by David Pierce
"A record as long as a Carpenters album?" I suggested hopefully.
"One cross-ref," he said. "It's a new function we just got working properly. It picks up similarities in MOs; repetitions of AKAs, addresses, CLs, you name it."
"Sounds good," I said. "Congratulations. And what, may I ask, not wanting to take up too much of your expensive time, is Mrs. Jonesy cross-referenced for, or is it under?"
"Witness to a fatality," he said. "Interested?"
"Mildly," I admitted. "Seeing how much I'm paying for it, you might as well send me a printout of all you got on it one of these days, if you please. Tony knows my address, if he'll give it to you."
"Will do," he said. "But don't hold your breath." He hung up. So did I.
Witness to a fatality, I thought. Which could mean she saw an old lady slip on a kiwi peel in Farmers' Market and give up the ghost under an aubergine stall, which wouldn't be all that helpful as far as Tom 'n' Jerry's plight was concerned. Still, better than nothing, as far as me and my conscience was concerned.
I went back inside. Jerry was still singing about that parrot. "A sleeping parrot, dreaming parrot dreams . . . "
I, V. D., do not believe parrots really do dream. I know dogs do, because I've seen King grinning and wagging his tail while he dreamed of cat McNuggets and feline-flavored Friskies. But parrots—what's the first thing a parrot would do after waking up from a dream? Bore you stiff telling you about it, like all dreamers do. And as there is not one recorded and properly attested case of a parrot ever describing its dreams, I say to you, members of the jury, parrots, therefore, do not dream.
Chapter Eleven
See, I was makin' this quiet little run from Tampa through Nogales;
I was supposed to meet a Mexican gent in a field near Monterrey.
IT WASN'T UNTIL the following Tuesday that events really began picking up in pace. The only thing that enlivened the days leading up to Tuesday was one moment of searing ecstasy Sunday night when Evonne Louise Shirley and I finally—but that's another story, and how.
I was sitting in my office after lunch sucking on a clear mint when the telephone rang and my caller turned out to be not only an official of the Pussycat Co., but one of its two owner/managers, a Mr. Saul Gall by name. Or so he introduced himself. I introduced myself as V. Daniel. Mr. Gall wanted to know if I was in any way responsible for the imaginative flight of fancy he was holding.
"I am, sir, in a small way responsible," I told him, "if, indeed, what you are referring to is an absolutely legal temporary restraining order for a cessation of any and all construction work on a certain vacant lot. Which, as it happens, sir, is not so far from my modest place of work."
"No, not far at all," Mr. Gall said, "seeing as it's right next door, according to your address."
From which you will have gathered that despite the lack of thrills and chills throughout the long weekend—with the one exception already mentioned—progress has been made in V.D. vs. P.C. Chores had been undertaken, errands run, deliveries made. All the remaining steps previously outlined had been successfully managed—getting the papers from Taffy to Evonne to me to Mel to a civil court judge then back to me with the newly inked court order, copies of which, along with one final addition from me, were then duly sent winging on their registered and express-delivered way to Mr. Saul Gall.
The last enclosure from me was merely the invitation to the upcoming press conference, to wit:
To All Concerned Citizens and Parents of North Hollywood:
Your presence is requested this Friday evening at six p.m., at the above address (mine) to discuss, hopefully with the putative developers or a representative thereof, the proposed construction of an adult movie house on the terrain, now vacant, that occupies the southwest corner of the intersection of Orange and Victory Boulevards. Present will be members of the press, clergy, law enforcement agencies, local citizens' committees, the legal profession, and, particularly importantly, a member of the California Historical Society. Two representatives from the nearby Wade Dean High School will also be in attendance.
Thank you.
And remember, as William Jennings Bryan so aptly put it: "The humblest citizen . . . when clad in the armor of a righteous cause, is stronger than all the hosts of error."
"So what's going down, Daniel?" Mr. Gall said then. "I mean, I can read, and what I can read is, quote 'desecration of a religious site, edifice and/or other properties,' neatly typed in under 'Grounds for the application,' but what does that mean?"
"All will be revealed at the press conference," I said. "I hope you got our invitation."
"Yeah, I got it," he said. "Don't worry, the hosts of error will be there, in force." With which he slammed down the receiver. Well! I declared. Gall by name, gall by nature, King. The dog got up, came around to my side of the desk, got the pat he was looking for, then lay down again and gave his tennis ball a good chew. I got out my address book and got busy on the phone; now that I had Mr. Saul Gall definitely lined up, it was time to line up the rest of the participants, which proved simplicity itself in some cases, and not so simple in others.
The local weekly, the City Citizen, in which I occasionally took out a modest ad, promised to send one of their keenest cubs. Mel said he'd be there, with bells on. So did my landlord, Elroy. Marv was out chasing evildoers, but I left a message as to where and when and why, and, as he owed me a favor, I figured he'd show too. Taffy Chandler said he couldn't wait, frankly. Evonne Louise Shirley had already been forewarned to keep Friday evening free, just in case. A quick call to Father Romero, and he was in; he promised to bring along a spare dicky, too. Then I got on to Benny the Boy, after calling three different numbers, which was about par for tracking him down; I finally got him at the manager's apartment in one of the buildings he owned in Anaheim. Owned not in his own name, needless to say. Owned by a company registered in the Cayman Islands, also needless to say. Remind me to tell you sometime about the advantages of having real estate in the U.S. owned by some offshore company, friends; your beady, bloodshot eyes will pop in jealous dismay, as mine did when Benny told me when I was in the hospital one time. I forget what for, but it sure wasn't the mumps.
So I asked Benny how he was. He said he was OK, how was I? I said I was OK, how was his girl? He said she was OK, how was my dog? I said he was OK, so was Evonne, so was Sara, and so was everyone else I knew in the world, and asked him what size dicky he wore.
He had to admit he did not know, as he did not know what a dicky was. I said I hoped a dicky was that fake shirtfront with attached collar that preacher types wore. He said oh. Then he said, why? I told him why; he said, copacetic, Victor, I will be there, and hung up. All right, I thought to myself, we are in the groove today, we are truckin', baby. Who is left? Naught but Injun Joe—who is supposed to call by tomorrow morning, and if I'm out, the day after tomorrow morning—and S. (Sad Sack) Silvetti, whom I promptly dialed. Well, I didn't dial her, if you want to nitpick, I dialed her number.
Of course she was in; she was always in, it seemed like; you'd think she'd leave the apartment once in a while at least to walk through fallen leaves and haunt graveyards and fall drearily in love with anarchists in berets and wear a long cape even in the summer and stick old candle stubs in used Chianti bottles and do all them other poetic things as well.
She was thrilled to hear from me, although she tried futilely to hide the fact behind her habitual barrage of insults, vulgarity, and unwanted references to such peripheral matters as my age, my thinning locks, lack of sartorial sense, and so on and so on. She really could be—and generally was—as tiresome as a mole removal treatment at a Mexican dermatologist's.
When she finally stopped to take a breath, or maybe it was to sharpen her quill, I jumped in.
"Friday," I said. "Five-thirty, at my office; that'll give us a half hour to rehearse before the meeting starts."
"Rehearse what?" she said suspiciously. "And what meeting, Alcoholics Anonymous, or in your case, una
nonymous?"
"A meeting of concerned citizens is what meeting."
"Concerned about what?"
"Concerned about the Pussycat Adult Cinema Company putting up a new porno theater right next to my office," I said.
"What you're probably concerned about is they won't let you in free," she said. "So what do you want me to do about it, picket the joint? No way, José."
"I want you," I said patiently, "to act the challenging role of the President of the Wade Dean Christian Students' Movement. As the president of the Wade Dean Christian Students' Movement is a girl, you will unfortunately have to discard your male attire for the evening. And as she is a high school student of, say, eighteen max, you will have to look and act like a girl high school student of eighteen max. I'll explain the rest of it when you get here Friday, toodle-oo." And I hung up.
In case any of you are vaguely wondering what she was doing in male garb in the first place, may I say that once upon an idle moment I had queried her on that same subject, and gotten back some load of nonsense about George Sand, whoever he was, and George Eliot, whoever he was; make sense of that if you can.
That Tuesday was also enlivened by the mailman, for once in his life. Usually my mail was so boring that a "Dear John" letter was something to look forward to. At least it didn't try to vend me something I didn't want for a lot of money I didn't have. A tip: If a stamped, self-addressed envelope is enclosed, put another company's rubbish in it and mail it back, that's what I do.
Anyway. From Sneezy came a whole sheaf of papers. Translated more or less into English, the facts in the case involving Jonesy's missus were more or less these:
She, Mrs. Leonard Richard (Mary) Jones (née Clark; address given) and a friend, one Jonathan E. Flint, (address given) were, at 11:10 p.m., in 2-DR. BMW on Sunday, March 14, 1989, returning from the Alameda Theater to the Western Music, Inc., recording studio (address given), to allow Mr. Flint to retrieve his vehicle, which had been left there, and for Mrs. Jones to drive her husband home (address given) as his vehicle was in the garage for repairs.
At the juncture of 8th St. and Berendo, while stopped for a 4-way stop sign, an as yet unidentified male, black, approx. height 6 ft., approx. age 25–30, wearing black/dark windbreaker, black/dark woolly top, wraparound shades, on a motorcycle, inserted arm in open car window and held handgun against Mr. Flint's head, demanding Mrs. Jones's purse, watch, and necklace, then Mr. Flint's wallet, ring, and watch. All were duly handed over.
Then, apparently, Mr. Flint made either a threatening gesture or derogatory comment (or both). One shot was fired. (Details of angle of entry, precise ultimate location of bullet in medulla oblongata, or pathologist's report in full, on request.) Death occurred almost instantly. Perpetrator then slashed Mrs. Jones on right temple, told her not to move for five minutes, gunned his hog, turned left on Berendo, and disappeared from view. Mrs. Jones subsequently discovered, in shock, by Ptrlmn. T. Tasely and Sgt. Brav of LAPD vehicle Fox Victor Fox, at 11:27 p.m. responding to anon. phone call received 11:22 p.m., seated in dazed condition on curb.
There followed a whole mess of additional reports and records of subsequent interviews, in fact there were so many bits and pieces in all that I thought briefly but seriously of upping Sneezy's fee another fifty bucks. Some extracts thereof: A note from ballistics stated that the bullet had been probably fired from a homemade handgun—i.e., a zip gun, of all the old-fashioned things.
NOTE: Say, kids! Want to make your very own genuine old-fashioned zip gun some rainy afternoon? Using only a bit of car antenna, easily stolen from your neighborhood scrap dealer, a clothespin spring, and a couple of other easily obtainable household items? Minimal skill required! If you can use a hacksaw, you can hack this one easy, kids. Will fire a standard .22 Long or .22 Short. Results guaranteed! Just send me the once-in-a-lifetime low, low price of $10, and I'll rush the plans to you by return mail. Be warned—if you are under sixteen years of age, U.S. Federal Law requires the signature of a parent, guardian, or parole officer on your application.
Apropos of the above, I hate to see the old skills die out, don't you, old-timers? That hard-won lore that was once so proudly passed on from generation to generation? What kid today knows how to make a stink bomb, or a bomb from an empty Prince Albert tobacco tin and the heads of a large box of wooden matches? And, speaking of matches, with a penknife and a wooden clothespin, in five minutes you can make a little gun that not only shoots them at your brother, but lights them first. Yes, the old arts are dying, dying . . . opening a car door with a coat hanger . . . opening vending machines without a key . . . hot-wiring . . . boosting records . . . how to shoplift small items without risk . . . the soft drink scam . . . how to make money from those opera glasses many large theaters have for temporary rental . . . the proper price to charge another kid for letting him sneak in the emergency door of a movie house . . . the screen door technique . . . three funny and one dangerous thing to do with a Coke bottle . . . bubble-gumming Ma Bell . . . Enow! I must cry enow before tears begin to trickle down a couple of well-worn furrows in a pair of equally well-worn cheeks.
Back to business. Also from Sneezy: From Sergeant Brav's report, the information that Mrs. Jones was treated for shock and possible concussion and had her wound treated by the doc on duty at the Marsden Hospital Emergency, 11:52 p.m., then returned to studio, 12:24 a.m. Present in studio—4 members of a group called "Meal Ticket" (names and addresses given), one technician (ditto), and Mr. L. R. Jones, all of whom appeared to have been on or about the premises continually since 7:20 p.m. Also from Sergeant Brav: the subsequent statement from Mrs. Jonathan E. (Deborah) Flint (née Smith) given at her home, in which she denied knowledge of any possible business worry Mr. Flint might have had, denied knowledge of any enemies he might have had, and denied there had been any marital discord between them. Only insurance policy held by him was 8-year-old company policy, with no recent alterations, for $50,000.
Also: Appended blood tests revealed an alcohol level of .04 in the deceased—roughly two drinks—and half of that for Mrs. Jones.
And so what to make of all that, I wondered?
Not much, on the face of it, except for a wave of disgust at the brutal and seemingly casual nature of it. And for what? Who carried around a lot of cash these days? Only the likes of Phil 'n' Ted. Pawn a necklace, a wedding ring, and a couple of watches and you won't get rich, either. You might get some use out of a handful of credit cards if you got exceptionally busy for a couple of hours, but in the middle of the night? What a waste.
I was saved from further reflections on mortality and ladybugs and brief candles and the like by the arrival of Injun Joe, who made his usual hesitant scratching noise on my office door. I welcomed him effusively. So did his old pal King. After giving him a good once-over and a couple of sniffs, I decided he could just about get through the doors of a war-surplus store, say, without getting heaved out, so off we went shopping, something I was not particularly looking forward to. I mean, what man likes shopping for clothes anyway, let alone when he's buying them for someone else, let alone for an Injun wino.
It turned out to be not that bad; we got all we needed (but not all he wanted) in just two stops, one at a Sergeant York's surplus out on Ventura, the moccasins—and a pair of white socks I threw in—at a cut-rate shoe store next door. Luckily, Joe knew what sizes of everything he wore, as there was no way the clerks in either emporium were going to let poor old Joe in his torn old sweaters and sockless feet try on any of their products. King profited from the expedition to the extent of a new, super-hard rubber ball; all I got out of it was a bill totaling $82.83, can you believe.
Back at the office, Joe expressed a desire to see himself all dolled up in his new finery. I said, OK, but he would just have to undoll himself after, because to protect my investment I would be keeping the duds chez moi until the big event, afterward he could do what he wanted with them and in them. So Joe scooted back to the kitchenette with his parcels, happy as
a kid on Christmas morn. And I must say he looked greatly improved when he reappeared, even if he had his shirt buttoned up wrong. He corrected that. I asked him to do up the top button, too, as it looked more Indian, somehow. He did so. And when he added the beaded headband ($6.00!), darned if he didn't look like a veritable descendant of the mighty Crazy Horse himself.
After Joe had, with extreme reluctance, changed back into his old (old is right) clothes, I slipped him a little walking-around money, told him to show up promptly at the office at five o'clock Friday afternoon without fail, but with a shave and a shampoo, and off he shuffled, his blanket over one shoulder, to who knew what sad adventures. Shortly thereafter, King and I shuffled off home. I knew what adventure I was heading for that evening, 'twas to be a musical adventure, to which I looked forward with mixed emotions. No, it wasn't to hear some second-rate touring company sing La Traviata in the original Greek, to that my emotions wouldn't be mixed in the slightest. Rick was sitting in with a local country band, and of course Tom 'n' Jerry were going to drop in casual like, just happening to have their axes with them, what luck! My mixed emotions didn't come from the thought of the music, heaven forbid, I loved country and I liked Rick 'n' Tom 'n' Jerry. No, women were the cause of my emotional turmoil, not for the first time and extremely unlikely for the ultimate. See, my heartthrob, Evonne, had, B.V.D. (before Vic Daniel), a heavy crush of her own, she had let slip out late one noche when we were dancing to something sweet and sentimental in her apartment wearing nothing but one sheet wrapped around the both of us. Said crush had played for her senior prom. It was the first time she had ever worn an evening dress. It was pale blue chiffon, with bell sleeves and a scoop neckline. A white camellia was pinned where camellias get pinned. A blue velvet headband kept her blond curls in check; long white gloves with innumerable buttons graced her dainty fingers and slim arms; T-strap Fuck-Me's adorned her restless feet. Her perfume was a few dabs of her mother's White Shoulders, she had even dreamily recalled.