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 eastbound.
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.
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.