the Onion Field (1973)

by Wambaugh, Joseph

  So after changing clothes, washing up, and arranging for a babysitter, the five of them drove in the young man's car to Las Vegas. With Greg's promise to treat them to the best dinner they ever had they eagerly entered a large and elegant Las Vegas restaurant which advertised Italian cuisine.

  Max and the young blond girl were as dressed up as they could be considering their meager wardrobes, and Greg and the young sailor both wore suits. Jimmy had on his only decent clothes, those he had bought yesterday. After ordering drinks and nibbling on the appetizers, Greg, playing the role of host, said, "Damn, the service's lousy for such a fancy joint." He signaled to a waiter.

  "I don't wait on this section, sir." The waiter smiled unctuously. "But I'll tell the headwaiter."

  They chatted and waited a few more minutes and Jimmy could see Greg squirming impatiently. At last a middle-aged hostess in an expensive off-the-shoulder gown drifted up to the table and with a friendly smile said, "I'm sorry, sir, but we don't serve colored people in here."

  Jimmy nodded because he guessed it. If only I had a suit and tie, he thought. Lots of times I can pass. If only I had a suit and tie.

  "I can't believe it!" said Greg, and Jimmy, could almost hear the muscles tighten in his hollow cheeks, and watched his head swivel on the long neck, and saw the nostrils whiten. "His money is as good as anyone's."

  "I'm sorry, sir," said the hostess. "I don't make the rules here. I'm sorry."

  "I'm sorry I picked this lousy joint, that's what I'm sorry about," said Greg, bolting to his feet and storming out through the bar with _ the others following, quiet and embarrassed.

  As they got to the car, Greg pulled Jimmy aside and whispered, "We're gonna go home and get our pieces and come back here and knock this dive right over. Whadda you think of that?"

  "No, Greg, let's just forget it. It don't mean nothin."

  "The hell it don't. They ain't gonna get away with that insult."

  "Listen, Greg," Jimmy said. "You can see all those wops in there are gangsters. I mean, like, everybody knows this fuckin town is full of Mafia. Shoot, we'd get burned down the minute we showed iron. Even if they thought we was packin heat, they'd just kill us and bury us out back in the desert."

  "Maybe you're right," said Greg reluctantly, "but I sure wish I could get even with those bastards."

  And at that moment, for the first time, perhaps for the only time, Jimmy Smith felt affection for Gregory Powell, a feeling he had not had very often in his life. As he put it: "I felt kinda close to the nut."

  But the night was irretrievably lost. Jimmy told them he wasn't feeling too well and couldn't eat, and that was the truth, and that he would just as soon go to a movie alone if they would drop him off, and that was a lie. Finally, after many pleas and refusals he sat in the car while they ate dinner at another restaurant. After dinner, none of them would go on without him so they returned to the little house tired and depressed. At nine o'clock they were all asleep. So ended what was to have been another big night in the life of Jimmy Smith.

  After the driving, and the desert, and worries, and frustrations, the sleep was incredibly short. In fact, it felt as though he had just closed his eyes when Max was shaking him awake. It was 2:00 a. M. and the house was dark and quiet.

  "Greg wants to go now!' Max whispered. "Get up, Jimmy."

  "Jesus. Okay," said Jimmy shaking himself awake. Max stood there to make sure he didn't lie back down, then she bent over him again. "I said get up, Jimmy!'

  He then truly opened his eyes and was staring right down the front of her nightgown which was hanging open. He reached over and squeezed one of her breasts thinking how much milk must be " gurgling around in there.

  Max whispered, "Watch it, fellow. Don't start something you can't finish," and ran from the room as he dressed.

  Two o' fuckin clock in the morning, thought Jimmy, shaking his head. Leave when it's cool he said. Drive to Frisco when it's cool. Two o'clock. He has his own way, this batty giraffe.

  Now it vaguely occurred to Jimmy that they were actually doing it. Actually on their way to Frisco. And he hadn't shined them on. He was still with them.

  They gathered together their things and crept out of the house before three o'clock leaving a note and fifty dollars on the table for the young couple who had been kind to them. It was Greg's idea and Jimmy approved. What the hell, he thought.

  Then they were out on the road, with Jimmy driving the coupe and Greg and Max in the station wagon. They stopped at a diner for breakfast and Greg could contain himself no longer, he wanted to try the hot rod. So they traded cars, Jimmy with Max in the wagon, and Greg burning rubber off the tires and racing ahead.

  When the little coupe was so far ahead he could no longer see it, Jimmy reached over to Max's leg and slid his hand all the way UP'

  "Kinda warm," said Jimmy.

  "It's gonna be if Greg catches you." Max smiled, and Jimmy suddenly thought, I bet she even laid that drunken fool, Billy Small. I'll bet she did and then put that story on him that he patted her ass and stole the money and all. I bet she's a little bit of an evil bitch herself, he thought, and looked over, his hand still where it was. She was looking at the road and smiling.

  He wasn 'f looking. The wagon veered off the pavement into the sand and slid sideways. Jimmy cut the wheel hard to the right and jammed on the brakes.

  "Jesus," he breathed afterwards.

  "You keep your hands on the wheel," said Max, and from then on he did.

  They had been told that the short way to San Francisco would not be the best with the loaded wagon, that the pavement was badly in need of repair, so they had decided to go back to San Bernardino and take the Bakersfield route. At 9:00 a. M. that Saturday morning, March 9th, they were in Bakersfield, in the southern part of town at a place called the Hi-way Motel. To get there they drove through a Bakersfield tulie fog, driving blind for several miles before emerging in a forest of billboards and neon, trailer parks, drive-in restaurants, and movies.

  This section of Bakersfield was one of the more unpleasant parts of a town not known for its beauty. The city is in the southern end of the San Joaquin Valley, on dry and dusty flatland, with mountains too far in the distance. Even the southern valley is rich and fertile when water is piped to it, but when it isn't, the dust blows in powdery choking clouds and the sand whips across the highways and piles up in drifts, especially in this part of town which was left to the junkyards, and motorcycle racers, motels, and an occasional tent revival. The music is country, the drink is beer, the billboards are everywhere. This little motel was one of the cheapest on the highway, two rows of wood frame cottages with a bit of grass in the middle. They took rooms two and three.

  They went to an automotive parts house, bought a fuel pump for the wagon, which Greg installed, and then went to sleep, in their rooms.

  Jimmy thought it was the radio which awakened him late that afternoon. He lay staring at the ceiling and realized that Greg and Max were at it again. The bed was creaking and he could hear it through the thin walls. That bitch sure is a moaner, he thought.

  Jimmy got dressed and went outside to think. He came to perhaps his fifteenth decision to leave Gregory Powell, but this time he had the money, the car, the ability to do it. After buying the coupe they had divided the money and Greg had sixty dollars left plus whatever Max had. Greg could have the sixty scoots, the guns, everything. Except the coupe. That Jimmy needed and he didn't think Greg would come looking for him even though it was in Greg's name. And he didn't think Greg would call the cops and report it stolen. So that was it! He made up his mind! He got in the car and started it, backing up, grinding gravel noisily, squinting into the dusk. Then he turned and saw Greg standing in the driveway beside him, the door to the cabin open.

  "Where're you going, Jim?"

  "Nowheres, Greg, nowheres," Jimmy smiled. "Only over to Cottonwood Road. That's the black part of town, you know? Like, I sat in that room and heard you and Max goin at it and now I'm horny, is all
. You know what I mean?" Jimmy nervously turned off the key to show him he wasn't up to stealing his car.

  "Me and Max stirred you, huh, Jim?" Greg smiled. "You know I'm kind of a virtuoso sexually."

  "A what?"

  "That means I'm kind of a master at it. I've done a lot in my time, Jim, sexually that is. A lot of ways in a lot of places. Different things. I've learned great control. And technique. It's my control and technique that women seem to want so much."

  "Yeah, uh huh," said Jimmy gravely.

  "It's what keeps Max wanting me so much even though she's getting pretty far along and shouldn't be doing it now. I don't know how to say it without appearing to be bragging, but I seem to have the capacity to please women that they can't find in any other man. Max told me she couldn't ever imagine herself with another man, ever again."

  "Uh huh," said Jimmy.

  "It can be a blessing and a curse, Jim. I mean it don't always make you happy to have to perform. I mean all the time, like women seem to demand of me."

  "Uh huh."

  "Come on inside, Jim."

  "But Greg, I jist gotta take a trip over to Cottonwood Road. You can come with me if you want to."

  "No, come on in. We decided to go to L. A."

  "To L. A.? I thought you ... we was goin to Frisco."

  "Max wants to check on her kids before we go on to Frisco."

  "But they're with her folks, ain't they? They're in Oceanside, ain't they?"

  "Yeah, but she wants to phone them."

  "She can phone them from here, Greg."

  "Yeah, but we need dough, Jim. We gotta pull another job in L. A. before we go to Frisco."

  "Jesus, like that's another two hours to L. A. and two hours back here. And Jesus, Greg, we been movin around a lot, and that."

  "Hell, that little hot rod'll make it in no time, Jim. Come on in." And Greg laughed as Jimmy, hands in pockets, kicked gravel and entered the cabin.

  It was after dark when the three of them sped up the Grapevine Highway over the Ridge Route which divides the San Joaquin and San Fernando valleys. Greg was anxious to show them what the coupe would do. The wagon was packed and parked at the motel and the rent was paid, and they'd decided that Max could visit the queen who lived on Eleventh Street or go to a movie while Greg and Jimmy attended to business.

  Jimmy decided that he was leaving them in Los Angeles. But he was leaving with the coupe. He had it coming, at least that much. They could take a bus to Bakersfield because L. A. was a big town and they wouldn't be finding Jimmy Lee Smith no matter how tight-jawed Greg might be.

  The only thing unusual that happened on the trip that night was that a man pulled up beside them and yelled, "Hey buddy, your tail lights're out." This was on Highway 99, south of Bakersfield near a turnoff called the Maricopa Highway, a cutoff that was to have great significance later that night.

  "We can't afford to be getting stopped by cops for tail lights," Greg explained, and they found a service station and discovered that the lighting wires were bare and shorting out against the frame. They patched them up and were on their way once again.

  After reaching Los Angeles they drove straight for the apartment of the drag queen. Greg had decided they should rent a room there for Max to rest while he and Jimmy went to work.

  By now Jimmy's stomach was in knots. The changing plans. The way things suddenly shifted from one minute to the next, so suddenly they were going off a hundred miles in an opposite direction from what they had intended. He'd been a footless drifter all of his adult life, roaming was not new to him, but Jesus, these people were too much. Fuckin gypsies, that's what they are, thought Jimmy.

  The queen was not home. There were no rooms for rent either, so it was decided that Max should go to a movie for a couple of hours while Greg and Jimmy did what they had to do.

  "Be careful, honey," said Maxine, kissing Greg as they dropped her in front of the theater at Wilshire and Western.

  "Tony'll be home by the time you're through with the movie and we're through with our work. We'll just stay at Tony's tonight and be on our way tomorrow."

  "Okay." Maxine smiled. "See you later, honey. See you later, Jimmy."

  You ain't gonna see me no more, you goofy little nympho, Jimmy thought, and he knew how he would do it now. The plan started working for Jimmy when Greg said, "Let's head for a gas station so I can put on my makeup and get ready."

  Jimmy did not answer as they drove through the heavy traffic on this rather brisk Saturday night, heading in the general direction of Hollywood.

  "There's a station. Get her gassed up," said Greg, as he wheeled into the pumps. "I'll just be a few minutes."

  Jimmy nodded, and then Greg was gone with his briefcase. Jimmy slid behind the wheel but the nozzle was already in the tank and the man had the hood up.

  "That's okay," said Jimmy frantically. "It's okay. The fuckin oil's okay."

  But the man apparently did not hear.

  "I said that's okay!" Jimmy shouted. "It's okay!"

  And the man looked up, smiled, and turned to wave at a customer driving by.

  "Come on, come on," Jimmy muttered, tapping on the steering wheel, and finally the hood was slammed shut.

  "That's enough gas," said Jimmy. "That's enough. Just stop it there. I'll take what you got in it."

  "Oh, okay. In a hurry?"

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah," said Jimmy, and his heart sank as he saw Greg leaving the restroom and walking hurriedly toward the car.

  Jimmy moved back over to the passenger side and thought, I'm supposed to pull one more job with him. It's just gotta be. It's just meant to be. And they drove toward Hollywood. Through the night. To their destiny.

  It was good the way you could train the twisted juniper, thought the gardener. It's a living thing and yet it doesn't resist kindness and accepts your training. This one had been sculptured dramatically, and its largest branch was convoluted up and out from the balcony of the house, accepting the urging of the man who directed it.

  You could guide a tree's behavior, but not a man's, thought the gardener. A tree just lived and breathed and harmed no one, least of all itself. It was for instance infinitely easier to control this juniper than it had ever been to control himself when he was committing his crimes. He thought of the day he stole his biggest thing-a sewing machine.

  Until then his biggest theft had been a saber saw. The sewing machine was stolen during the last stop of that day. After that one he would be finished and could then go home. He had almost bypassed the stop. He had driven through the parking lot of the shopping center, but when he reached the exit he turned the car and went back. He had to. He hadn't made every stop of the day. He knew he could not begin to rest or sleep that night if he failed to make this stop.

  In many ways the portable sewing machine had been the easiest thing of all. It was so large, looked so believable in his arms that it may as well have been invisible. When he got to the parking lot with it he felt something very much like disappointment. The heart-splitting fear and dread and excitement had vanished quickly. It had been such an easy victory it was hardly worthwhile. He had told his wife he had bought it for her birthday.

  As the gardener crawled on his knees among the rosesy jerking the little weeds and tossing them off onto the driveway, he realized the headache was almost gone. His chest was hurting a little, but he could live with the chest pains and the stomachaches and diarrhea and the other things. The headaches were hardest though. Maybe he could sleep tonight despite the trial tomorrow, despite the fact that he might have to tell about that night once again. He'd told it so many times over the years in so many courtrooms, what did one more time matter? He wasn't so afraid of it anymore. He was much more afraid of the series of crimes he had committed.

  But he still dreamed of it, could feel the cold night wind in his face, could smell the onions in the field.

  Chapter 6

  "A typical Hollywood Saturday night," said Jimmy Smith, the tension festering in his guts,
as he looked at rows of cars jammed up for blocks. "And everybody's too law abidin or too scared of cops or too fuckin lackadaisical to even toot their horns or swear at the guy in front."

  Jimmy thought of the Spanish automatic in his belt and what if the miserable thing went off by itself and shot his dick off? And yeah, that was somethin else to worry about. What if I killed myself with my own goddamn gun by squirmin around the wrong way in the seat? Bang! Off goes the cock and there I am, sprawled there dyin in the street. Bleedin to death! And he considered putting the gun in the glove compartment to get it out of his belt.

  "Goddamnit," Greg said. "I'm getting out of this traffic. We'll head back toward downtown until we spot a liquor store to knock off."

  "But I thought you wanted to take off this market out here in Hollywood?"

  "Too goddamn much traffic, Jim. We made the wrong turn off the freeway. We'll find something on the way downtown."

  As Ian Campbell drove the Plymouth into the alley near Gower Avenue on this ninth night with Karl, March 9th, 1963, he spotted some mauve-colored flowers in a window box, and rolling up his window against the night chill said, "The sweet peas and azaleas are starting to bloom. That must mean spring is here. I keep warning mine of the Ides of March."

  Karl Hettinger grinned in the dark at his big-shouldered improbable partner who talked quaintly of flowers and bagpipes. Then Karl realized he had never heard a set of pipes firsthand.

  "I'd like to hear you play those bagpipes sometime, Ian," he said as the little maroon Ford passed by the alley westbound on Carlos.

  Gregory Powell was heading north on Gower when he decided to circle the block to the west. He turned on Carlos Avenue, saw the short street called Vista Del Mar straight ahead, and mistakenly thought Carlos Avenue dead-ended there.