10.
Genealogies:
Wetback! into Border Patrol! into Daddy-O. Pedro into Big Pete into Phil “Daddy-O” Sandifer: truck driver/singer/romantic lead. Maria Martinez to Maggie Martell to Jana Ryan; Jane DePugh to Sandra Giles — pitch-girl for Mark C. Bloome Tires, semi-regular on Tom Duggan’s TV gabfest.
Jane gave up her “Movie Star” option and switched her major to pre-law — “So I can be more like my dad.” She sent me a farewell gift: her chipped tooth enshrined in a locket.
Dave DePugh continued to boss the kidnap plot — “Hollywood publicist might be a shrewd career switch.”
Pat Marichal and Fritz Shoftel stayed on-board — Sol Slotnick promised them SAG cards if the scheme succeeded.
Ten days raced by.
Chris, Kay, and Nancy continued to bunk at Fort Contino.
Bob Yeakel sent Pizza De-Luxe over with daily injections of grease.
Chrissy seduced pizza boy Ramon.
Ramon renounced his homosexuality.
Ramon told Kay he had to pretend Chris was a man.
Yeakel double delivered: some DMV flunky was collating license slips. Leigh was helping him out — she wanted the Chrissy problem resolved and the Fort Contino red alert suspended.
No more “Fuck You To Death” notes arrived.
No cars tailed Chris on her out-of-fort journeys. My journeys ditto — no suspicious vehicles, period.
I spilled my insider lead to Nancy and Chris: the West Hollywood Whipcord drove a light-colored ’53 Skylark. Crime Queen Nancy cut me off short: the Whipcord only snuffed couples; single-o women and hate notes weren’t his MO.
“Sex killers never change their modus operandi. I’ve been intimate with enough of them to know that’s true.”
Sol Slotnick found a pad down the street from Pink’s and secured his Daddy-O financing via high-interest loan from Johnny Stompanato. Stomp said he’d use his pay-back cash to market a new woman’s tonic — a Spanish fly compound guaranteed to induce instant and permanent nymphomania.
Chris and I joined Pat and Fritz for acting practice. Both men were “Motivation” obsessed. Fritz picked up a lightweight case of paranoia — sometimes he imagined a primer-gray sports car tailing him. Practice, dress rehearsals — waiting for a Daddy-O GO date.
Schizo days.
I rehearsed with the Scalper and the Rapist; I rehearsed with the Daddy-O director, Lou Place. David Moessinger’s Daddy-O script replaced Border Patrol! — it was tighter, but lacked political punch. Sol rescued his nightclub set from sweat shop rubble — it would serve as both the “Rainbow Gardens” and “Sidney Chillis’ Hi-Note” — major Daddy-O venues. The new screenplay called for me to sing — I learned “Rock Candy Baby,” “Angel Act” and “Wait’ll I Get You Home” pronto. My Daddy-O co-stars — Sandra Giles, Bruno VeSota, Ron McNeil, Jack McClure, Sonia Torgesen — were swell, but Scalp Man and Rape Man claimed my soul.
We’d hike up into the Griffith Park hills and bullshit. Pat Marichal brought fire water — he was working the “Method” on his Chief Joe Running Car persona. A few shots, a few yuks. Then the inevitable segue to the topic of courage.
My best take: you never knew when it was real or just moonshine to impress other people.
Pat’s best take: you know when you’re scared, but do what you’re scared of anyway — nobody else can ever know.
Fritzie’s best take: give the world what it respects to get you what you want, and keep close watch on your balls when nobody’s looking.
Time schizzing by — this fine L.A. winter fading out breezy.
Sol called and hit the brakes: Daddy-O was set to go four days hence.
The word flashed:
Mastermind/Scalper/Rapist to Victims — forty-eight hours until kidnap morning.
11.
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.
Leigh left for the DMV early.
Nancy and Kay left with her — baby Merri ditto.
Tick tick tick tick tick.
Chris and I watched the door.
Tick tick tick — my pulse worked triple-digit overtime. Chrissy’s neck veins pop-pop-popped — every cigarette drag made them throb.
8:00 even — the doorbell.
“Hello? Is anyone home? My car’s broken down, and I need to call the Auto Club.”
Good neighbor Dick opens up.
Two men in stocking masks sap him prone. He’s grabbed and hauled outside, good neighbor Chris likewise — she gets off her muffled scream right on cue.
Manhandled across the street — Stanislavsky Method tough. Weird: no mud-smeared Chevy in view.
More weird:
I made Pat Marichal through his mask. Nix on the other man — he was half a foot taller than Fritz Shoftel.
Slammed into a copper-colored sport coupe. Skewed glimpses: “Skylark” in longhand chrome, a spanking new metal license plate. My shoulder rubbed the door — paint smeared — a primer-gray spot showed through.
The car MOVED — Chris and I backseat-tangled — Pat driving.
The other man held a cocked Roscoe on us.
Down into Hollywood, speed limit cautious. Pat spoke out of character. “This is Duane. Fritz had an appendicitis and sent him in as a sub. He says he’s solid.”
Blip: Fritz said he’d been tailed by a primer-gray car.
Blip: Skylark/fresh paint/new permanent license.
Blip: tails on Chrissy.
Blip: light-colored and primer-gray = similar.
Chris shook from plain tension — she didn’t waft hink. The other man spoke in character. “Baby, you look so gooooooooooood. Baby, It’s gonna be so gooooooooooood.”
Talking stretched his mask. I recognized him: the scarf trick geek from the “Rocket to Stardom” try-outs.
Silk sashes — fashioned into hangman’s knots.
Blip: THE WHIPCORD.
Fountain and Virgil looming — the car switch — our only chance.
Chris, improvising nice: “You’re a filthy degenerate shitbird.”
Whipcord/sash man: “Baby, I want to fuck you to death.”
Neon bright hink — Chris flashed me this big HOLY SHIT!
On-cue — Pat pulled into the deserted Richfield Station.
Off-cue — I kicked the Whipcord’s seat and slammed him against the dashboard.
Go—
Whipcord — stunned. Pat, stunned — this wasn’t in the script. A ’51 Ford by some gas pumps — the transfer/getaway car.
Very very fast:
I kicked the seat again.
Chris tumbled out the passenger door. I got one leg out — and kicked Whipcord with the other.
Chrissy stumbled and fell.
Whipcord shot Pat in the face — brains spattered the windshield.
I tripped and fell out of the car. Whipcord kicked me — I rolled into a ball and dervish-spun toward Chris. Shots zinged the pavement — asphalt exploded shrapnel-like.
Chrissy got to her feet.
Whipcord grabbed her.
I stood up, charged, and tripped over a pump hose. Whipcord pistol-whipped Chris into the Ford and peeled out eastbound.
“I Want To Fuck You To—”
DEATH.
I pulled Pat out of the car and wiped his brains off the windshield with my sport coat. Keys in the ignition — I peeled east-bound.
25, 40, 60, 70 — double the speed limit. Blood streaks on my windshield — I hit the wipers and thinned it red to pink. No sight of the Ford; sirens behind me.
Sticky hands — I wiped them on the seat to grip the wheel better. Sirens in front of me, sirens wailing from both sides, ear-splitter loud.