Pulp (10 page)

After all, there was still the Red Sparrow and Cindy Bass. I took out a coin and flipped it: heads, Red Sparrow; tails, Cindy Bass. It came up tails. I smiled, leaned back in my chair and thought about her: Cindy Bass. Nailing it.

Well, to celebrate my progress as probably the greatest detective in L.A. I closed the office, took the elevator down and hit the street. I tried walking south, did, hit Sunset Boulevard and strolled along.

Problem with Sunset, in my neighborhood, there weren’t many bars.

I walked along. Finally found one, half-a-class place. I didn’t feel like sitting on a stool. I took a booth. Here came the waitress. She had on a mini-skirt, high heels, see-through blouse with padded brassiere. Everything was too small for her: her outfit, the world, her mind. Her face was hard as steel. When she smiled it hurt. It hurt her and it hurt me. She kept smiling. That smile was so false the hairs on my arms rose. I looked away.

“Hi, honey!” she said, “watcha havin’?”

I didn’t look at her face. I looked at her midriff. It was exposed.

She had a little paper rose, red, pasted across her bellybutton. I talked to the paper rose.

“Vodka and tonic with lime.”

“Sure, honey!”

She minced off, trying to roll her buns attractively. It didn’t work.

At once, I began to get depressed.

Don’t, don’t, Belane, I said to myself.

It didn’t take. Everybody was screwed. There were no winners.

There were only apparent winners. We were all chasing after a lot of nothing. Day after day. Survival seemed the only necessity. That didn’t seem enough. Not with Lady Death waiting. It drove me crazy when I thought about it.

Don’t think about it, Belane, I said to myself.

It didn’t take.

The waitress arrived with my drink. I put down a bill. She picked it up.

“Thanks, honey!”

“Wait,” I said, “bring me the change.”

“There isn’t any change.”

“Then, consider your tip included.”

She opened her eyes large. They were blank.

“What’re you, a god-damned cowboy?”

“What’s a cowboy?”

“You don’t know what a god-damned cowboy is?”

“No.”

“That’s somebody who wants a free ride.”

“You think that up yourself?”

“No. That’s what the girls call them.”

“What girls? The cowgirls?”

“Mister, you got a bug up your ass or what?”

“It’s most probably ‘what.’”

“MARY LOU!” I heard this loud voice, “THAT ASSHOLE GIVING YOU

TROUBLE?”

It was the bartender, a little guy with beetle brows.

“Don’t worry, Andy, I’ll handle this asshole.”

“Yeah, Mary Lou,” I said, “you’ve probably handled a lot of assholes.”

“WHY YOU COCKSUCKER!” she screamed.

I saw Beetle Brows vaulting the bar. Good trick for a guy his size.

I slammed my drink down and rose to meet him. I ducked under his right and dug my knee into his privates. He dropped, rolling on the floor. I kicked him in the ass and walked out onto Sunset Boulevard.

My luck in bars was getting worse and worse.

So I went to my place and drank and there went that day and that night.

I awakened about noon, eliminated some waste, brushed my teeth, shaved, mused. Didn’t feel too bad. Didn’t feel too much. I got dressed. I put on an egg, let it boil. I drank a glass of half-tomato and half-ale. I let the egg run under cold water, peeled it, ate it and then I was as ready as I would ever be.

I picked up the phone and got Jack Bass at his office. I told him who I was. He didn’t seem happy with me.

“Jack,” I told him, “remember that Frenchman I told you about?”

“Yeah? What about him?”

“I got him out of the way.”

“How?”

“He’s dead.”

“Good. Was he the one?”

“Well, he was in contact with her.”

“Contact? What the hell you mean by that?”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Try me, Belane.”

“Listen, I’m trying to nail Cindy’s ass. That’s why you hired me.

Right?”

“I don’t know why I hired you. I think it was a mistake.”

“Jack, I got the Frenchman. He’s dead.”

“So where do we stand?”

“He can’t bang her.”

“Did he?”

“Jack…”

“Did you? All this ‘nail her ass’ shit! Are you a pervert?”

“Look, I got a tight tail on Cindy. We want hard evidence.”

“There you go again!”

“We’re closing in, Jack. It won’t be long. Trust me.”

“Then there was more than the Frenchman?”

“I think so.”

“You think so? You think so? Hell, I’m paying you good money.

It’s been weeks and all you can tell me there’s a dead Frenchman and ‘I think so’? You’re just spinning your wheels! I want action! I want evidence! I want this thing busted wide open!”

“Within 7 days, Jack.”

“You’ve got 6.”

“6 days, Jack.”

There was silence at his end. Then he spoke again.

“All right. I’m leaving for the airport in an hour. Got business back east. I’ll be back in 6 days.”

“Everything will be solved, baby.”

“Don’t call me baby. What’s this ‘baby’ shit?”

“Just a manner of speaking…”

“You clean up this mess or I’ll see you in hell, motherfucker!”

“You talking to me, Jack?”

I was holding a silent telephone. He’d hung up on me. The prick.

Well…it was time to get busy…

So, there I was, parked outside of Bass’s place, a third of a block down. It was evening, no it was night, about 8 p.m. Cindy’s red Mercedes was in the drive. I had a hunch I was onto something.

Something was going to happen. There was a smell in the air. I put my cigar out. I picked up my car phone and dialed out for the results of the 9th race. Lost again. Life was wearing. I felt oppressed, wasted.

My feet hurt.

Cindy was probably in there watching something stupid on tv, crossing her warm legs and laughing at something inane and obvi-ous. Then I began thinking about Jeannie Nitro and her five space buddies. They wanted to enlist me. I was no sell-out. I had to break up that gang. There had to be a way. Maybe if I could find the Red Sparrow, the Red Sparrow would sing me the answer. Was I crazy?

Was all this happening?

I picked up the phone and dialed in John Barton. He was there.

“Listen, John, this is Belane. I’m having trouble closing in on the Red Sparrow. Maybe you better get another man.”

“No, Belane, I have faith in you, you’ll do it.”

“You really think so?”

“I have no doubt of it.”

“Well, I’ll stay on the case then.”

“Right.”

“I’ll contact you if I get onto anything.”

“Do that. Good night.”

He hung up. Nice guy.

I started to relight my cigar. I almost spit it out. Cindy Bass was walking out of the house. She moved to her car. Got in.

Baby, baby, lead me to it.

She started up, turned on her lights, backed out of the drive. She swung around, headed north. I followed a half a block or so back.

Then she turned onto the main boulevard, Pacific Coast Highway, to be exact. She headed south. I was about 3 car lengths back. She went across an intersection and the light turned red on me. I had to go through. It was close but no hit. I heard the horns and somebody called me an asshole. People lacked originality.

Then I was 3 car lengths behind her again. She was in the right hand lane. She began to slow down, then she turned into a driveway, a motel driveway.
Honeydunes Motel
. Sweet. She pulled in and parked at #9. I drove down to #7, parked, cut my lights and waited.

She climbed out, walked up the path, up to the door and knocked.

The door opened and a guy stood there.

Ah, Cindy!

The guy stood in the light and I could make him out.

He looked good. I don’t mean to me. But to her, he must have. He was young. Blank smooth face with thin eyebrows, lots of hair. In fact, looked like he had a little pigtail. You know the kind. It was braided. A real jackass. They embraced in the doorway. Some kind of kiss. I heard Cindy laugh. Then she walked in and the door was closed.

I grabbed my camcorder and walked down to the office. Walked in. There was nobody there. There was a little desk. A bell. I hit the bell. Nothing. I hit the bell real hard, 6 times.

Somebody came walking out. An old fart. He was barefooted, dressed in a long nightgown and a stocking cap.

“Ah ha,” I said, “you’re ready for a good little old sleep, huh?”

“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. What’s it to you?”

“No offense, sir. I need a room. Do you have a vacancy?”

“You a pimp?”

“Oh, no, sir.”

“You sell drugs?”

“No, sir.”

“Wish you did. I need some coke.”

“I’m a bible salesman, sir.”

“That’s disgusting!”

“Just trying to spread the word.”

“Well, don’t spread that shit around me.”

“As you wish.”

“Fucking-A!”

“Well, sir, I need a room.”

“We got two. #8 and #3.”

“Did you say #8?”

“I said, #8 and #3. Don’t you hear right?”

“I’ll take #8.”

“35 bucks. Cash.”

I peeled the money off. He grabbed it, slammed down a key.

“Don’t I get a receipt?”

“A what?”

“A receipt.”

“Spell it.”

“I can’t.”

“Then you don’t get it.”

I took the key, got out of there, walked down to #8, unlocked the door. Nice looking place. If you were homeless.

I found a glass in the kitchen. Brought it out and put it up against the wall facing #9. Luck. I could hear them.

“Billy,” I heard Cindy Bass say, “let’s not rush it. I want to talk a little first.”

“We can talk afterwards,” said Billy. “I got this ramrod here and I got to do something with it. I need flesh, not words!”

“I want to shower first, Billy.”

“Shower? What ya been doin’, working in the garden?”

“Ah, Billy, you’re so funny!”

“All right, go shower! I’ll throw some icewater on this cobra!”

“Ah, Billy, hahaha!”

I smiled for the first time in weeks.

I was going to nail her.

I kept the drinking glass pressed to the wall and kept listening. I heard the shower water running. Poor Bass, he had been right. But everybody was right, and wrong, and upside-down. But what did it really matter who screwed who? It was finally all so drab. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Well, people got attached. Once you cut the umbilical cord they attached to other things. Sight, sound, sex, money, mirages, mothers, masturbation, murder and Monday morning hangovers.

I put the glass down, reached into my coat, found the half pint of gin, had a little nip. That always cleared the bugs out of the mind.

I began to think about another line of work. Here I was going to bust in and camcord a screw scene and I just didn’t have any taste for it. It was just a job, the rent, the booze, just waiting for the last day or night. Marking time. What crap. I should have been a great philosopher, I would have told them how foolish we were, standing around sucking air in and out of our lungs.

Damn, I was getting gloomy. I had another little hit of gin, then put the glass back to the wall. She must have just been coming out of the shower.

“Holy Christ,” he said, “you’re stacked like ten brick shithouses!”

“Ah, Billy, you really think so?”

“I just told ya, didn’t I?”

“You say the sweetest things, Billy.”

“I mean, looka the
size
of them breasts! You should fall forward flat on your face but I guess it’s your big ass holds you back from doing that.”

“Oh, I don’t have a big behind, Billy.”

“Baby, that’s no behind! That there thing is a dump truck full of jelly, jam and dumplings!”

“But, Billy, how about
me
? What about what’s
inside
of me?”

“Baby, can’t you see this thing throbbing and leaping around in front of me?
I’ll
be
inside
of you!”

“Billy, I think I’ve changed my mind…”

“Baby, you got nothing to change! Come here! Climb onto this Tower of Power!”

I pulled the glass from the wall, checked my camcorder, slipped out the door and moved over to the porch of #9. Their door lock was easy. Got it open with my Visa card.

I heard the springs begging for mercy in the bedroom. I switched the camcorder on and rushed in there. I got it. Billy was banging away like ten rabbits. Somehow, he noticed me. He rolled off and leaped to the floor. His mouth was hanging open. He was quite surprised and then he was quite pissed. Naturally.

He looked at me.

“Shit, what’s this. What the FUCK is this?”

Cindy was sitting up in bed.

“He’s a dick, Billy. He’s crazy. He busted in on me and Jack working out and started camcording us. He’s a real nut, Billy.”

I looked at her.

“You shut up, Cindy! This is it! I’ve finally nailed your ass!”

Billy moved toward me.

“Hey, buddy, you think I’m going to let you out of here alive?”

“Oh, hell yes, Billy boy, I’m not going to have any problem leaving, no problem at all.”

“Says who?”

“Says my friend here.”

I pulled the .32 out from my shoulder holster.

“That damned thing ain’t going to stop me.”

“Try me, jerk!”

He kept slowly moving toward me.

“I’ve killed 3 men, Billy boy. 4 won’t matter a twit!”

“Liar, liar,” he smiled, moving toward me, “your mother’s pants are on fire!”

“One more step, fart-head, and it’s over!”

He took the step. I fired.

He just stood there. Then he reached down into his belly button and pulled the bullet out. There wasn’t any blood, not even a bruise.

“Bullets mean nothing to me,” he said, “and neither do you.”

He took the gun out of my hand and tossed it into the corner of the bedroom.

“Now it’s just me and you,” he said.

“Look, friend, let’s talk this over. You can have the camcorder. I’m retiring from this business. You’ll never see me again.”