Black & white police cars — a four-point press descending. Bullhorn roar — garbled — something like, “Buick Skylark pull over!”
I obeyed — very very slow.
I got out of the car and raised my brain-crusted hands.
Cop cars fishtailed up and boxed me in. Somebody yelled, “That’s Contino, not the Whipcord!” Harness bull stampede — gun-wielding fuzz surrounded me.
A plainclothesman got up in my face. “Your wife called us from the DMV She got a make on that 1116 temp license and traced it to the Skylark, which just got a paint job and some permanent plates. She told us how the car was tailing your friend the Staples woman, and Sheriff’s Homicide just got a second eyewitness who tagged this as the West Hollywood Whipcord’s very own—”
I cut in. “I’ll explain all this later, but right now you’ve got to be looking for a light-blue ’51 Ford. The Whipcord’s got Chris Staples, and he’s heading east with her in that car.”
The cop shrieked orders; black & whites shrieked eastbound rapidamente. My brain shrieked—
Spill on the kidnap caper? — no, don’t implicate Chrissy. Dead certain — the Whipcord killed Fritzie — don’t reveal that either. Would Whipcord take Chris to the Griffith Park shack — NO — he wouldn’t go near it.
“Fuck You To Death” implied slow torture implied Chris with a chance to survive.
The plainclothesman said, “The Whipcord’s got an apartment near here. Follow me in the Skylark, maybe you’ll see something that will help us.”
I saw:
Plastic dolls sash cord strangled, dripping nail polish blood.
Stuffed dolls ripped open, spilling kapok.
Polaroids of bumper-jack bludgeoned lovers.
Thousands of silk scarves tossed helter-skelter.
Chris Staples publicity pix, semen-crusted.
Chrissy’s Nugget fold-out defaced with swastikas.
Barbie and Ken dolls going 69. Crudely glued-on photograph faces: Chris Staples, Dick Contino.
A photo-faced pincushion voodoo dolclass="underline" Dick Contino with a hatpin stuck in his crotch.
It hit me:
He thinks Chris and I are lovers. He wants to kill us both. This fixation will make him indecisive — he’ll keep Chrissy alive for awhile.
The plainclothesman said, “His name’s Duane Frank Yarnell, and I don’t think he takes too kindly to you and Miss Staples.”
Those dolls — Jesus fuck. “Can I go now? Can I take the Skylark and drop it off later?”
“Yeah, you can. I yanked the APB on it, but the Sheriff’s have a want on it, so you’ll have to get it back by tonight. And I want to see you downtown at LAPD Homicide tonight, no later than 6:00. There’s a dead man with a stocking on his face and a bullet in his head that you have to explain, and I’m just dying to hear your story.”
I said, “Just find Chris and save her.”
He said, “We will make every effort. Are you sure there’s nothing you can tell us now that will help us?”
I lied: “No.”
Tears in my eyes, a blood-smeared windshield — luck got me to Fritz Shoftel’s pad intact. I laid some jive and a tensky on his landlady — she unlocked his apartment and bugged out.
The living room and kitchen — nothing amiss. The bedroom—
Fritzie hung from a ceiling beam — cinched up by at least fifty neckties. Eviscerated: entrails oozing from deep torso rips. Viscera piles on the floor — shaped into a swastika.
I ran for the bathroom and hurled just short of the door. Towels atop a hamper — I soaked one in cold water, swabbed my face and got up the juice for a search.
The bedroom, first glance:
A bookshelf crammed with acting texts. Knife wounds on Fritzie’s arms — figure Whipcord tortured him for kidnap info. A dresser and closet — be thorough, now.
Work clothes. Teamster t-shirts. A photo of Fritz and Jimmy Hoffa — someone drew devil’s horns on the big man. Rubbers, women’s undies — Fritz admitted he was a longtime panty sniffer. Rolls of dimes, Playboy magazines, a Playboy rabbit keychain. A group picture: Fritzie’s World War II outfit. More panties, more rubbers, more Playboys, an L.A. Parks and Recreation Field Guide dog-eared to a Griffith Park page.
I examined it. The kidnap shack location was x-marked; pencil press indentation lines grew out of it. I found a magnifying glass and traced them to their terminus: a cave area a half mile southwest of the shack.
I re-checked the map. Tilt — dirt roads marked off — Observatory to cave turf access.
Somebody charted escape routes and other hide-outs on tracing paper. They weren’t part of the initial kidnap plan — I would have known. Double tilt: Whipcord gets us to the shack and kills Marichal there. It’s just a short hop to the caves — where he can kill Contino and Staples at leisure.
Leisure = time = go NOW, don’t buzz the fuzz.
I hauled up to Griffith Park. Danny Getchell lurked by the Greek Theatre, backstopped by some movie camera schmuck. Oblivious shitbird — he didn’t know the whole scheme had gone blooey.
I ditched the Skylark in the Observatory lot. Access roads would take me straight to the caves — but I couldn’t risk car noise that close to Whipcord. Sprint time — I ran straight up to the kidnap shack.
Empty — scalps on the table, biz as usual. I followed tracing paper lines southwest; adrenaline jacked my heart up to my pompadour.
There — a clearing offset by cave-dotted hills. Tire marks on the road; a ’51 Ford covered with camouflage shrubs.
Four cave openings.
I crept up and re-conned, ears cocked for horror. One, two — silent. Three — squelched screams and insane ramblings.
“I have worshipped the Great Fire God for lo these years, and I have heeded the teachings of His only son, Adolf Hitler. He has asked me for silk scarf sacrifices, and I have given them to Him. Now the Great Fire God wishes me to take a wife, and first consecrate her with the markings of His son.”
I crept in. Pitch dark, twisty, damp — I hugged the cave wall. Motor hum, then light — Whipcord had an arclamp set up.
Shadows, shapes half-visible. Shadow bounces, full light on pale skin: Chrissy’s back, marked with a red swastika.
Trickling blood — not a gouge — still TIME.
I tiptoed outside to the Ford. Adrenaline: one good yank ripped the back seat out clean. I found a siphon tube in the trunk, popped the gas cap and sucked.
Lip traction caught — I soaked the seat cushion with ethyl. Springs and a baseboard to grip — I hoisted the hundred pounds of vinyl and foam up easy.
Unwieldy — but I got a match lit. WHOOOOOOOOOSH — the Fire God stormed the cave.
Smoke, screams up ahead. Flames snaking sideways — my arm hair sizzled. Godawful heat, shots — I felt foam rip close to my heart.
Chris screamed.
Whipcord screamed gobbledygook. Bullets smashed my shield of fire and exploded.
Heat, smoke, wind sucking flames away from me.
Whipcord kept firing — two guns — very close range. The top of the seat cushion blew off — I held on to red-hot springs and kept coming.
A blue halo behind Whipcord: clear sky.
I piled into him.
His hair caught fire.
I kept pushing toward the blue.
Whipcord ran backwards, screaming.
I chased him.
He hit thin air — I hurled the cushion at him.
Flaming pinwheels off a hundred foot cliff.
I grabbed Chris, ran her out to the Ford, tucked her low in the passenger seat. Fire God fast: down dirt roads, through the lot, Vermont south. Roadblocks by the Greek Theatre; Danny Getchell, camera ready. Cops yelled, “Stop!” — I got the notion this Fire God Buggy could fly. I worked the clutch/gas/shifter just right — the fucker went airborne. Shots behind me, residual shouts — magically audible. I heard “CONTINO,” but no one yelled, “COWARD.”