“Kill him, Jack.”
“Okay by me. Ten?”
“Ten. Clip him and buy me some time.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The hills–a big Spanish off Mulholland.
Lights on, Glenda’s car out front. Twenty-odd rooms– fuck pad supreme.
I parked, beams on a ’55 Chevy. Bad familiar: Harold John Miciak’s.
Be sure, tweak the high beams–Hughes Aircraft decals on the back fender.
Late-night quiet–big dark houses, just one lit.
Side 99
Ellroy – White Jazz
I got out and listened. Voices–his, hers–muffled low.
Up, try the front door–locked. Voices–his edgy, hers calm. Circuit the house, listen:
Miciak:”… you could do worse. Look, you come across for me, you pretend it’s Klein. I seen him come see you in Griffith Park, and as far as that goes, you can still give it to him–I’m not possessive and I got no partners. Mr. Hughes, he’s never gonna know, just you come across for me and get that money I want from Klein. I know he’s got it, ’cause he’s connected with some mob guys. Mr.
Hughes, he told me so hisself.”
Glenda: “How do I know there’s just you?”
Miciak:” ‘Cause Harold John’s the only daddy-o in L.A. man enough to mess with Mr. Hughes and this cop who thinks he’s so tough.”
Around to the dining room window. Curtain gaps–look: Glenda edging backward; Miciak pressing up, grinding his hips.
Slow walking–both of them–a knife rack behind Glenda.
I tried the window–no give.
Glenda: “How do I know there’s just you?”
Glenda: one hand reaching back, one hand out come hither.
Glenda: “I think we’d be good together.”
Around the back, a side door–I shoulder-popped it and ran in.
The hallway, the kitchen, there–
A clinch: his hands groping, hers grabbing knives.
Slow-motion numb–I _couldn’t_ move. Shock-still frozen, look: Knives down–in his back, in his neck–twisted in hilt-deep. Bone cracks–Glenda dug in–two hands blood-wet. Miciak thrashing AT HER–
Two more knives snagged–Glenda stabbing blind.
Miciak clawing the rack, up with a cleaver.
I stumbled in close–numb legs–smell the blood–
He stabbed, missed, lurched into the knife rack. She stabbed–his back, his face–blade jabs ripped his cheeks out.
Gurgles/screeches/whines–Miciak dying loud. Knife handles sticking out at odd angles–I threw him down, twisted them, killed him.
Glenda–no screams, this look: SLOW, I’ve been here before.
* * *
SLOW:
We killed the lights and waited ten minutes–no outside response. Plans then–soft whispers holding each other bloody.
No dining room carpet–luck. We showered and swapped clothes– Hughes kept a male/female stash. We bagged our own stuff, washed the floor, the rack, the knives.
Blankets in a closet–we wrapped Miciak up and locked him in his car trunk. 1:50
Side 100
Ellroy – White Jazz
A.M.–out, back–no witnesses. Out and back again–our cars tucked below Mulholland.
A plan, a fall guy: the Wino Will-o-the-Wisp, L.A.’s favorite at-large killer.
Out to Topanga Canyon solo–I drove Miciak’s car. Hillhaven Kiddieland Kamp–defunct, wino turf. I flashlight-checked all six cabins–no bums residing.
I stashed the car out of sight.
I wiped it.
Kougar Kub Kabin–dump the body.
I throttled the corpse per the Wisp MO.
I rolled it through sawdust to stuff up the stab wounds. Forensic logic: impacted wounds made knife casting impossible. Hope logic: Howard Hughes, publicity shy–he might not push to find his man’s killer.
I walked back to Pacific Coast Highway. SLOW fear speeding up–
Sporadic tails dogging me.
A tail tonight meant grief forever.
Glenda picked me up at PCH. Back to Mulholland, two cars to my place, bed just to talk.
_Small_ talk–her will held. CinemaScope/Technicolor knife work–I pushed to know she didn’t like it.
——–
I hit the pillow by her face.
I shined the bed light in her eyes.
I told her:
My father shot a dog/I torched his toolshed/he hit my sister/I shot him, the gun jammed/these Two Tony fucks hurt my sister/I killed them/I killed five other men/I took money–what gives you the right to play it so stylish–
Hit the pillow, make her talk–no style, no tears: She was floating, carhopping, this pretend actress. She was sleeping around for rent money–a guy told Dwight Gilette. He propositioned her: turn tricks for a fifty-fifty split. She agreed, she did it–sad sacks mostly. Georgie Ainge once–no rough stuff from him–but regular beatings from Gilette.