To Die in Beverly Hills (11 page)

"I'm Emil Kreuzer."
And I can't remember your name either, fuckface.

The parole officer nodded. He swiveled around in his chair and sorted through a stack of files. He found a file and turned around to the desk. Having licked his thumb, he flipped through pages.

"Are you still employed?" the parole officer said without looking up from the file.

"Yes, sir."

The parole officer opened his desk drawer. He pulled out the usual memo pad printed with little boxes. He filled one of the boxes with a check mark. "Where?"

"The same place. The Magic Carpet nightclub."

The parole officer made another check mark. "And during the last month have you been arrested?"

"No."

"Have you associated with any persons known to you to be convicted felons?"

"No."

"Have you used any dangerous drugs?"

"No."

The parole officer made another check mark. He looked up. "Not even marijuana?"

"Sir, I don't need to get high on marijuana. Since I've been out of prison, I've been high on life." You
bald-headed blob of shit.

The parole officer scribbled something on the memo pad. He paper-clipped it to the front of the file and tossed the file in an "out" box. He pressed an intercom button. "Send in the next one," he said. As he picked up the Dictaphone and began to speak, Emil Kreuzer stood up and left the office.

On the way to his West Hollywood apartment, Kreuzer drove slowly along Sunset Boulevard. Though it was early in the day, the usual assortment of street hustlers, whores (they all seemed to be wearing straight skirts slit up the side), bun boys (tight jeans, tennis shoes and tropical shirts) and black pimps (outrageous hats and shoes) paraded about in front of the gaudy motels along the boulevard that once catered to star-struck tourists. Young hitchhikers of both sexes lined the curbs on both sides of the street like human ornaments. Everyone was waiting to meet strangers.

A teenage girl wearing a loose-fitting blouse and white shorts stood next to a bus bench with her thumb out. She had a small canvas knapsack on her back. Her sandy hair was naturally curly and her features were attractive. Kreuzer thought she looked like a high school cheerleader. He made a right turn and drove around the block. He pulled up to the bus bench and the teenager approached the car. He could see that she had freckles. "I'm going to Malibu," she said.

"I'm going right past there." Kreuzer leaned over and unlocked the passenger door. She shrugged off her knapsack and climbed in the front seat.

"I'm Dr. Kreuzer," he said. "What's your name?"

"Charlene." She stared out the window. "What kind of a doctor are you?"

"A medical doctor. I specialize in the practice of psychiatry."

"I bet you meet some really weird people."

"As a matter of fact, I work mostly with young people."

"Are they all crazy?" she said, showing mild interest.

"Just kids with problems. Most of them have run away from home and have second doubts about it. They're glad to be out from under the pressures they had at home, but on the other hand they are unhappy with the usual hassles of life on the street." He glanced at her. There was no visible reaction.

Charlene stared at the road.

"What's in Malibu?" Kreuzer asked.

"A job. This guy I met told me there was a coffee shop opening up. They need waitresses."

"May I ask how old you are?"

"Fifteen and a half."

They passed a movie theater. On the marquee was a color blowup of a long-haired movie star hugging a chimpanzee.

Charlene pointed at the theater. "I saw that movie," she said. "It was really neat. This guy trains these monkeys to be spies and they parachute into Russia. This one monkey was riding around on a dog. I really laughed."

"I love animals," he said. "I have horses and dogs at my ranch in Santa Barbara. I go there every weekend."

"I love horses, too," Charlene said. "At home I had a scrapbook with pictures of horses. And when I was fourteen, I worked in a stable. My uncle got me the job...Can I turn on the radio?"

"Certainly."

As Charlene fiddled with the dials, he tried to look down her blouse. She tuned into a station with screaming rock music. Her hands tapped her smooth thighs to the beat.

"Have you ever worked as a waitress before?" he asked.

Charlene shook her head. "No, but this girl I met said that you can make a lot of money in tips."

"Do you have a Malibu work permit?"

She turned toward him with a puzzled look. "What's that?"

"Malibu is an environmental impact area. No one can be hired without a special work permit. As I understand it, there's a four-month waiting period for permits. I'm afraid you're not going to have much luck finding work in Malibu."

"Shit."

"Are you still interested in horses?" he said in an offhand manner.

She nodded.

"I have an opening for a horse groomer at my ranch. "You're certainly welcome to fill out an application if you'd like."

"Gee, that'd be great."

"I live nearby. We can stop and you can fill out an application."

"How do I know you're really a doctor?"

He pulled a phony business card out of his shirt pocket and handed it to her. "It pays to be cautious. That's exactly what I tell all my young patients. It's better to be safe than sorry."

Nothing was said for a while. They passed a restaurant that featured transvestite waiters.

She examined the card again and looked him over. "Okay," she said finally. Charlene fiddled with the radio as he swung onto a side street and headed north toward the Hollywood Hills.

Emil Kreuzer's apartment was furnished handsomely with a black L-shaped sofa and matching reclining chairs. The prints on the wall above a modern-looking fireplace were of sad-eyed children. They were mounted on either side of a phony University of Berlin diploma. Charlene stared at the diploma for a moment, then wandered to the bay window. The view was of the Hollywood business district. Finally she strolled to the sofa and sat down.

Kreuzer picked up a small box off the coffee table. He opened the lid and offered Charlene a marijuana cigarette.

She hesitated. "Doctors use it too," he said. "It's harmless. I even allow my patients to use it." She took one of the neatly rolled cigarettes, which he lit with a lighter.

"This is like a movie star's house," Charlene said.

"It used to be owned by John Wayne."

"Jeez."

"You've had problems with your family, haven't you?" Kreuzer asked in a fatherly tone.

"How did you know that?"

"I'm a doctor. I get paid to recognize these things."

Using her hands to cup smoke, she took a powerful drag on the cigarette. She blew out smoke. "My father is an asshole, that's why I ran away."

"It helps to talk about it."

"I went to the beach with two of my girl friends and when I got home late he called me a whore and grounded me for a month. I just couldn't stand it anymore."

"And your mother?"

"She left two years ago. She wrote me once." Another marijuana puff.

Kreuzer stood up, went to the kitchen and brought back a glass of water. Having set the glass on the coffee table in front of Charlene, he handed her a small white pill. "I want you to take this," he said. "It will help you to express your thoughts and resolve some of your problems."

She stared at the pill for a moment.

"I am a doctor, Charlene. There is nothing to worry about. Go ahead and take the pill. It will make you feel more pleasant and comfortable than you have in a long, long time; pleasant, secure and relaxed."

Charlene took the pill, puffed more marijuana.

A few minutes later she leaned back. Her eyes shut. She mumbled something about her mother. Emil Kreuzer took the burning roach out of her hand and dropped it into an ashtray. "Can you hear me, Charlene?" he said. She didn't answer. He quickly straddled her on the sofa. Having unbuttoned her blouse, he massaged and licked her firm breasts. His hands rushed to her panties. Because of the fastener and the fact they were at least one size too small, it took him longer than usual to pull them off.

It was 1:00 A.M.

Travis Bailey parked in front of a store whose display window was full of mannequins wearing mink and sable coats. He climbed out of the car and trotted across the street to a door with a three-foot-tall eye painted over it. Above the eye, polished brass letters spelled:

The Magic Carpet

Dr. Emil Kreuzer--One Night Only

He nodded at the valet parking attendant standing in front and went in.

Inside, a well-dressed crowd sitting at cocktail tables stared at a small stage.

Emil Kreuzer stood in the middle of the stage holding a microphone. In mellifluous tones he reeled off hypnotic patter to a dark-haired young woman sitting in a chair. Because of the stage light his tuxedo and powder blue dress shirt appeared to have a fluorescent tinge. Suddenly he grabbed the woman's arm and raised it in the air. "Stiff!" he commanded. "Your arm is
stiff!
As stiff and
rigid
as a
steel bar!"
He took his hand away and the woman's arm remained pointing straight up in the air. "Now as you try to move your arm, you will find that you are unable to do so. The harder you try to move it, the more
stiff
and
rigid your arm becomes."
The woman tried to move her arm but couldn't. The crowd murmured. Someone in the rear of the room spilled a drink and said, "Damn."

Kreuzer touched the woman's arm again. "At the count of three your arm will return to normal and fall pleasantly and comfortably into your lap," he said. He counted to three and the arm dropped. The crowd applauded heartily. He snapped his fingers and the woman opened her eyes. He shook hands with her. She returned to her front-row table. The applause continued as Kreuzer bowed from right to left. The curtain dropped and the show was over.

Travis Bailey found his way behind the stage into a small office. He sat down at a desk covered with wholesale liquor receipts.

Minutes later, Kreuzer plodded into the office. He locked the door. Having removed his tuxedo jacket, he hung it over a chair, then pulled off his bow tie. "What the fuck happened?" he said through gritted teeth. "I've been biting my nails for three days."

"It was an accident," Bailey said without expression. "He got in my way."

"Any feedback?"

Bailey bit his lip for a moment. "Carr was nosing around Hartmann's place but I think he was just filling in details for his reports. I'm not worried."

Emil Kreuzer pulled off his shirt and undershirt and tossed them on the floor. He got a towel out of a desk drawer and wiped his sweaty chest and arms. "You'll have to watch out for Carr. He's a snake. He'll creep up on you when you least expect it. He's mean and he won't give up. When he put me in the joint years ago I never knew what hit me. He just pulled the rug out."