk and shot westward.

  I guessed he was heading for the canyons. He was going to try to lose us on the roads that corkscrew back into the Hollywood Hills. Once up there, a good driver like Strat could twist and turn faster than an Eric Clapton solo. He had musician buddies in Laurel Canyon that could hide him and his ’ludes for years.

  Taking a sudden right off Franklin, he swerved onto a steep, narrow drive. Halfway up he must have realized the error. But with five cars coming up after him, there was no turning back. The road curved higher, around and around and around and came out in a parking lot for a Japanese restaurant with a great view and lousy food. Dead end.

  Strat jerked to a halt, bowling over a couple of valets in monkey suits. He yanked Wanda from the car and made for the trees. The punks tried to follow; the LAPD cars corralled them. The cop on my tail thought he had me, too. I gunned the motor, aimed the Charger toward Tokyo, and bailed out into a sweet-smelling bush. The cop car kamikazeed the Charger, turning it into a flaming scrap heap.

  Imitation oriental gardens surrounded the restaurant. It was a maze of gravel paths, lily ponds, hedgerows, and ornamental fakery. The gardens were planted to the very edge of the hill. After that was nothing. Sheer cliffs dropped all the way down to where the city lights rippled and shone.

  I crouched in the shadows of a night-blooming hibiscus. The cops fanned out. A megaphone announced somebody needed to come out with his hands in the air. I moved farther down, keeping my head low. A fake plaster Zen temple stood at the edge where the gardens ended. A movement in the shrubs caught my eye. I waited. Drew my heater and waited. Wait long enough and everything comes your way.

  Strat crawled out of the leaves. He had Wanda by the arm, gun to her head. They clambered into the Zen temple. I watched as he checked out his chances on the cliffside. It was his only way out.

  “Forget it,” I said, stepping out of the shadows. “You’ll never make it alive.”

  He pulled the girl up on the temple’s low wall, keeping his pistol to her skull.

  “Butt out,” he said. “I got no hassle with you.”

  “If you give up now, Strat, you’ll get off with a couple of parking tickets.”

  “Don’t come any closer! Or I’ll blow her punk head off,” he snarled, “just like I blew away Mitchell.”

  “You? But…”

  “That’s right. I killed Mitchell. He was the worst manger on the scene. A lot of musicians hated him. But I hated him worse than anybody. Wanna know why? Because he was gonna sign me up. Big record contact and everything. But then he had to go punk.”

  Strat spit the word out like it was dog piss.

  “That morning in his office, he told me I was through. He said guys like me with long hair and laid-back music were passé. Instead, he was gonna give that
contract to a new waver, a punk group name of Wanda and the Whips. I was so mad I blasted the guy on the spot. I swore I’d get even with these punks. And now…”

  Now he was going to give Wanda a permanent chill.

  “There he is!” a cop yelled. Searchlights flicked on. Strat growled.

  “Don’t shoot!” I shouted. “You’ll hit the girl!”

  Strat pointed his gun in the direction of the lights. The shots zinged through the cool night air. His balance was thrown off. The wall of the Zen temple gave way. He clutched at Wanda but I caught her as he fell. Strat gave out a miserable cry, then took the short, fatal way back to Hollywood, the city of dreams.

  Lieutenant Keeler put his hand on my shoulder. “I heard all that,” he said. “I guess you’re in the clear, Ford.”

  Cops make me sick.

  But Keeler did do me a favor.

  The two punks from Costa Mesa were manacled in the back of the patrol car. He put the squeeze on them to tell me why they’d conked me on the head and kidnapped Wanda.

  Turned out that the three of them were really Freda and the Frantics, famous in the South Bay towns as a hard-core punk band. Then Mitch Mitchell came along, promised Freda he’d make her a star. Broke up the act. It pissed off the two Frantics when they saw Mitchell selling Freda/Wanda as a rockabilly queen when her real scene was singing no-wave surf-punk. So they simply stole her back.

  Why had I seem them running out of Mitchell’s office the morning he was murdered?

  “We went there to make him rip up Freda’s contract,” said one.

  Strat had been there first, of course. That tied up the last loose thread, except for one. I looked around for Wanda. Or Freda. I found her in the back of the patrol car. The radio was tuned to Rodney’s show, Rodney on the KROQ. The little blonde punk was snapping her fingers to D-Day and singing along to “Too Young to Date.”