No Beast So Fierce (9 page)

Before I got ready to move, I made a mistake—I talked too much. I'd kept stealing, and during the weekend of celebration after selling the truckload of stolen meat, I took L&L Red to see the whore who'd given me the original idea. She cursed the pimps, and I drunkenly boasted about what was going to happen to them. The prostitute, from fear or maliciousness (who knows what goes through the mind of a dope fiend whore?), telephoned her former pimp.

The pimp and two goons caught me in a parking lot and bounced me around. It was a pretty fair ass-kicking, but I was able to drive away. That was the pimp's mistake.

A week later he walked into his apartment and I was waiting, pistol in one fist and brass knuckles on the other. I told him, “You didn't think this shit was over, did you?” Five minutes later his teeth were stubs, his jaw fractured, his ribs broken. He didn't walk away.

Leaving him alive was my mistake. Because I lived by the criminal code, I'd assumed that he did, too. He told the police what had happened and who I was. It surprised me at that time, though with more experience I would have expected it.

It took forty-eight hours to post bail, so the story preceded my return to the vice scene. The pimp was in the hospital, but the eyes of others were averted.

A week later he testified at the preliminary hearing, claiming he didn't know why I'd attacked him. Afterward, I couldn't find him. I wanted to persuade him to keep quiet. If persuasion failed, I'd be faced with the choice of fleeing California or murdering him.

Fate relieved me of the choice. He was killed by a hit and run driver. I expected to be arrested forthwith, punched around a substation for several hours until my lawyer got a writ. Nothing happened. Nobody came to see me. On the day of trial the charges were dropped because the prosecution's main witness was “missing”. Incredible as it seemed, the police investigating the assault somehow didn't know about the accident, and those investigating the accident didn't know the deceased was a crucial witness in an assault trial.

The Sunset Strip underworld assumed that I'd killed him. Nobody knew the source of our quarrel, but rumors spread—the most generally accepted story was that he'd owed money to the Syndicate (or Vegas) and I was a “hit” man.

Fear had been indelibly printed in the Strip's underworld. Pimps turned their eyes away when I stared too hard. Bartenders became oily sycophants; seldom did I pay for a drink. It was funny to me, but I played it seriously.

The reason I never went through with the organization plan (besides still lacking henchmen) was that I got my own high-priced call girl, giving me nearly a thousand dollars a week, tax free. Twenty years old, from Texas, turned out in a New Orleans brothel, she called herself “Sandy Storm”. It pays to advertise in whoredom like everywhere else.

Eight months later Sandy grabbed the brass ring, departed for Australia as wife of a man who owned a sheep ranch half the size of Texas. Her departure left me with twenty-two grand in a safety deposit box, a new Cadillac, and a good wardrobe. Instead of getting another whore to support me, I began using my leisure and money (criminals will listen to a man with a “front”) to prepare scores, casing and planning and financing, for others to rip off. Most criminals live on desperation's brink, willing to act but lacking the wherewithal. They are quite willing to take the risk and give up a percentage if everything is arranged for them. One of my more lucrative operations was forgery. Twice a month I went to Tijuana and bought false identification and a book of checks printed on huge aerospace companies, Douglas, Boeing, Lockheed, or other giants such as Southern Pacific. Nobody questioned those kind of checks. Checks and three sets of identification costs $125, and finding thieves to hang such blue chip paper was easier than buying it. I took 30 percent. But this operation proved my downfall. A passer was caught, and in the police station had an attack of mouth diarrhea. Careless with success, I had checks, protector, and typewriter in the apartment when the door crashed in. The carelessness had cost me eight years.

By underworld standards (thief underworld), which consider how long the run of victories rather than the eventual fall, which is considered inevitable, I was a ringing success. Two years of silk suits, Cadillacs, and weekends in Palm Springs was the epitome of success, especially in the eyes of those with whom I'd been raised.

During the eight years in jail I realized that I hadn't been happy, and felt that what I'd had was a hollow triumph.

7

T
HE
bus driver called out Sunset Boulevard, the brakes whooshed, and I got off—returned to the land of my success. I saw irony in what I was doing. Despite my sincere resolves for a new life, I was still trying to profit from the old one. I was hoping to find someone who knew me, who was afraid of me, and who would give me money because of that fear. Rosenthal would never understand, but he'd never been released from prison with the clothes on his back, no family, no job, and enough money for two frugal weeks.

Brassy sunlight dazzled me. Before I'd walked fifty feet down the boulevard the perspiration was stinging my eyes. The scenery was familiar—motels with giant signs, car washes, clothiers, towering palm trees. Yet it was different, too—time-yellowed. Motel paint was flaking, and streaks of red rust from leaky drainpipes marred building façades. Dust coated the palm trees, making them dull and lifeless rather than the bright green I remembered.

One thing was certain: my destination was more blocks away from the corner than my recollection. When I pushed through the padded door of the cocktail lounge my necktie was off, my coat was over my arm, and I was gritting my teeth to keep from limping. Confronted by the sudden dimness, wheels of coruscating light flashed before my eyes. Stretching a hand out, I eased forward and found a stool, feeling like a yokel, expecting gusts of laughter. Air conditioning washed coolly over my face, making me more conscious of my sweat-wetted body. A bartender—a dim figure in white shirt behind the plank—appeared. I ordered a Tom Collins and a glass of ice water.

While gulping the water and waiting for the drink, surroundings began to materialize as my eyes adjusted. The decor was a deep red trimmed with black. My memory was of gold and black. The dozen patrons made a good weekday crowd for any bar.

When I paid for the drink I was again uncomfortably aware of my dwindling funds. Who would the bartender most likely know? Rick DeLavelle came to mind. Rick was a coward; he'd throw an arm around my shoulder, profess undying friendship and offer help.

My glass was empty, drained faster than intended. The young bartender saw the empty glass and came over. He had long hair, his face was thin and sallow. I motioned to repeat the drink. “Say, I've been out of town. How can I get in touch with Rick DeLavelle?”

“You've been gone a long time, buddy. He died three years ago.”

“Is that right? What happened?”

“I don't know.” The bartender eyed me suspiciously, classifying me as a sucker or a policeman from the cheap suit and short hair.

When he brought the second drink, I asked, “What about Ernie Baker?”

“What about him?”

“Do you know him?”

“Seen him around.”

“When does he come in?”

“I mix drinks and punch the cash register. I don't know when anybody comes in.”

“Can I leave a note?”

“This isn't the post office, pal.”

Anger had been smoldering because of frustration, everything; it suddenly geysered red to my brain. I stood up, leaning across the bar. “You dog ass cocksuckin' punk! I'll bust your head open and fuck you in your ass—punk! Say you don't believe, punk!” Saliva sprayed him. His eyes widened. Disdain was replaced by sudden fear. He shrank back until he bumped into the rear counter.

I trembled—but his face dissipated my fury. Only a vague, background recollection that a brawl would return me to prison had kept me from lunging across the bar and beating him senseless. And if furious words had not brought the proper response, I was ready to do it anyway. I was accustomed to men who were respectful of one another—not through etiquette but because each knew the other was dangerous and a slight could erupt in violence, possibly murder.

“Man, like cool it!” he said. “Please! I didn't mean—like when dudes come in here asking questions, what …” He spread his hands to explain confusion.

“Better learn how to talk to people or you'll get your ass brought to you, Jack,” I said.

“Man, I'm sorry. I thought you might be fuzz.”

“I might be, but talk to people with respect.”

“No cop cusses like that.” He tried to smile.

It was suddenly ridiculous.

“I'll cool it,” I said. “Let me think a minute … Will you see Ernie?”

“He comes in now and then during the day. I go off at six—but I can leave word.”

“I'll leave a note and call you tomorrow. What's your name?”

“Willy Epstein.”

“Okay, Willy. Forget our little bullshit. How's Ernie doing?”

“Better'n me. He's got an old lady hustlin' and he's pushing a Caddy.”

“You know where he's living?”

“I barely know him by sight.”

“Then give me a pencil and paper.”

Poised to write the note, thinking of the tone to establish, I suddenly saw how I was slipping toward the same old rut. I'd called Willy Darin and it had led me to L&L Red and the robbery proposition. Where would Ernie lead me? God knew I needed some money. I crumpled the blank paper and dropped it in an ashtray and started to walk out—then recalled that I hadn't paid for the second drink. “Fuck it,” I thought, and kept going.

“Say,” the bartender called. I ignored him.

Noonday's angry blaze swallowed me. Automobile traffic was a horde of shiny-backed beetles moving in jostling columns. Sweat was pouring down my body again and every step throbbed the blisters. It was time for the job interview in Hollywood, and my appearance would hardly be impressive.

A female voice called my name. A sleek new sedan was double-parked next to where I walked. Traffic was backing up. A blonde in the passenger seat was beckoning to me. I swerved off the curb and around the parked car. The blonde was too young for me to know, and whoever was behind the wheel was hidden by the windshield rejecting sunlight like a mirror. The blonde opened the door and moved aside to make room. “Get in.”

I got in. The man behind the wheel was familiar, but memory failed to identify him. The car surged forward as those behind bleated their driver's irritation.

“Close the window, baby,” the man said, “you're letting cool air out.”

“Watch yourself,” the blonde said to me, leaning across to push a button. Her breast rubbed negligently against my forearm. She sent electric shivers through my stomach. Whether from her blatant sensualness or my prolonged continence, the reaction was intense, and momentarily distracted me from trying to identify the driver. He was a big man going soft, belly spreading wide beneath a garish sportshirt. Full mouth, curly hair streaked with gray, olive complexion—Jew or Italian. The face of someone I knew fairly well, but long ago. No close friend.

“Introduce us, Abe,” the blonde said, tugging his arm.

“Max, this is Angie Nichols—Max Dembo.”

I acknowledged the introduction, but the blonde had clicked the tumblers. “Abe” was Abe Meyers, Bail Bonds. Only he hadn't been a bondsman when I met him, nor was he now if I remembered the newspapers correctly. His license had been taken for some shady deal. That was last year. When I met him, long ago, he'd owned a hot dog stand on the east side that catered to young hoodlums. He'd bought hot merchandise and sold pills. Later, he'd owned a down-town beer joint where bets could be placed. Someone else took the bets. Abe stayed in the background, always. Then Abe had moved to the Strip about the same time as myself. His action was different from mine and I didn't know what he was doing. But we were nodding acquaintances when our paths crossed, enough so that when I heard his name in prison it registered. He'd become a big time bail bondsman—but the main thing that rang in my mind was stool pigeon. There was a question mark involved. A pair of jewel thieves accused him of responsibility for their fall. I remembered that when I first heard the accusation I'd withheld judgment. The facts were flimsy. Yet there was enough to make me wary, avoid situations where a stool pigeon could harm me—and that would be easy considering that I was considering nothing illegal.

“We were at the light when you came out of Cheri's,” Abe said. “Surprised hell out of me.”

“It's me, in the flesh.”

“Where you headed?”

I pointed down the boulevard.

“No car?”

“Not yet.”

Abe frowned, caught my eye with a silent question. I looked meaningfully at Angie, also a question.

“She's all right,” Abe answered. “She works for me.”

“So?”

“So when did you get in town?”

“First of the week.”

Abe whistled softly, “Been gone all that time?”

“Uh-huh.”

Angie turned to me with wide blue eyes, accented by eye-shadow. “Where'd you go?” She expected names of places far away and strange sounding. Abe chuckled. The truth seeped through. “Oh,” she said, blushing furiously. “I'm sorry.”

“You didn't do anything to be sorry for.” Her confusion eased my shyness.

We paused for a traffic light.

“I just opened a club down the way,” Abe said. “Come on with us and have a drink, unless you're pushed for time.”

“I'm for a cold drink. What happened to the bail bond business? I heard they folded you up?”

Abe gestured disparagement. “I'll be back in a couple months. I can always put the license in somebody else's name. I'll give you the whole story later.”