Fade to Black (23 page)

“You got nice pipes, pal,” Eric told it. “Drop by the club sometime. Maybe I can do something for ya!”

He could hear the sirens screaming their way through Beverly Hills toward the salon. Running to the Packard, he screeched off and sped through stop signs and red lights, making his way to Sunset Boulevard. Heading east, he turned left at the first opportunity, passing a vendor peddling maps to the homes of the stars. For the next two hours, he conducted his own slow, cruising tour of the Hollywood hills, ignoring the homes as he tried desperately to stick to untraveled roads without dead-ending himself. Miraculously, he zig-zagged his way through the mountains to the stretch of Mulholland connecting up with Outpost Drive, which he took back toward the city until he reached the turnoff to the unfinished office building housing the Blow Up photography studio. The lot afforded a view of the concrete encrusted basin and its sprouting skyscrapers. It was approaching dusk.

Eric parked behind the building, out of sight of the road. He took the stairway up to the uncompleted second floor. The windows hadn’t been installed yet, so he was able to climb inside. A makeshift door had been nailed into place in front of each opening to the inside hallway, and it took Eric some time to pry the nails out of one and let himself in. Going down the steps, he faced an even more difficult task gaining entry to the Blow Up offices.

Once he did, he went to the bathroom and washed off his makeup, then returned to the Packard for a change of clothes. He had brought a suitcase of things with him from home, just in case.

By the time he changed, it was night out. Eric left the building, walking up to the second floor long enough to stare out at the millions of lights illuminating the city down the hill before him. It was a magnificent sight. So many people, so much happening. It was comforting, too, in a way, because it helped to ease Eric’s paranoia. With all the nooks and crannies in the city and all the open terrain in the surrounding hillsides, the police would be kept busy searching for him. They had blown their big chance by letting him get away from the salon. That was twice he’d done it, he realized proudly, remembering his flight after the prostitute’s death.

Now he, like Cody Jarrett, was just holding out in the hills until the heat blew over. The white heat.

However, he only stayed on the balcony long enough to smoke a cigarette and try to blow smoke rings at the bougainvillea. A restlessness had settled over him, and he felt the faint prickling at the base of his skull signaling the onset of another headache. He rolled his head slowly around his shoulders, hearing the crackle of eased tension. Keeping it up, he reached behind and massaged the back of his neck as he started down the steps. The pain slowly faded.

Eric debated with himself and decided he’d be better off moving, going into the city and distracting himself. It would be better to be on his feet and alert than sitting around, waiting for the pain to return.

He walked down Outpost Drive. To his left he could see the lights of the Chinese theatre several blocks away, glowing bright like a ring of fire around the pointed crown of the Oriental roof. Beyond that, amidst the other brightly lit buildings, were the gleaming marquees of the Egyptian, Paramount, and Pussycat theatres.

Continuing down to the Boulevard, Eric caught the next westbound bus and rode across town back to Venice. He walked down Main Street and stopped in at White’s Bar to watch the ten o’clock news on the large-screen television.

The lead story was the Bially murder.

In a taped report, an on-the-scene reporter stood in front of the salon with one of the shaken hairstylists, who reiterated the events leading up to the shooting, his voice breaking into a periodic sob at the memory. That told, the reporter walked over to another man, dressed in a casual outfit and standing next to a plain-looking woman in a cotton jumper. The man explained that he and his wife had been only two buildings away from the salon when they had heard the shooting and seen the stylists run out. He had had a camera with him, a small pocket Instamatic. He explained how he had managed to take pictures of the murderer escaping, then the broadcast switched back to the studio.

In his seat at the bar, Eric hunched over his drink, trying not to seem too engrossed in the news. Fortunately, it was fairly busy in the tavern and he easily lost himself in the shuffle, watching the news out of the corner of his eye.

The anchorperson spent a few seconds emphasizing that the station’s possession of the photos was exclusive, then voiced-over a description of seven different shots coming up on the monitors. Separated in sequence by the few seconds it had taken the honeymooner to advance his film, the shots showed Eric running out of the salon, waving the Thompson submachine gun at bystanders, who dropped to the sidewalk at his orders, and then circling around to the driver’s side of the Packard. The quality of the shots was mediocre, calling to mind stopped frames from the Zapruder film of the Kennedy assassination in Dallas, a comparison that was not missed on Eric. Only one of the photos showed Eric’s face, and it was at a distance too far to make out any significant features, although the anchorperson tried to insinuate that this scoop of theirs might prove instrumental in solving the case of the “B-Thriller Killer.” The reporter conceded that the police had yet to apprehend a suspect, although it was reported that several individuals matching the description of the murderer were being questioned by the authorities.

As the news moved on to the latest developments in the country’s political and economic woes, Eric finished his beer and left the bar.

He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or worried about what he had just seen. The photos were on the whole useless for other than confirming eyewitness descriptions of him and the Packard, but he was concerned that if the people who had leased him the car or sold him the gun were watching, they might go to the police and give them a description that would pinpoint him as the murderer. A false name and address wasn’t going to throw them off for long. He’d seen the work of those police artists. It wouldn’t take much for them to come up with a rendering that Gallagher or that psychologist at the police station would match up with him.

He was in Marilyn’s neighborhood, and saw that there were lights on in her living room. He tried to tell himself he didn’t have time to bother with her, but he found himself stealing into the yard and along the side of the house to the opened window. He peered through the slit in the curtains and saw Stacey and Marilyn sitting at either end of the sofa, talking as they watched television. Marilyn had just come out of the shower and was rubbing her hair with a towel. She was wearing her bathrobe, but it was opened loosely in the front, providing Eric with a glimpse of her partially covered breasts. The way she was sitting he couldn’t see anything lower.

“. . . well, I think you’re rushing yourself, Marilyn,” Stacey was saying, “not to mention the fact that the whole idea is ridiculous.”

“That’s a fine thing for you to say,” Marilyn chided playfully. “I wouldn’t have gotten to know him if it weren’t for you, you know.”

“I know that, but I never meant for it to be anything serious. I mean, how are you going to explain it to your friends back home? ‘Guess what, gang, I’m getting married to a male stripper’?”

“He already said he’ll give that up,” Marilyn protested. “It was just a big joke for him, anyway, a way to pick up some quick money.”

“So what are you going to do, then? Take his place to make money? Keep selling roller skates? You aren’t going to be able to live it up much off what he makes as a lifeguard, for crying out loud.”

“I’ll think of something, Stacey. He’s got enough saved up so that I can spend all my time trying to get a modeling job for a few months. I’ve never really put my mind to it, you know. It’s always been so left-handed because I’ve had to spend so much time working to pay the bills.”

Watching Marilyn, Eric felt himself getting hard. The likeness to his idol was maddening, especially to see her half undressed. The breasts were the same, and he’d already seen her legs. This was better than the time in the shower. He’d only seen her for an instant then, and he had panicked anyway. He wanted her, needed her.

“Well,” Stacey said, smiling, “you know I’m only playing devil’s advocate with you. I mean, that’s what maids of honor are for, right?”

“Right you are,” Marilyn said, standing up. “So listen, are you coming with me tomorrow, then?”

“Coming where?”

“You know, to the beach. It’s the sidewalk fair on Ocean Front this weekend. I remember last year there was this one booth that had the most adorable dresses. Antique lace, perfect for a wedding. Oh, Stacey, I’m so excited!”

As she pirouetted about the living room, her housecoat flapping free from her side as she turned, Eric grabbed at his groin, torn between lust and a raging jealousy. He turned and ran quietly from the yard, taking refuge in the alley behind the liquor store across the street to relieve himself.

He was distraught, confused. He wanted to go home, up into his room. He had to be alone, to think. This all needed thinking through. Things were happening too fast. Too fast.

He slowed down to a walk as he was coming up on Market Street. At the corner, he stopped, taking cover behind a hedge.

There was a car parked twenty feet away from him, and Eric saw someone inside, looking out at his house. A few minutes later, a police cruiser glided down the street, pausing a few seconds alongside the parked car before driving off.

Eric felt an emptiness in the pit of his stomach.

“Dirty coppers,” he whimpered softly to himself, his Cagney voice submerged beneath the choked sobs. “Go ahead. Close in the net. You won’t catch Cody Jarrett!”

Getting off the bus at Ship’s Westwood, Eric paused in front of the coffee shop.

Had it really been only a few weeks since he was here waiting for her? It seemed like years. So much had happened. So much excitement. He had finally started living, charging the moments with an energy that rivaled his favorite movies. Danger, suspense, intrigue, love. He’d taken all the classic elements and forged them into his own masterpiece. Himself.

He was jubilant. There was nothing to be gained in cowardice, he’d told himself on the bus. He couldn’t change course now. The only thing to do was to keep it up, keep it rolling on the magic of its own momentum. All that had preceded this was merely the buildup. The climax lay out there, somewhere, waiting to be discovered. He already had an idea. He’d give it the night to germinate, to unfold like a brilliant flower. It would have to be perfect.

He crossed the street and strolled nonchalantly down Wilshire. It was a Friday night, and the Village was swarming with couples. He walked with them surrounding him as much as possible, to stay out of view of the occasional patrol car passing along the boulevard.

When he came to the lines stretching out from the ticket booth for the Avco theatres, he cut through to the small plaza between buildings. He lit a cigarette and walked casually to the back edge of the plaza and the darkened wall lined with shrubs and saplings. Past the wall he could see the uppermost limbs of the tree in the center of Westwood Memorial Park.

He paced along the wall, surveying it between puffs until he was certain no one was watching him. Then he ran to the corner of the wall and leaped up, scraping himself against the shrubbery but securing enough of a grip and foothold to lift himself up and over the wall.

Keeping low and silent, he made his way along the top of the wall to a point where he could have access to the roof of the cemetery’s burial vaults. There he flattened himself and peered across the dimlit grounds for signs of activity, unsure if there were groundkeepers or security guards on duty at this hour.

Once he felt certain he was alone, he carefully prowled along the roof to a cast-iron trellis that provided him with a way to the ground. From there he stole his way to the wall of burial vaults where Marilyn was entombed. A bouquet of day-old roses drooped slightly from the vase affixed next to her placard.

Eric dropped to his knees before the vault and gently stroked the lettering of Marilyn’s name. She had been laid to rest under her screen name and not as Norma Jean Baker.

“They’re looking for me, Beauty,” Eric whispered passionately. “We’re going to have to go away, but I’ve worked it out so that we can be together. And not just like this. Something better. You’ll see. But you have to listen to me, help me work out the details. We’ll go through it slowly, because it has to be perfect. The best. You know, like Ma says. Top o’ the world. That’s where we’re meant to be . . .”

CHAPTER •
28

The sidewalk sale took place along the swatch of palm-studded greenery separating the beach from Ocean Front Walk.

It was a sunny, beautiful day, and the area teemed with people seeking refuge in the brisk ocean breeze and its welcome waters.

Marilyn had to work a few hours in the morning, but she joined Stacey shortly after noon at a take-out stand near the pavilion, where they ate a hasty lunch of burritos and Mexican beer. By the time they finished they were giddy and lightheaded, in a frolicsome mood for walking along the crowded area along Ocean Front Walk, looking for the booth with the antique lace dresses.