Because the Night (17 page)

Lloyd let the words sink in, retaining eye contact with the Doctor. The thesis was sound, but what was the next investigative step?

Finally Havilland lowered his eyes and spoke. “I'd like to help you, Sergeant. I have lots of informed criminal sources. My own mini-grapevine, so to speak.”

“I'd appreciate it,” Lloyd said, taking a business card from his jacket pocket. “This has my office and home numbers on it. You can call me regardless of the time.” He handed Havilland the card. Havilland pocketed it and said, “Could I have that picture of Goff? I'd like to show it to some of my counselees.”

Lloyd nodded. “Don't mention that Goff is a homicide suspect,” he said as he placed the snapshot in the Doctor's hand. “Try to sound casual. If your patients think this is a big deal, they might try to exploit the situation for money or favors.”

“Of course,” Havilland said. “It's the only professional way to do it. By the same token, let me state this flat out: I cannot and will not jeopardize the anonymity of my sources, under any circumstances.”

“I wouldn't expect you to.”

“Good. What will you do next?”

“Hit the bricks, chew on your thesis, go over the existing paperwork forty or fifty times until something bites me.”

Havilland laughed. “I hope the bite won't be fatal. You know, it's funny. All of a sudden you look very grave, and just like my father. Bad thoughts?”

Lloyd laughed until his sides ached and tears ran down his cheeks. Havilland chuckled along, forming a series of steeples with his fingers. Regaining his breath, Lloyd said, “God, that feels good. I was laughing at how ironic your question was. For a solid week I've had nothing but homicide on my brain, but when you said ‘bad thoughts' I was thinking of that incredible woman on your walls.”

Laughing wildly himself, the Doctor blurted out, “Linda Wilhite has that effect on a man. She can tur—” He caught himself in mid-sentence, stopped and said, “She can move men to the point of wanting to speak her name out loud. Forget what I said, Hopkins. My counselees' anonymity is sacred. It was unprofessional of me.”

Lloyd got to his feet, thinking that the poor bastard was in love, beyond rhyme or reason, with a woman who probably caused traffic jams when she walked down the street to buy a newspaper. He smiled and stuck out his hand. When Havilland took it, he said, “I do unprofessional things all the time, Doc. Guys with our kind of juice should fuck up once in a while out of
noblesse oblige.
Thanks for your help.”'

Dr. John Havilland smiled. Lloyd walked out of his office, willing his eyes rigid, away from the photographs of Linda Wilhite.

T
HE Night Tripper began to hyperventilate the very second that Lloyd Hopkins walked out his door. The suppressed tension that had fueled his performance,
his brilliant performance,
started to seep out through his pores, causing him to shiver uncontrollably and grab at his desk to fight his vertigo. He held the desktop until his knuckles turned white and cramps ran up his arms to his shoulders. Concentrating on his own physiology to bring his control back to normal, he calculated his heartbeat at one twenty-five and his blood pressure as stratospheric. This professional detachment in the face of extreme fear/elation calmed and soothed him. Within seconds he could feel his vital signs recede to something approaching normalcy. “Father. Father. Father,” Dr. John Havilland whispered.

When his physical and mental calm united, the Doctor replayed his performance and assessed the policeman, astonished to find that he was not the right-wing plunderer he had expected, but rather a likable fellow with a sense of humor that was offset by the violence he held in check just below the surface of his intellect. Lloyd Hopkins was a bad man to fuck with. So was he. He had taken their first round easily, running on instinct. Round two would have to be meticulously planned.

Checking his desk calendar, the Doctor saw that he had no patients for the rest of the day and that Linda Wilhite's next session was still two days off. Thoughts of Linda spawned a long series of mental chess moves. Hopkins would be leaving for New York, unless he discovered evidence to keep him in Los Angeles. It would not do to have “Crazy Lloyd” talk to the administrators at Attica. Round two would have to be initiated today, but how?

Just then it hit him. At their first session Linda had spoken of a “client” who collected Colombian art and who took nude photos of her and hung them in his bedroom.
Another pawn.

Havilland opened the wall safe hidden behind his Edward Hopper original and took out Thomas Goff's verbatim transcription of Linda's john book/journal. He sifted through pages of sexual facts, figures, and ruminations before he found mention of the man.

8/28/83; Stanley Rudolph, 11741 Montana (at Bundy) 829-6907. Referred by P.N.

A truly ambivalant man. He lives in a condo full of Colombian art (aesthetic!) that he claims he buys dirt cheap from doper rip-off bimbos (macho obnoxiousness!). The statues were atavistic,
virile,
wonderful. Stanley talks them up so much prior to business that I know he wants something other than straight fucking—especially when he starts calling me a work of fucking art. Lead in to (of course!) a photography session! (Reading between the lines—Stan baby is impotent, digs nudie shots juxtaposed against his phallic statues). Stan takes his shots (no beavers—actually tasteful)—(Stan the Aesthete)—then tells me stories about all the women who beg for his donkey dick (Stan the macho buffoon). I lounge around nude trying to keep from cracking up. $500.00.

9/10/83—Ambivalent Stan has become a regular at $500.00 per. I am now framed on his walls in naked splendor. Weird. I wish my breasts were bigger.

Havilland replaced the transcript in his safe and thought of another faceless pawn living a sleazy life in the Valley industrial district, then locked up his office and went looking for her.

Junior Miss Cosmetics was situated at the northeast edge of the San Fernando Valley, a squat green stucco building enclosed by rusted cyclone fencing. Outside the wire perimeter was a huge dirt lot filled with carelessly parked cars, and across the street stood an entire city block of cocktail lounges, all of them flashing neon signs at three o'clock in the afternoon. Parking underneath a sign advertising “Nude Workingman's Lunch,” Dr. John Havilland felt like he had just entered hell.

The Doctor locked his car and counted neon blinking doorways all the way up the block, ending with a total of nine. He walked into the first door, wincing against a blast of country western music, squinting until he could make out a bandstand and an overweight redhead doing a listless nude boogie. There was a horseshoe-shaped bar off to his left. Steeling himself for his role, Havilland took a twenty dollar bill from his money clip and walked over.

The bartender looked up as he approached. “You drinking or you want the lunch?” he asked.

Havilland placed the twenty flat on the bar and willed his voice to suit the environment. “I'm looking for Sherry Shroeder. A buddy of mine says she hangs out here.”

“Sherry's eighty-six,” the bartender said. “She gets coked or juiced and gets rowdy. You looking to pour some pork?”

The Doctor gawked, then said, “What?”

The bartender spoke slowly, as if to an idiot child. “You know, push the bush? Slake the snake? Drain the train? Siphon the python?”

Havilland swallowed and took another twenty from his pocket. “Yes. All those things. Where can I find her? Please tell me.”

Snatching up the two bills, the bartender leaned over and spoke into the Doctor's ear. “Go down the street to the Loafer Gopher. Sherry should show up there sooner or later. Sit at the bar, and sooner or later she'll come up and try to sit on your face. And, buddy? Keep your roll to yourself. They got some righteous shitkickers down there.”

The Loafer Gopher was dark and featured punk rock. Havilland sat at the bar and sipped scotch and soda while Cindy and the Sinners sang their repertoire of “Prison of Your Love,” “Nine Inches of Your Love,” and “Gimme Your Love” over and over. He arrayed a stack of one dollar bills in front of him and tried to avoid eye contact with the topless barmaid, who considered eye to eye meetings a signal to refresh drinks. Playing Mozart in his mind to kill the hideous music and conversation surrounding him, the Doctor waited.

The waiting extended into hours. Havilland sat at the bar, buying a drink ever twenty minutes, nursing the top, then, unseen, dumping the rest on the floor. When mental Mozart began to pall, he fantasized Sherry Shroeder as everything from a Nordic ice maiden to a platinum-coiffed slattern, using her security file statistics as his physical spark point. He was nearing the limits of both his patience and imagination when coy fingers caressed his neck and a coy female voice asked, “Care to buy a lady a drink?”

Havilland swiveled his stool to face the come-on. The woman who had delivered it looked like a burned-out beach bunny. Her face was seamed from too much sun and chemical ingestion, with deep furrows around the mouth and eyes that bespoke many desperate attempts to be fetching and an equal number of rejections. Her blond hair was set in a lopsided frizzy style that added to her look of anxiousness. But her features were pretty, and her designer jean and tanktop-clad body was lean and womanly. If this was his actress, Richard Oldfield would love her.

“I'm Sherry,” the woman said.

Havilland signaled the barmaid and smiled at his pawn. “I'm Lloyd.”

She giggled as the barmaid placed a tall drink in front of her and grabbed two of the Doctor's one dollar bills as payment. She took a long sip and said, “That's a good name. It goes with your blazer. You don't really dress for the Gopher, but that's okay, ‘cause there's so many bars on this strip that you can't go home and change every time you hop one, can you? I mean, is that the truth?”

“That's the truth,” Havilland said. “I dress conservatively because the bigwigs at the studio demand it. I'm just like you. I can't go home and change every time I go out on a talent search.”

Sherry's eyes widened. She gulped the rest of her drink and stammered, “Ar-ar-are you an agent?”

“I'm an independent movie producer,” Havilland said, snapping his fingers at the barmaid and pointing to Sherry's empty glass. “I sell art movies to a combine of millionaires, who screen the films in their special screening rooms. As a matter of fact, I'm here looking for actresses.”

Sherry downed her fresh drink in three fast swallows. Havilland watched her eyes expand and bodice flush. “I'm an actress,” she said in a rush of breath. “I've done extra work and I've done loops and other stuff. Do you think you—”

Havilland silenced her with a finger to her lips, then looked around the bar. No one seemed interested in their business. “Let's go outside and talk,” he said. “This place is too loud.”

Sherry led him across the street to the Junior Miss parking lot and her battered VW van. “I used to work there,” she said as she unlocked the passenger door. “They fired me because I was overqualified. They found out I had a bigger I.Q. than the president of the company, so they let me go.”

Havilland sat down in the passenger seat and made a mental note not to touch anything inside the vehicle. Sherry walked around the front of the van and squeezed in behind the wheel. When she looked at him importuningly, the Doctor said, “Sherry, I'll be frank. I produce high-budget adult films. Normally I would not advise a serious young actress like yourself to appear in such a movie, but in this case I would—because only a private audience of Hollywood bigshots will be viewing it. Now let me ask you, have you had experience in adult films?”

Sherry's answer came out in a gin-fueled torrent of words. “Yeah, and this is perfect because before I did loops and the camera guy said my mom and dad would never know. We shot in the boys' gym at Pacoima Junior High, ‘cause the camera guy knew the janitor and he had the key, and we had to shoot late at night ‘cause then nobody would be around. Ritchie Valens went to Pacoima Junior High, but he got killed with Buddy Holly on February 3, 1959. I was just a little girl then, but I remember.”

The final memory numbed the Doctor. He took out his billfold and said, “We'll be shooting in two days or so, at a big house in the Hollywood Hills. Two performers—you and a very handsome young man. Your pay is a thousand dollars. Would you like an advance now?”

Sherry Shroeder threw her arms around Havilland and buried her head in his neck. When he felt her tongue in his ear, he grabbed her shoulders and pushed her away. “Please, Sherry, I'm married.”

Sherry gave a mock pout. “Married men are the best. Can I have a C-note now?”

Havilland took three hundreds from his billfold. He handed them to Sherry and whispered, “Please keep quiet about this. If word gets out, other actresses will be bothering me for parts, and I think I want to stick with you exclusively. All right?”

“All right.”

Havilland smiled. “I need your phone number.”

Sherry reached in the glove compartment, then flicked on the dashboard light and handed the Doctor a red metallic flaked business card bearing the words, “Sherry—Let's Party! Incall and outcall, 632-0140.” Havilland put the card in his pocket and nudged the passenger door open with his shoulder. He smiled and said, “I'll be in touch.”

Sherry said, “Party hearty, Lloyd baby,” and gunned her engine. The Doctor watched the VW van peel rubber into the night.

The Night Tripper drove to a pay phone and called Richard Oldfield at his home, speaking a single sentence and hanging up before Oldfield could reply. Satisfied with the force of his words, he drove to the Hollywood Hills and his third stellar performance of the day.

Oldfield had left the front door unlocked. The Night Tripper walked through it to find his pawn kneeling on the living room floor in his efficacy training posture, head thrust out and eyes closed, hands clasped behind his back. He was stripped to the waist, and his pectoral muscles were twitching from a recent workout.