Angel’s Gate Page 5

  “Alright, alright.” Three in the damn morning. He swung his legs out of bed.

  Gretchen, his wife, rolled over. “Ulli?”

  Dr. Wolf shook his head. “Girls Club emergency.”

  • • •

  The doctor was fully awake a minute later, driving his big Bentley east on Sunset.

  After he had killed the young girl in Florida during the abortion, he almost killed himself. The hospital review board had to blame somebody, better the new foreign surgeon than the alcoholic, politically connected elderly physician, senior doctor on the floor.

  It had been a little of them both, Wolf had always protested, to the mirror, Dr. Whitfield leaving him to finish up, and then—and then he had just plain fucked up, had been too afraid of showing ignorance to ask on-the-spot advice from the nurse. And before they all knew the fuckup was a fuckup, her blood pressure dropped off the chart and then she was dead.

  Dead. How could something be dead that was alive a moment ago? A moment ago? What tiny switch in the brain had been thrown? Irrevocably and forever. They’d paddled and paddled, pushed and shoved, but nothing. The girl was gone. Wolf had bargained with God, his every hope on the table, his every expectation offered in exchange.

  “She’s dead, Doctor,” said the nurse. Was she accusing him with that look?

  He had gone home late. Gretchen was asleep. A meal ready to be reheated in the refrigerator. Shamefully, he found himself hungry. He ate.

  He partially explained the situation to Gretchen the next day. “Don’t blame yourself,” she said, aware of half the facts, certain of her conclusion.

  “Why not?”

  “People live and people die. It’s the will of God.”

  Maybe it was. Perhaps everything really was the will of God. Though sometimes God didn’t seem to have his mind in the game. Buchenwald. Hiroshima.

  Rationalizations aside, the sick, wrenching feeling that fingered his heart told him the death of Olivia Counts was entirely his fault. He had killed her as certainly as the poor father in the newspaper. Who’d run over his daughter in his own driveway. On his way to the liquor store.

  He found a little place where he could buy a gun. “What are you going to use this for?” inquired the salesman.

  He found he couldn’t speak.

  The salesman smelled commerce. “Going to do some target shooting?”

  “Yes,” said Wolf. He bought all the stuff. Goggles, gloves, boxes of rounds, a cleaning kit, a leather case.

  As the sun sank into the gulf, Wolf prepared the weapon. At the exact moment the sun dropped below the horizon, sometimes a brilliant green flash was seen. He had read why that occurred but that was unimportant now. The green flash was very rare. It would be a sign from God. Of his forgiveness.

  The sun moved swiftly, you could see it move. A hemisphere, an arc, a line, a point. Then it was gone. No green flash. God had maintained His strategic silence.

  He picked up the gun. Then his phone rang.

  On the other end of the line was a Hollywood producer. His name was Hogue. He’d heard Dr. Wolf was at loose ends. Would Dr. Wolf come west?

  • • •

  The Bentley passed into West Hollywood. The lights. All that neon. He’d always liked the lights. Cal-eee-fornya.

  • • •

  As Devi disconnected with Wolf she heard a toilet flush. A third person in the house?

  She was on her feet in an instant, backing away from the couch toward the deeper shadows of the room.

  A door shut somewhere. She heard footsteps and then a dark-headed man with long hair, in Japanese-dragon boxer shorts, walked into the room, came over, calmly looked down at Rhonda.

  Devi held her breath. She recognized him from the trades. Nazarian. Director. It was his gun on the table.

  The man looked around, sensing something. Then he found the woman in the far corner. He did not appear to be shocked, angry, or ashamed. “Want to party, bitch?”

  “The police want to party, you degenerate fuck,” said Devi, coming forward.

  That didn’t go down so well.

  “Who do you think you are, talking to me like that?”

  “I’m your worst enemy, Mr. Eli Nazarian.” A red mist, rage rising, was forming before her eyes. She pointed at Rhonda. “You responsible for this?”

  “I don’t know who you are, bitch . . . but if you’re smart, you’ll realize this is none of your business.”

  “Wrong, asshole. This is exactly my business.”

  “Fine.” He moved forward quickly. The powders and elixirs in his system had narrowed his rational choices down to one: shut her up.

  Devi judged his approach, let him commit, stepped to the left, threw a hard overhand right, twisting her fist in delivery, catching him beneath his right eye, catching him coming in. Standing him up like a Sears manikin at an in-store picnic.

  The left uppercut following was all instinct. It struck him on the right underside of his jaw and knocked him out on his feet. He stood there like a pillar of salt, vacant, then fell over backward.

  He didn’t fold at the waist and sit down, he fell like a tree. His head hit the flagstone flat of the fireplace with a terrible sound.

  Devi was over him in a second.

  She’d seen that look. Once a Marine, always a Marine. That look. On the dusty streets of Baghdad. The man was dead.

  • • •

  The phone was ringing. I didn’t know where I was for a second. Must have fallen asleep in my clothes. Here in the living room. The phone.

  There it was. “Hello?”

  “Dick,” said an urgent voice. Female.

  “Yeah?” Still hazy.

  “Dick.”

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s Devi.”

  “Who?”

  “Devi. From Canter’s.”

  “You. What do you want?”

  • • •

  I let the Caddy roll down the canyon, turned left at Hollywood for a ride over to Vine.

  I’d told a lot of people to call me anytime. Usually I never heard from them again. That’s generally why I told them to call me.

  What did I know about Devi?

  She was the latest in a line of Ivanhoe housemothers. She took care of the Ivanhoe contract starlets.

  Devi was also a liar. She knew something about Ellen Arden. But what was worth hiding?

  Devi wanted me to meet her at the El Royale. One of those grand old apartment hotels right past where Vine crossed Melrose and turned into Rossmore. Whatever had gone down wasn’t good. I wasn’t to come directly up. Could I wait at Dunkin’ Donuts? Corner of Vine and Melrose?

  • • •

  Fine. There was a mystery brewing. I had that fubar feeling. The bohica premonition. Which usually meant someone was dead. I’d have to watch my step.

  A mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a riddle. Turducken.

  • • •

  Nazarian was dead. She peeled back an eyelid. Gone. She’d’ve snuck out the back door and called the police from a pay phone, but she’d made a scene with that Addams Family reject at the front desk. He was on something. But he’d remember her.

  She breathed deep, tried to think. Her mind was a small, shallow, shiny purse full of nothing. Not even bus fare. Jesus. The asshole was dead. What had Rhonda seen? And Dr. Wolf! Her heart thudded, she’d called Wolf how long ago? What about the body? She’d have to move it.

  Where to put it? In the closet in the entryway near the front door. She dragged him by his feet. He was heavy. Finally she got him in there. Crumpled amongst all the shoes, staring up at the bottom of the coats and jackets.

  She shut the door. There was a long smear of blood that led back to the living room. The back of his head. Smashed against the stone. Probably flat as a pancake. Ms. Stanton, how was the decedent’s head flattened? I don’t rightly know, Your Honor, I think he did it himself. Christ, they’d rip her to shreds and feed her to the hyenas.

  In the kitchen, on t
op of the refrigerator, she found some paper towels. Some Formula 409 under the sink. The fight between Nazarian and Rhonda had gone on here as well. Blood splatter on the wall.

  In the living room, she got down on her hands and knees and cleaned up the trail of blood. She needed more towels. On the plastic wrap that contained what was left of the package of eight rolls, she saw Brawny Man, the cheerful can-do problem-solver. Her next thought was Dick Henry.

  She stepped on something. A tooth. Call Dick Henry.

  • • •

  She asked Dick to wait at Dunkin’ Donuts. So he wouldn’t meet Dr. Wolf. The less crossing of wires the better.

  A knock at the door. Was everything where it had to be? NO! The golden gun was still where it had been, on top of the coffee table. Covered in blood and other, more private, liquids. There was no time to hide it. But . . . but she would put it on the bottom shelf of the table. Cover it with a magazine.

  A second knock at the door. With some impatience. She took a last look around. Things would have to do.

  She answered the door. Dr. Wolf entered, black bag in hand. She’d interacted with the doctor in their paths of duty, but seldom.

  “Whose place is this?” asked the doctor.

  “Rhonda Carling’s. Thanks for coming so quickly.”

  The doctor grunted. He was tall and had been handsome in that pale, eerie, gas-chamber way. He had secrets. Devi could see them behind his eyes. Behind those efficient frameless spectacles.

  She led him to Rhonda. He sat down beside her, rolled her over in the light, looked at her. Then up at Devi. “I’ve seen worse. Get me some hot water and some towels.”

  Devi just stood there. Dr. Wolf seemed unmoved by the damage. “Water and some towels!” he barked. “Right now.”

  She was half-startled. “Okay, okay.” Don’t get your swastikas in a twist.

  When saucy-bitch left the living room, Wolf moved the magazine on the lower shelf of the coffee table. Something had glinted, caught his eye.

  Vell, vell, vell. A golden pistol. Crusted with blood and who knew what else? Terminal Velocity—Eli Nazarian—from Howard Hogue.

  He wondered how he would play this. Hollywood, on one level, was a game of secrets. The young ingenue storming the gates with pure talent was a myth. Had never happened. The young ingenue who knew how to rip her little white panties off, drop to her knees, and suck—well, that young ingenue was on a million screens, playing a virgin in fear for her life.

  He replaced the magazine, filed the incident for later exploitation. Just in time.

  Devi entered with towels.

  “About time,” said Wolf.

  “She also said she had something put up her vagina.” Had he seen the gun? She could almost see it now. But she knew it was there.

  Something up her vagina. Yes, indeed. He knew what that was. “Something was put up her vagina?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  Wolf washed her face, carefully, without kindness. In the right legal hands, here was a gold mine. Broken nose; exfoliation of several teeth, the upper-right canine and incisor; lacerations of the interior of the mouth. Various facial abrasions, probably where she’d been slapped by someone with a ring. Contusions around the orbit of the left eye.

  The neck, some abrasions, some contusions. Burns to the nipples, to the breasts. Some bite marks. He looked quickly at the wrists. No signs of ligature, no defense wounds on the hands and arms. Which implied concussion. She must have been knocked out and then burned. You don’t sit there and take a burning. A cigarette combusted at 760 degrees Celsius.

  He gestured to Devi to help stretch her out. He donned a fresh pair of gloves, spread her legs.

  Nice, neat carpet trim. Piercing through the clitoral hood. Some blood, maybe from tension on the piercing? Yes. And some vaginal bleeding. Not copious. A gun up there, maybe the sighting device could have caused some abrasions, possibly some lacerations. Nothing major.

  She’d need a good rinse. When the medicated douche ran clear into the stainless steel bowl, he was finished. He stood up and stretched.

  Her life as a starlet had ended. Her face would never perfectly heal. And healing would take time. No starlet ever had enough of that.

  He’d have to set up a convalescent situation. Fairfax Convalescent.

  The girl moaned. His first shot of Dilaudid hadn’t been quite enough. He dug in his bag’s special pocket, got some more.

  He showed tattoo-girl the vial and the syringe. “This is how you do it.” He wiped off the top of the vial with an alcohol wipe, then held the vial upside-down, put the needle in, drew the plunger out slowly. The syringe began to fill with the viscous, clear solution. When it was near fifty cc’s he stopped, withdrew it from the vial. He held it upside down, tapped it so the bubbles would rise to the top. Then a little spritz. “No bubbles,” he said, looking at Devi. “She’ll be alright,” he continued, “like I said, a little bleeding down there but nothing major. Her nose—she’s going to need reconstructive surgery. A rhinoplasty. And we’re going to need Dr. Tasman, as well.”

  Devi watched as he gathered the meat of her thigh, put the needle in. He refilled the syringe and repeated the process in the other leg. “Who’s Dr. Tasman?” she asked.

  “A reconstructive dentist.”

  Wolf left her two vials of the Dilaudid and a handful of syringes. “Keep her hydrated. If she’s in too much pain, give her a shot. Just like I just did. In the fat of the thigh. You’ll know when. When the whimpering starts to get on your nerves.”

  Vimpering. She loathed the pale Nazi.

  He zipped up his black bag. “Any idea who did this?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No. What’s your problem?”

  “No problem here.” Just checking, tattoo-girl. Of course, you know who did this. You’re dirty on this one. And so is Melvin. And so is Eli Nazarian. There was a pleasant odor in the air. The smell of money.

  She walked him to the door past the coat closet. Blood had just run under the door. The doctor put one foot in it and walked on.

  At the front door he turned back to her. “I’ll be back tomorrow noon. I’ll arrange a convalescent situation.” How much cash could be squeezed out of tattoo-girl? Or would she be sword-swallowing on his behalf? Why not both? Yes, both. “Goodbye, Devi.”

  She shut the door behind him. She didn’t like the way her pronounced her name. There was something filthy about it. She shuddered.

  Call Dick Henry.

  • • •

  I bought two small cups of coffee, one regular, one decaf, poured them both together in a large cup. Half-caf. I polished off half the half-caf as I watched the creatures of the night come and go. Nothing truly healthy began after two o’clock in the morning.

  A shabby man held a sleeping dog inside his coat. A little white nose peaked out. The man looked over at me. It looked like he’d been crying. Or maybe it was conjunctivitis. Or bubonic plague. “My dog hasn’t eaten in days,” he said.

  “Some shit you just can’t eat,” I replied, early morning philosopher that I was.

  I must have hit a nerve. Shabby Man started crying for real. I caught a whiff of him. Eeee. It wasn’t good.

  • • •

  Dr. Wolf had driven south on Rossmore, turned right on Wilshire. A sheet of melancholy had fallen over him. A minute later he approached the eastern end of the Miracle Mile. The streets were deserted, dreams in abeyance. He saw the buildings and cars as facts but could not summon reasons for their existence. They loomed hollowly, empty of significance.

  Literally, it was true. On an atomic level, most matter was empty space. If a basketball were an atom’s nucleus, the electron in orbit was a pebble half a mile away. Only because the eyes and brain were crude interpreters of certain wave phenomena did he perceive things as solid objects.

  He was made of nothing, driving down a street made of nothing, in a vehicle made of nothing, past buildings made of nothing. Yet he li
ved and thought. Cogito, ergo sum.

  Suddenly, with vividness, he recalled the situation that had propelled him to his eventual, his current, success. He’d been in Los Angeles about three months when the call had come.

  At that time Howard Hogue had a large, three-story house in Hancock Park. In the maid’s quarters lay the girl. She had been violated everywhere it had been possible. Then she had been cut.

  Hogue had paced back and forth. There’d been a party. A certain movie star had taken some LSD. More LSD than he’d been accustomed to. Or maybe it was better. Everything seemed alright. Then the movie star had wandered into the party at large. He was covered with blood and giggling. The soiree ended immediately. People did not want to learn things they did not want to know. The girl was discovered.

  Betty Ann Fowler was a special girl. She had nobody. That’s what made her special. She’d arrived months ago at Union Station in Los Angeles, her entire universe in a small black suitcase. She had found occasional work. People found her attractive.

  The movie star was known around the planet. As a good man. As a Christian man. A family man. He contributed money where he was directed to, he jogged for breast cancer. It came down to this. Could a man be considered guilty of a crime he did not realize he had committed?

  “I need your help, doctor,” said Hogue, upon his arrival.

  Wolf looked down upon her recumbent figure. Her face was ruined. The tip of her nose had been sliced off. One ear was gone. Half her lower lip had been ripped off. Other knife wounds radiated from the mouth like cat whiskers.

  The doctor looked over at Hogue. “You say she is alone in the world.”

  “Yes, Doctor,” said Hogue.

  He had gone back into the girl’s room. She could live. A disfigured life. An object of astonishment and pity. Where could she go? What would she do?

  His decision was made.

  • • •

  I found a spot on the street, walked into the El Royale. Devi had called. Come on up now. The night man knew something was up; his curiosity signaled that he didn’t know exactly what. The man looked like he’d walked out of a Tim Burton movie.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  He looked a little toasted. I shook my head. “No, thanks. I know my way.”