by Lankford, Terrill Lee; Raphael, Lev; Parker, T. Jefferson
"Candy? She doesn't work here anymore. Hasn't for a few months now."
I let this register. Candice had worked here. Maxine must have been in a cave for the last few days. She appeared to have no knowledge of Candice's death.
"When did she quit?" I asked.
"Didn't quit. Jorge fired her."
"What happened?"
"I don't know. You'd have to ask Jorge."
"Is Jorge around?"
"He's in his office. What's so special about Candy? Won't I do? I'm pretty good in a pinch."
"I bet you are. Could you show me to Jorge's office?"
"Customers aren't allowed in there . . . but I can go get him for you."
"You're great."
She took my hand and rubbed it across the name tag again.
"Remember, M-A-X-I-N-E."
"I'm not about to forget."
Maxine moved off to get Jorge.
I turned my attention back to the stages. Dancers were trading places on the center stage. The new dancer was Candice's friend, Patti Weigel, the redhead from the party. Another piece of the puzzle dropped into place, but I still couldn't see the frame.
I watched Patti shimmy and shake across the floor, occasionally dropping one side or the other of her bikini top to expose some tit to the crowd. She had some good moves. Very sexy. She did one entire song before she lost the top completely at the beginning of a Janis Joplin tune. She was a little underdeveloped for this line of work, but what she had was real, unlike most of the other dancers. She began working on the bottom of the string bikini to make up for her shortcomings. She teased the crowd with glimpses of her bush by pulling the fabric from side to side, even sliding it up between the crack, parting the Red Sea. She was a natural redhead. Either that or she had purchased two bottles of the same dye. Patti turned her back to where I was sitting, then she bent forward and slid her bikini bottom all the way to the floor and smiled at me, both vertically and horizontally. She looked at me from between her legs and we made eye contact. I was a good twenty feet away from her and the place was dark outside of the stage lights on the dancers, but she managed to recognize me nevertheless, even though her head was upside down at the time. A look of shock washed over her face.
Patti straightened up and continued dancing, but she was having a hard time of it. She kept looking over at me, trying to make sure I was really who she thought I was. Her concentration was completely blown. Finally she rushed off the stage before her song was over, leaving the thirty-odd dollars that had hit the floor in praise of her talents resting right where they lay. The crowd grumbled. There was some kind of chaos going on backstage because the next dancer was not yet ready to come out. She finally made her appearance. She had blond hair and huge breasts. The crowd was happy again.
I was getting nervous. I finished my OJ and stood up from the bar. A diminutive, dignified-looking Spanish man in his fifties was suddenly at my side. He was Jorge Alonzo, owner of The Eight Ball.
"What's the problem?" Jorge asked.
"No problem," I replied. "I'm looking for a girl who used to work here. I met her last year when I was in from New York. Her name is Candice Bishop."
"She's no longer with us."
"That's what I heard. . . . What happened?"
I could see Patti coming out from behind the dressing room curtain in the distance, wrapping a robe around her naked body. The guy in the black leather jacket that Detective Thompson called "Angelo" at the police station soon joined her. She pointed over at me and Angelo started through the crowded room with Patti hot on his heels. I knew I had only a few moments to find out whatever I was going to find out. There was about to be major trouble.
"Candice had an accident," Jorge continued.
"What kind of accident?"
"Candice passed away two days ago."
Angelo and Patti were suddenly beside Jorge.
"He should know, Jorge," Angelo said. "This is the piece of shit that killed her!"
"What?" Jorge's face seemed to expand upon hearing this. Other men gathering around us reacted to the news as well. They were obviously friends of Angelo's or Candice's or both.
Patti looked at Jorge and said, "He's the one."
"I didn't kill any—"
Before I could finish my sentence Angelo delivered a serious roundhouse punch to my ear. I was knocked backwards against the bar. My arm caught the padded railing, saving me from hitting the floor. I straightened up and tried to shake the cobwebs from my head. My ears were ringing. Angelo threw another roundhouse. I blocked the punch and he tried again. I blocked again and wrapped my arm around Angelo's arm, lifting under his elbow, then I delivered a flat palm strike with my free hand to Angelo's jaw. Angelo stumbled back and fell into a table full of empty beer glasses. He hadn't expected any resistance.
"Take it out of here, boys," Jorge said coldly.
Three burly fuckers grabbed me and shoved me toward the rear exit. Two of them were dressed like Angelo, full-on bikers; the third guy looked like he had just stepped out of a hunting magazine. Plaid wool shirt, overalls, hunting boots, the works. He was ready to bag some game. Angelo got to his feet and followed us. Patti stayed with Jorge. She was smiling with satisfaction.
I could see the cocktail waitress, Maxine, standing off to the side, watching it all. She rushed over to a pay phone and dropped a quarter. I was hoping she was calling 911 and not more guys to come over and beat on me.
I was shoved out the back door of The Eight Ball onto the asphalt of the parking lot. The three guys stood aside and let Angelo approach me. Angelo rubbed his jaw.
"That karate shit ain't gonna do you no good in this parkin' lot," he said.
I got to my feet. My clothes had been ruined. My face wasn't doing so good either. The right side was starting to swell where it had been hit. Angelo seemed to have more respect for my prowess than he needed. I had picked up a little savate when I lived in France, but I was no karate expert. Far from it. I was just winging the business, trying to make it look good. Bar fights had never been my forte.
Angelo moved closer. I kicked his leg hard to keep up the illusion of competence. I got lucky and nailed him right on the crown of his kneecap. Angelo did a little spin and hit the pavement.
I leaned up against an old car, a late-sixties Plymouth Roadrunner. Angelo got to his feet. He favored the leg as he approached me again.
"I don't want any more trouble," I said.
"I know you don't," Angelo replied. He rushed forward, head down like a tackle, and smashed into my gut, slamming me against the car. He hit me low again and brought his head up into my chin. The back of my head cracked on the roof of the Plymouth.
I pressed back against the car, bleeding, out of breath. Angelo was just getting started. He straightened up in front of me and removed a pair of spiked brass knuckles from his pocket. He slipped them on his right hand and rubbed them lovingly. One punch from that shit and I'd be drinking through a straw for the next three months.
"Candy was my girl. . . . I loved her!" Angelo shouted.
He threw the punch and I dropped to the ground. Angelo's fist shattered the car window above my head, cutting his hand and slicing his arm in the process.
"Motherfucker!" Angelo yelled. He grabbed the bottom of his arm trying to slow the bleeding. I put a size-eleven shoe directly into his balls, heel first. He lifted into the air, the wind, among other things, exiting his body. Angelo crumpled on the ground when he landed.
The three other guys rushed forward and began kicking the living shit out of me. I was pinned on the ground against the car with nowhere to go. I tried to crawl under the car, but the hunter grabbed my leg and pulled me back out. He socked me in the jaw for my brazen attempt at survival.
Two police cars roared into the parking lot on either side of us, lights spinning, sirens wailing. Lately I hadn't liked looking at the cops. Now I was overjoyed.
Four cops jumped out of the cars. Two carried shotguns. This place must have had a repu
tation because these guys came ready to rumble. One of the cops fired a shotgun blast into the air and yelled, "Break it up!"
The boys ceased stomping me and immediately put their hands on top of their heads. They knew the routine. I laid my head down on the asphalt and took a little nap.
5
I sat in the comer of a crowded jail cell in Van Nuys watching my fellow prisoners. They were the dregs of society: gangbangers, drunks, and felons, but they all looked better than I did at the moment. My clothes had been ripped to shreds, dried blood caked my face, bruises covered 80 percent of my body. My bottom lip was split and my head was throbbing. Nobody fucked with me. There seemed to be an air of sympathy for me in the cell, I was so pathetic looking. Or maybe they just figured that there wasn't much left to pick over.
Lieutenant Archibald Di Bacco stepped in front of the cell and yelled, "Gardner!"
I looked over at Di Bacco, but I didn't move.
"I came up as soon as I heard they had you over here," Di Bacco said. "Liked our tank so much you decided to try the Valley branch?"
"Want something?" I asked.
"I was just wondering what you thought you were doing? I know about the old 'returning to the scene of the crime' bit, but I thought you'd wait awhile. That wasn't very smart."
He was piecing together a story far more credible than mine actually was.
"I've never been in that place before tonight, Di Bacco. My story hasn't changed."
"That's just what it is, too, mister. A story! You probably met the girl there in the first place and you were going back to find fresh meat. You just can't get enough. You're certifiable."
I got up and walked through the crowd toward Di Bacco. My cellmates were enjoying the dog and pony show. I was hoping to flash enough of the tough-guy act to keep everyone off me when bedtime rolled around.
"I went there to do your job," I said. "Because I know if I leave it up to you and your lackeys I'll end up in jail."
"Newsflash: You are in jail."
This brought sporadic laughter from my fellow inmates. One of the guys yelled "Fuck you" at Di Bacco. Not everyone enjoys sarcasm.
A clerk approached the holding tank.
"Not for long," I said to Di Bacco. I was developing a sixth sense for freedom.
The clerk called into the cell, "Nick Gardner?"
"Right here," I said.
"Your attorneys are here," the clerk said.
I smiled at Di Bacco as the clerk unlocked and opened the cell door. The clerk escorted me toward the exit. Di Bacco followed behind. We passed two of the guys that slammed me in the parking lot in another tank, then Angelo and the hunter among other prisoners in a third cell. The cops had separated us for our own good.
I stopped and looked in at Angelo.
"I didn't do it, man," I said. I don't know why I wanted him to know I was innocent, but I did. I wanted him to believe it. Not just so that he'd leave me alone, but for my own peace of mind. I wanted to convince someone, even if it was the guy who just helped kick the shit out of me. I wanted someone to believe me, so I could continue believing it myself.
Angelo moved closer to the bars. He wasn't buying it. "See you on the outside, dude," he said in his best Clint Eastwood. Wild, wild west all the way.
Di Bacco moved me forward with two fingers in my back.
"He won't be out that long," Di Bacco told Angelo.
6
I sat with Martin Smith and Bob Tate in a sterile white conference room in the back of the Van Nuys Police Department. I could tell that neither of them was in a very good mood. I was becoming a burden to the firm. The cops had provided three hard chairs and a small white table to write on in case anyone needed to make out a suicide note.
"Nick," Martin Smith began, "you're not making things any easier on us playing detective."
"Yeah," Bob Tate chirped in. "Let's cut the Mike Wallace shit, okay, buddy?"
"If I don't find out what really happened that night, no one will," I said.
"That's fine by us," Smith said.
"The less you do, the better," Tate added. They were getting into their rhythm now, each stepping on the last word of the other's sentence. When used against the cops I thought it was funny. Now it was simply annoying.
"Right now the police don't have a solid case."
"But they're working on it."
"You keep stirring things up and they may get enough on you to press charges."
"Maybe even get a conviction."
I looked at them both sternly.
"You guys think I'm guilty."
"We didn't say that," Smith said.
"Neither of us said that," Tate added.
"It's not our job to determine whether you're guilty or innocent."
"We just want to make sure you don't do any time."
I stood up and paced nervously. "This is great: Even my attorneys don't believe me."
"We believe you, Nick."
"Yes. . . . If that's what you want, we believe you."
I slammed my fist down on the table.
"Listen to me goddamnit! I'm innocent. I was set up! I don't know how or why but the whole thing was a fucking setup!"
Martin Smith got up and touched me on the shoulder. "Ease up, Nick. We had a long talk about this. We're with you on this."
"We're on your side."
"We just want you to be a little more …"
"Prudent."
"We don't want to go to trial on this thing."
"And if we go to trial we don't want to . . ."
"Lose."
"So do us a favor. Just stay home. Get some rest."
"Catch up on your reading."
"Do whatever you want. But stay away from anything related to this case."
"Things are bad enough already."
"Please promise not to do any more detective work."
I stood up straight and looked at them both. I realized I was totally on my own. A look of calm resolve washed over me. I decided to lie to them.
"Whatever you guys say."
PART IX
"Sounds like you're in deep shit."
—Paul Cutshaw
1
Tate and Smith met with a judge, arranged for my bail and dropped me off in the parking lot of The Eight Ball to get my car. At least it hadn't been impounded this time. Once again the sun was coming up as I tasted freedom. I took the 101 out to Topanga Canyon and drove over the mountains to avoid the rush-hour traffic heading into town over the 405. A dark canopy of smoke hung over Topanga like a rain tarp at a barbecue. The smoke was so thick that it was creating twilight conditions. I had to turn on my headlights to get over the pass.
I turned on the tube when I got home and caught the early news. The fires that were consuming Laguna and Thousand Oaks and parts of Malibu were also consuming the better part of the local news coverage, knocking my story down to a brief twenty-second mention leading into a commercial break.
The news guys were really making a meal out of the fires. They had already created fancy logos and coined phrases like Firestorm! and Malibu Inferno. They were reducing the latest disaster to just another miniseries. Natural disasters always made for good TV. They have it all: tragedy, spectacle, heroism, greed, love, lost pets, the works. And the production values are footed by the population. The cost to the network is minimal. It's much cheaper to shoot fires ravaging Tom Selleck's house than to hire Tom Selleck to be in a movie, yet they get to legally exploit his name. It was fabulous. I hoped the fires would keep burning for a year, but I knew they'd put them out in a few days and then the media dogs would get hungry and turn on me again.
I read the Times; they had managed to pick up on my arrest the night before, but the story was buried all the way back on page six. There were minor rumblings that the trouble might somehow be tied to the Candice Bishop murder, but once again the legal department went out of its way to make sure the paper was legally absent malice. They really knew how to walk that razor blade.
>
I turned off the phone and turned the volume down on the answering machine so I could crash. I slept for six or seven hours, waking around three in the afternoon. I staggered around the house for about an hour, wandering aimlessly, not knowing what to do next. I played my messages back on the answering machine. I had twenty or so calls of support from various people who wanted to kiss my ass and gain employment in the future (if there was one) and there were six different calls that basically consisted of death threats. My number was unlisted so I had to assume these calls were made by people who knew me or knew other people who knew me. A handful of reporters had also discovered the number and were requesting interviews. They each promised to tell my side of the story. I received a call from Lou which fell somewhere between support and a death threat. He suggested that it would be a good idea if I took some time off to "gather my thoughts." That roughly translated to "Get away from me, you scare me, I'm afraid I'm going to go broke just for knowing you."
I checked the news for the latest updates on the fires. Instead I got the latest update on my life. The TV guys were starting to focus more attention on my case. They had dug up some facts about my past and had put together a collage of some of my old porn work and some of my more recent print ads, drawing juvenile conclusions about the artist and his roots. There were also interviews with Candice Bishop's friends and relatives back in her hometown of Scranton, Pennsylvania. Reaction ranged from absolute shock to total revulsion to apathetic acceptance. Candice had always been a wild one, an ex-boyfriend said. She was always so sweet, a girl from high school remarked tearfully. We knew it was just a matter of time, her father, a rough-looking son of a bitch, said. He seemed to be weeping no tears for his long-lost daughter. They weren't even going to have the body returned home.
"Let her rest where she wanted to live," Daddy said.
None of the family would be attending the services, which were going to be held at Forest Lawn on Saturday, the day after the coroner planned to release the body.
Members of the adult film community were springing for the tab.