“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 doll: 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.”