Tough Luck L.A., page 19
“Why does this person want you dead?”
“If I started to tell you that, we’d be here all night and I’d probably end up dead besides.”
“Try to tell me,” he said.
“I can’t.”
“I think you’re being obstinate, Ben.”
“I’m not.”
“You should tell me as much as you can, and then we’ll go to the police.”
“The police can’t help.”
“Why’s that?” He sounded peeved.
“Because I know more about it than they do.” I asked him if he had seen the thing on me in the paper. He didn’t know what I was talking about. I traced back my memory and tried to recall whether Vicky and Alex had ever crossed paths. I couldn’t remember the two of them ever being together or even meeting. Alex was never interested in having anything to do with “lady friends,” as he called them. And he wasn’t the type of queer who enjoyed chit-chatting with women. It had always been very apparent to me that he didn’t find them too amusing or palatable in any shape, form, or permutation; so I didn’t feel any compulsion to rehash the crazy chain of events for him. Originally, when we had somehow gotten put together on a “Policewoman” episode, this weird little guy, who had said his name was Alex, had treated me suspiciously and said flat out that the only way to write a good one was to see Angie Dickenson as a dyke, then everything would fall into place.
Alex: He was a half-foot shorter than I am, wore tight pants and a half-sleeved, skin-tight T-shirt to show off his taut and veiny arms and ripply washerboard tummy. He worked out at the Hollywood Y no less than four days a week and looked like he was fit enough for any form of hand to hand combat; but you never would have known it from his loose, slightly moist handshake or the skittish, frightened way his eyes danced around when they looked at you under tension. Tonight, though, they were somewhat placid—for Alex, that is. I wondered whether he’d been flirting with me and up until now I’d been missing it. That’s the only problem with having a gay friend. You worry about things like that; especially when, in Alex’s case, as I’d heard lately, there was an element of self-righteousness attached to the consideration of sexual preference. I personally didn’t see any reason why he had felt it so necessary to wave around his gay flag before Bradford Bobby’s nose. It didn’t seem to have anything to do with his script. But that was Alex. If he was insecure about anything, he liked to air his thoughts. He never held onto his fears. He liked to fling them in your face in a way that made you feel culpable. Alex was really good at that. I admired him for it.
“How can you say that if you haven’t checked with them?” he was whining.
“Alex, I have checked with them. Take my word for it.”
Alex started rubbing both his temples with the tips of his fingers. “I think I’m getting a migraine,” he said.
“A big schtarker like you. Come on, boychik. Taka, tatala.”
“Ben, no Yiddish expressions, OK?” His jaw was bulging, his lips were set with tension.
“You’re the one who’s Jewish.”
“I know all about that. We’ve been through this before, haven’t we?” He shut his eyes and massaged his scalp with the whitened knuckles of his closed hand. “Oh, my head.”
“Oh, stop being a faggela—I mean a fag—for a second, would you?”
He glowered at me, clenched both his fists and held them down by his sides. “Benjamin, I like you, but—”
“I just want you to help me. I don’t want to watch you put on a whole show of your vast range of histrionics.”
“You have a very funny way of asking for it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t call me a fag.”
“OK.”
He started pacing again, paused rubbing his chin, trying to make up his mind whether or not he should say what was on his mind. And I knew, of course, that he’d say it. “You know, it really did blow my mind that you’d help me out at all.”
“Why’s that, Alex?”
“You know. You’re so fascist, macho-hetero.”
“That’s not true and you know it.”
“I’ve always been just a fag to you.”
I stood up and started toward the door. It was the most theatrical thing I could do and I felt like it was going to work.
“Benny, what do you want?”
I turned around silently, imitating one of Stanley’s saddest looks.
“Come sit down.”
I got back to the desk, sat down and laid the whole thing out. The Frenchman was coming to the market. I had to have someone there to check him out. I knew that if my young man had any marbles at all, it was more than possible that he might leave a plant somewhere in the store. If he did, I had to get my hands on the gun, put some blanks in it, then stick it back into its hiding place. If he didn’t, the situation was more complicated. I’d have to plant my own and somehow manage to get it into the Frenchman’s hands. I had a nearly new .32 Smith and Wesson stuffed with blanks and sleeping in the cozy glovebox of my stolen Mercedes—I’d picked it up for ten bucks off a gnome—pawnbroker—in Culver City.
Finally, I came to the part that had made me think of Alex in the first place. One of Alex’s old boyfriends was somewhat of a special effects wizard of the kind that specialized in blood and gore. Alex had told me that he had been responsible for some of the grisly authenticity in a few of Peckinpah’s recent films. Alex, by this point, had out the Valium and was stretched out over the shabby couch on the side wall.
“I cannot call Michael,” he said.
“Alex, let bygones be bygones.”
“Would you just up and call an old girlfriend right out of the blue?”
“All the time.”
“Well, I don’t,” he said, adding confidentially. “It’s very involved.”
“I know I’m asking for a lot, but don’t you realize—”
“Stop!”
“A moment’s embarrassment on your part might save my life.”
The phone rang. It was Alex’s new boyfriend, David. David wanted to know why Alex wasn’t home yet. Alex started to explain the situation and David hung up. Domestic difficulties. We all have them. I asked Alex for his home phone number, got on the line and tried talking to David. He asked to speak to Alex. Alex’s voice cracked as he pleaded with David. Eventually, I was seized with the brilliant notion that, perhaps, if David could be brought in on the circus, then we might be able to clear the way and proceed on with the show. I interrupted Alex and made my suggestion, and we made plans for the three of us to visit Michael if he was home, then for Alex to go to work and for David to rendezvous with us at the market to search the Frenchman for me at one o’clock.
48
INT. CARL’S MARKET—NIGHT
BEN CRANDEL, a six-foot, overfed, underexercised 32-year-old crazy man, strolls slowly by the produce bins wondering why he’s here and trying to keep away from the planted gun—the one the killer left. It’s all too perfect and Ben finds he’s feeling very, very nervous. Nothing unusual about that. CAMERA PANS grocery shelves from Ben’s POV, taking in condiments, juices, Uncle Ben’s fried rice.
TIGHT SHOT—BEN
standing there, obviously not knowing what he’s doing. CAMERA then PULLS BACK and TRACKS Ben down frozen foods aisle to main aisle by check stands. Ben’s good buddy, ALEX FREEMAN, a nervous, flaming faggot, ENTERS SHOT dragging his feet, his eyes big and fishy, and slumps down and falls over Ben’s feet. Alex has just O.D.’ed on his prescribed Valium, Quaaludes, reds, and other medications reflecting his zany eclectic tastes.
Ben calls out and Alex’s boyfriend, big macho DAVE HOLMES, rushes up and slaps his beloved who then opens his eyes with a slightly perverse smile. Coffee is sent for from the restaurant next door, and Alex is soon on his delicate feet again, his eyes alive with their normal dose of apprehension and impending hysteria.
There is waiting to be done. Macho Dave returns to his post by the door. CAMERA resumes TRACKING Ben down the grocery aisles as he studies cans and boxes, removing some from their shelves, reading labels. Finally, the CULPRIT appears and rather than rummaging through the avocados for his hidden Smith & Wesson, he pulls another just like it from his pocket, takes aim and FIRES at Ben who is walking toward him from the back of the produce department. It’s a direct hit with real bullets. Ben’s jar charge goes off. He flies backwards into cans of beans, then slides down to the hard floor. He is now DEAD.
And what’s more, he really looks DEAD, double-DEAD with the help of the ingenious blood gusher props he’s wearing underneath his dress shirt. That doesn’t stop the old bullet from going right in there. There’s a good quart of real and fake blood spreading out from his side, sending numerous tributaries out across the floor. The bad dark desperado FIRES stray SHOTS about the market and everybody else remaining flees into the streets. CAMERA FOLLOWS ACTION!!!
TIGHT SHOT—BEN’S MUG AGAIN
His face looks dumb but peaceful in its final repose.
FINAL CREDITS
FADE OUT
THE END
Oscar! Oscar! I was walking around the damn market. My brain was bouncing so hard and fast my skull felt like it should be split open to let the damn thing shoot up into orbit. Everything looked like it was jumping all around me, and all I could do was read boxtops on Cheerio packages and walk by the produce bins and think about Frenchie’s gun keeping nice and warm buried down under a blanket of avocados. Alex had started going bananas from the moment macho Dave found the precious little handgun. Dave had supposedly been doing an inventory. At least that was what Alex had told the other checkers. But, by the time he passed out cold, they started looking a little grumpy, curious, like they would have appreciated being told what was going on. I felt like I should have told them, but I was too busy looking forward to all the live action, pondering the important shots. It was important where you placed your camera. This market was really too small, though, to accommodate all the cinematic razzmatazz that should be done. I was thinking that it would have been better in a Ralph’s or an Alpha Beta.
I knew perfectly well that the damn thing wasn’t going to work out as planned and just as I’d almost made up my mind to get my ass out of there and back to the drawing board, the asshole wheeled in. Dave walked by the front of the store from the outside and gave the handsign as planned. I saw it from the end of the soup aisle and walked up toward the checkstands.
Catching a stroke of luck, Frenchie walked right up to my aisle, looked down, and saw me coming front before I could get all the way there. And then it all started happening just the way it had in my head. Only there was no more waiting and now it was a lot scarier. He smiled wide, baring his little pearly fangs, bent down quickly and took a small gun out of his boot. The asshole had the gall to say “Bon nuit,” then he laughed loudly, insanely, so that I was sure there was no way of stopping him. I was down in the middle of the goddamn aisle. Couldn’t go forward, cut to the side, or inch back. The cans on both sides were as high as my head. I swiped both my arms across the shelves as I heard shots go off. Something punched me in the shoulder and I felt the shock charge go off inside my coat. Without thinking, I clamped my teeth down on both of the plastic blood packets inside my jaws. Fake blood spurted from my mouth, gushed down my shirt. I fell over a big pile of cans. Felt like I’d split my head open. Frenchie was moving down toward me. He was saying something, flashing a victory smile as wide as a goal post. No more than ten feet away. I heard another shot go off, but I didn’t feel anything. I heard people screaming …
49
“Where are you taking him?” demanded a shrill, familiar voice.
“Cedars.” A voice I didn’t know.
“For God’s sake, David. They don’t take outpatients.”
“What do you mean they don’t take outpatients?”
“You have to be referred by your doctor.”
“They are not going to turn away somebody that’s seriously hurt.”
“But I just told you that—”
“Alex, shut up—please.”
David, Alex, somebody that was seriously hurt. That had to be me, I guessed. It was time to sit up, time to prove a point, as much for my benefit as for theirs. I opened my eyes, rubbed them, then I started to sit up. Somewhere in the middle, though, thousands of invisible sledge hammers shattered my left shoulder, then proceeded down my chest. I screamed out, then pushed myself up the rest of the way. I was in the back seat of a late-model Ford or Chevy. Alex’s boyfriend was driving. We were moving fast, making time down Doheny, going south toward Wilshire.
“You passed Beverly!” cried Alex. He leaned over the seat and gently patted me on the head. It felt like a massage because his hand was shaking. “Don’t move, Benny. You’re gonna be OK. I never should have let you talk me into this. So stupid, stupid. Why? Why did I let you do this?”
“Does he think he killed me?”
“Don’t talk.”
“I wanna know, goddamn it!”
“What are you talking about?”
“He wants to know if his plan worked,” said Dave.
“I know what he means. Who gives a shit about your plan? You’re hurt, Ben.”
I was ready to get hysterical myself, so I said, “Alex, would you mind calming down?”
“OK, OK. You just relax. That’s what’s important.” He patted my head again. “Lie back down.”
“Since I did get hurt, it’d be nice to know whether my efforts were worthwhile.”
“Ben, I don’t know. I have no way of knowing. Right now, we’re on our way to the hospital. I don’t think you should talk. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
“You can’t take me to any hospital.”
“What?”
“Don’t take me to the hospital.”
“I think I’m losing my mind,” Alex mumbled, holding his head between his hands, turning it slowly from side to side.
“Don’t forget to breathe,” Dave reminded him.
“If I go to the hospital, they’re gonna call the police or something. I’ll be brought in for more questioning.”
“Don’t overestimate your importance,” said macho.
“What do you mean?”
“Nobody’s gonna hassle you, man. They’ll just patch you up, that’s all. You’re delirious.”
“I am not delirious.”
We went on like that for a while longer. By the time Dave approached Cedars-Sinai Medical Center; I’d convinced the two of them that I wasn’t bleeding to death, that I’d live at least another half-hour or so, long enough for us to get over to Ellen’s parents’ home.
We plowed out Wilshire to Beverly Glen, then headed up to Sunset and drove through the west gate into Bel-Air. We turned into the hedge-lined circular drive and stopped up by the front door. On the outside chance, I was guessing that it had to be at least two-thirty, probably closer to three. A dim twenty-watt yellow bulb on the porch was the only light, although lights went on in the bedroom upstairs before Dave rang the doorbell. The house was secluded on a cul-de-sac; therefore, the approach of any vehicle resonated like the call of wheezing trumpets. When a car came in their drive, it was meant for them and they knew it.
“Yes,” was said sternly from behind the closed door.
Dave spoke to it, saying, “I’m a friend of Ben Crandel’s. He’s in the car, hurt. He insisted that we bring him to you.”
The voice gumbled inaudibly, then the door swung open and Dr. Brockhurst came flapping out, his leather bedroom slippers clicking like castanets between his heels and the surface of the drive. He looked surprisingly vulnerable, smaller and more delicate, out of his usual impeccable attire. His gray hair was piled up on his head and stuck out at odd angles, giving his face a pinched and narrow look. As he approached, he was frowning, but with a slack jaw. He was still half asleep.
“What’s wrong, son?”
Before I could get my mouth open Alex piped in, “He’s been shot, doctor. He’s lost so much blood.”
Mrs. Brockhurst came shuffling out from inside the house. From a distance, as she drew up, I almost thought she was Ellen. She was wearing a sheer white house coat over pajamas, holding it closely to her. Her neck and chin were high, aristocratic without meaning it. She was a beautiful woman and carried herself, I thought, like a huge dove. Her back was straight and her large breasts sloped out like the chest of a bird.
“Where?” asked Brockhurst.
“What is it, Alfred?” Then she saw me. “Ben, what’s wrong, honey?”
“Nothing, Mrs. Brockhurst. I just need a little help.”
Dave came around and helped me out of the car. Dr. Brockhurst was there on my other side and the two of them helped me up the steps and inside the house with Alex and Mrs. Brockhurst right behind. I went out again for a few seconds. When I came to, they were lugging me into the maid’s room off of the kitchen. The lights went on and the maid sat up in bed, yelling something in Spanish. Mrs. Brockhurst talked to her in Spanish and the girl got up, put on a robe, and went out to the kitchen. I could hear her banging some pots and pans around.
They put me down on the maid’s bed. The doctor took my shirt off carefully. He saw the emptied blood packet stuck to my skin, made a questioning face, but didn’t say anything. When he saw my shoulder, he whistled softly. “Madeline, call Emergency. Tell them we’re bringing somebody in.” He turned to Alex, saying, “Why didn’t you take him right to a hospital?”
“He wouldn’t let us. We wanted to, but he kept saying they’d arrest him. He tried to jump out of the car while it was moving.”
I went out again. When I woke up, it was light out. Mrs. Brockhurst was sitting in a chair next to the bed. She was wide awake. She took my hand between both of hers and held it.
“Where am I?”
“You’re in our house, dear. The doctor didn’t want to take a chance on moving you again. Why don’t you close your eyes and try to go back to sleep?”
“This was very nice of you, Mrs. Brockhurst.”
“Shush.”
“I know how imposing I am.”
