L.A. Rotten Read online

  Repetition has taught me where a vein is buried in the webbing between my big toe and his neighbor, and, also, where I’ve drilled before. Avoid hitting the same spots again and again, or you’ll get, yup, necrosis. I depress the plunger slightly once the nerves in my feet have tasted the needle’s presence, and then draw back upward, collecting my own blood into the chamber, integrating it with the skag. This tells me I’ve hit pay dirt (not that I worry). Next stop: morning. I depress the plunger fully, the second hand on some clock somewhere skips a tick, and I set the exhausted syringe on my nightstand. I will not use this syringe again. The horrors of dull, well-used, well-shared jailhouse needles stay with me always.

  At noon, I stumble out of bed to begin my day, none the worse for the wear. My cell phone has been mercifully unharassed by Harold, and my daily shit is a good one. My dealer on the outside, Tony, complains that heroin constipates him, but I’ve never had this problem. Showered, I don’t have to check my refrigerator to tell me that there is no breakfast—there seldom is. Not that I get hungry often; a day will often pass without me eating anything at all. Come to think of it, I don’t remember eating anything yesterday. It makes me curious about that shit I took. I stop on my way out the door to toss the parchment-colored envelope containing an angry missive from my landlord into the trash. The bin in my kitchen, empty except for two other unopened parchment envelopes, reminds me that I don’t need to buy new trash bags anytime soon.

  —

  Unfortunately, the bags of biohazard are just where I’ve left them, their orange biohazard stickers practically neon in the scorch of the midday sun. Shading my momentarily sensitive eyes beneath a pair of Wayfarers, I toss my milk crate on the seat beside me and blast the air conditioner. A construction crew jackhammers the asphalt across the street into fist-sized clumps of black rubble. The sound may explain the intermittent pulses of gunfire that populated my nightmares toward the end of my slumber. Nightmares always seem to come after I dose myself; these have so far been the most unpleasant aspect of my using experience. I head to the industrial park that is the physical home to Trauma-Gone; mercifully it is devoid of people when I arrive, and I park my work truck in front of the roll-up door to our warehouse space. Admittedly, my unexpected presence on the news has me wondering who has seen what of my existence. I know nothing good can come of it.

  Inside the tiny box that is our office, I immediately turn on the air conditioner as well. I don’t know how Harold can stand the roasting air that accumulates inside the office on hot days; you’d think he was part African instead of dumpy and Korean. It is far more his frugality than his tolerance of wicked temperatures that has our makeshift office storing heat like a convection oven, though. I won’t be on-site long enough to bask in the cooler climate, but something is better than nothing in this summer swelter. I bring the Minolta over to the one computer we have, sit down, and plug a USB cable into the side port of the digital camera. Harold, for his great many faults, has the redeeming feature of computer know-how. Our computer is ready to go from the moment I start it up, and it can process almost instantly all the files I upload. Harold even built an electronic database for all things crime-scene-related, which includes detailed logs of the “before and after” photos I take at each job site. Everything Harold or I have ever worked on is stored in this computer and backed up on at least a dozen different flash drives and an external hard drive.

  My “office work” consists of uploading all the photos, then tagging them for potential future reference by anything memorable in the scene. Additionally, I scan the contracts into the computer so we have an electronic copy of them—the City Hall suicide goes in as Job J112, while the Offramp Inn homicide is Job J113. The actual contracts then get filed according to payment status. Both are considered “corporate status,” meaning Trauma-Gone will be just about out of business before we see a payment on either of these gigs.

  The office door connecting to the warehouse opens and Harold clumps in, chewing on his umpteenth toothpick of the day. Wordlessly, he walks over to where the wall controls for the AC are, next to a huge wall map of Los Angeles County, and flicks the switch to “off.” There is no aggression in the movement and no recognition of my comfort, only a one-track mind focused entirely on the bottom line. I am not surprised by the gesture, and am not inclined to glance up from the computer screen. Harold next clumps over to join me, leaning his head invasively over my shoulder to check out the photos I am tagging. “Go to others,” he insists, his accented English making this a rushed jumble of mouth mush. I do as he says, flicking over to the “before” pictures on the City Hall job. The Offramp pics, though technically more gruesome, don’t have the star wattage to command his attention. He snorts deep, next to my ear, unaware, loudly culling the snot from his nose and throat into the cavern of his mouth, and then, taking the toothpick from his mouth only momentarily, spits a gob of phlegm into the trashcan beside us. Without checking, I’m certain it is the color of the elevator walls in my apartment. “Maybe you don’t run AC so much, I wouldn’t get colds,” he explains, looking away, embarrassed. He has no cold, and he does this often. Our attention returns to the computer screen and Harold likes what he sees. “They got that fucker.” His slime-soaked toothpick goes into the trashcan next and he stands, presiding over me, his casual demeanor now replaced by one of authority.

  “I notice you didn’t turn to cameras,” he scolds. It is the chiding that I have been expecting. “This high-profile job exposure for us, you got be poster boy for the company. We need work always.”

  “I didn’t want to be on TV.”

  “You need get over that. We need work.”

  “We’ve been doing fine without the news filming me so far…”

  He clucks. “Always good for more work. Lucky for you they got shot of work truck. Good shot. I still saw you on TV, though. So, no point trying to hide from cameras, huh?”

  “We’ll see, I guess.” Goddamnit.

  “Here,” Harold reaches into his pocket and pulls out the folded slip that is my paycheck. It does not include the previous two jobs, but there has been enough work over the past two weeks to warrant paying me something. “It is little bit short,” he admits, once again averting his eyes from me. “Needed money pay for paper towels.” This is a lie of sorts. Every paycheck I get is a little bit short for one reason or another, and though each time he is ashamed of himself for doing it, he creates an excuse to justify it away. This time it is paper towels. The company makes more than enough money to cover all expenses, me included, but Harold, in his own, cheap way, knows that the ex-con in me isn’t going to raise a fuss about it.

  “That’s fine.” I validate him once again and scribble my name on the back of the check, signing it back over to him. This is another arrangement he’s orchestrated in his quenchless thirst for profit. He has me on his payroll only because hiring a parolee gives him a tax break, or he would unquestioningly pay me under the table. So every two weeks I get a paycheck, but in lieu of me having to take it to the bank and deposit it myself, Harold “lets me” sign the check back to him, and he pays me cash then and there. Minus a ten-dollar convenience charge on my end. I always do it because, in the end, what fucking difference does it make? Harold lays out twelve hundred dollars in hundred-dollar bills in a stack on the desk before me, and the last ninety is paid in tens. He doesn’t count it and neither do I; he would take such a gesture as an insult.

  “Thanks.” I pocket the cash and return to my work.

  “Do you have your cell phone turn on?” he checks, always worried that I might have forgotten, though I’ve never given him reason to be nervous.

  “Yes.”

  “Good, good. Hope for a busy weekend. Expect call.” With that, he exits back out into the warehouse, nodding pleasantly as he goes.

  —

  I leave the office in my personal car, a newer-model, glossy coal-black Dodge Charger, and head down Lankershim Boulevard until San Fernando is well behind me. H
ere I have limited options: Friday afternoon and I can’t get my fix on because I am now in detox mode for the monthly check-in with my PO on Monday. I can eat, I can go to the library, or I can hit up a strip club. My hands already making the turn for me, I wheel in the direction of the Electric Candy Factory. This is most definitely not the library.

  When I was a kid, my mother used to go out to a bakery over in North Hollywood for fresh Dutch Crunch rolls, and, invariably, our drive would take us past the Electric Candy Factory, which, with its neon-Vegas exterior, seemed like the most mind-boggling, amazing place ever—Willie Wonka’s factory in midtown NoHo. Needless to say, my mother never took me there. About ten months ago, I found my way back and have become something of a regular.

  Royal, the bouncer, waves me past without charging the daytime cover, and I step through the beaded curtain and on into the club. The innards of the Electric Candy Factory are much more like a run-of-the-mill strip club than the exterior is, but the adult in me has long since made peace with that fact. Instead of whistling elves and all the candy under the sun, I get velvet, pleather, and a B-squad girl flossing her ass with the dance pole. I hope Charity is working the early crowd, but I doubt it. She’ll likely be on later, though, if I care to stick around.

  I take a seat away from the tip rail so as not to give the girl false hope, and settle into the scene. The Electric Candy Factory has an eclectic soundtrack, which works in its favor. The DJ doesn’t just hit the repeat button on a Lil Wayne CD; no, they branch out to German oompah music during Oktoberfest, patriotic standards, movie tracks (yes, including Flashdance), and heavy metal, depending on the dancer. Also, the girls are healthy (well, the one on stage isn’t so much) and friendly, but this is likely because I visit often, tip well, and don’t talk much.

  “Whaddya want?” a female to my left asks, and I look to find the waitress, a pretty, petite girl with overly inflated breasts and a colorful sleeve of tattoos covering her right arm. I know most everybody here, but not her.

  “Cherry Coke.” I mimic her not exactly sweet demeanor, and she doesn’t appreciate it.

  “Don’t mind Ivy, she’s a cunt,” a voice just above my right ear breathes sultrily. I glance up to find Bianca, a tall black girl with cornrow braids, leaning over me, letting her tits graze my shoulder. “How you doin’, sweetie?”

  “I could be doing better.”

  “Tell me all about it.”

  “Nah, it’s bullshit—whining mostly.”

  “Is there any other kind?”

  “How are you doing, Bianca?”

  “You’re the only one who ever asks me that anymore.” We both pretend I mean it. She perches her toned ass on the side of my chair, and hers is the light, sweet scent of baby oil. “Do you want a dance, Tommy?”

  I look to the stage and see that Chilia, a Hispanic girl, has taken over on the pole. She’s energetic, but not suiting my current mood. “Take care of me?” I ask, distracted.

  At first, Bianca shakes her head, “I’m raggin’ it. Aunt Flo.”

  I decide I really want to, though, and am persistent. “I got dark pants on—I’ll live.”

  “You got a condom?” she sighs. When I shake my head, she flicks her braids. “Let me take out my tampon, I’ll meet you in back.” She leaves and I get up to go find Zeus, the bouncer for the private booths.

  “Hey, Slick!”

  I glance back, not believing this comment is directed at me, and lock eyes with the slim server that Bianca called Ivy. She also called her “a cunt.” Ivy holds up my cherry Coke, which no longer seems appetizing. “Forgetting something?”

  “Cancel it,” I say, dismissive.

  “That’s not how it works, Diamond Joe—you order it, you bought it.”

  “Just set it on the table then.” I hand her a five quickly from my wallet.

  “Six,” she corrects me.

  “What’s that?”

  “Two-drink minimum—two three-dollar Cokes, that’s six.”

  “I’m just going to get a dance, I’ll be right back.”

  “If you’re going to be back, you shouldn’t have a problem paying up front for your two drinks.”

  Biting my tongue, I take back the five and lay a ten on her serving tray. “Make sure you bring me change.”

  “Don’t piss yourself on my account—the dancers hate a wet lap.”

  Ivy marches off to set the drink at my table, and I continue to stare in her wake, irked. I was used to the unwarranted lip from cops and prison guards, but not little blonde waitresses in titty bars.

  I find big Zeus and pay forty bucks for two “private dances,” and another three hundred will go to Bianca personally for the extra service. Still pissed, I keep looking around for signs of Ivy even as Bianca pushes me down into an armchair and begins her grind against me. Bianca, Cassidy, Sin City Sue, and Charity will all perform this service for me if I pay for it, and I frequently do. Like my heroin fix, they provide me with instant gratification and save me from the misery of trying to meet girls and date. Strippers are interested in my money, not my past.

  “You know I’m taking your money whether we fuck or not,” Bianca informs me when I fail to get hard.

  “Sorry, it’s that waitress. Ivy. She irritated me.”

  Bianca slides around on my lap so my face is buried in the mounds of her dark breasts, and then tilts my chin up to meet her eyes. “Fuck that bitch, I’ll take care of that. The club can’t have its favorite customer distracted.” She invites me to suck on a nipple, which I do. To my immense relief, it does the trick. “Mmm, that’s my baby,” Bianca says, and reaches into the front of her thong to produce a condom.

  I’m preoccupied with her tits, but I’m pretty sure the brand is Love Sock. Keeping an eye out for Zeus, Bianca rips the package open and precisely glides it down over my exposed cock, which she’s worked out with her other hand. Balancing her thighs perpendicular to mine, she brusquely works her clit, quickly lubricating. Wet, she lowers herself, and, without use of her hands, absorbs me into her. She moves quickly, tightening her PC muscles with each lift—in effect, milking me. This is a trick she’s evidently learned from Charity, who can get me off in record time. I don’t mind a “quickie,” as none of the girls ever have the intention of cumming themselves, and the moment they feel me release, they are off and done with me. This doesn’t bother me either. Halfway through the second song, with Bianca bucking my thrusts, her hands gripping the back of my head pulling me into her while she moans like a porn star, I cum hard. In spite of my knowing better, I actually think she might be into it and not just play-acting, but when I warn her that I’ve popped, she immediately stops, clambers off me, and adjusts her thong back into place with one deft twitch of her fingers. She then tousles my hair, murmurs, “Thank you, baby,” and takes her leave of me. I zip back up, ditch the soggy condom, and wait till the song is over before I stand. The front of my jeans feels wet and warm, and my time at the club is complete. All in all, it’s not a bad life I’ve carved out for myself these days. If only I could get the Offramp Inn out of my head, I’d be in business.

  Chapter 4

  Harold puts me on notice Saturday for a possible cleanup at Disneyland. A woman jumped off the big hotel they have down there, and somehow Harold is certain we’ll get the call. We won’t. Disneyland has their own team for such activities—like when those people died on Big Thunder Mountain Railroad, or when the mooring pylon ripped loose from the steamship and sheared most of some guy’s head off, the cleanups stayed in-house and very under wraps. I wasn’t with Trauma-Gone at the time of those accidents, but I know we weren’t called for either of those jobs then, so I’m not holding my breath for this one either. Instead, I go to the beach and spend the day sitting alone in the sand at Leo Carrillo, watching the waves. I don’t bother entering the water with the other frolickers and sun worshippers; I’m not even particularly dressed for a hot summer day at the ocean, but it feels good just the same. The tumultuous Pacific is the thing I found
myself missing most during my stretch in prison, and nowadays I make it a point to come out and just appreciate its accessibility. After paying the twelve-dollar parking fee, of course.

  A line of dead seaweed on the hard-grit sand looks ominous and shakes me back to the swaths of blood on the ceiling in my last 236 job. Lately, I’ve found horror in the most innocuous of objects. Thinking of the unlucky Annie, I wonder, Why the homeless lady, though? Was she involved in something bigger? Why weren’t the other victims from the other 236s stabbed? Or even murdered? Little Annie was filleted like a salmon. The victim in the 236 before that one had been a male—as had the other one where I’d found a Bible with a condom. So, guys/girls, it doesn’t seem to make a difference to the killer…or killers. Someone with consistency is easy to diagnose. They establish small, traceable details that give hints to the sort of personality type they have. With consistency, I’d be able to tell whether this was one person or different people each time. If they’d only regularly use a knife, like they had at the last 236 job, I could likely tell their height and, possibly, their build.

  Of course, considering that they are changing things up, I can deduce things from this as well. Nothing concrete yet, but if it keeps up, I can begin to draw a picture. I hadn’t been smart enough on the initial jobs to reference the page number in the Bibles, but I have to believe it is always the same one. It certainly had always been early on in the book, I do recall that. Also, the book is routinely beneath the bed, no matter where the death occurs. That is important too. It shows that whatever the killer’s intent, the book is not essential to it. The book is incidental, a subtext—a commentary on the scene at large. If the killer, who is almost certainly a male, Caucasian probably, between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five, had intended for the book to be “the message,” he would have implanted it into the midst of every scene. Perhaps placed it into the hand of every victim? But the killer doesn’t want to be caught—or for the crimes to be linked. He wants a bizarre sort of near-anonymity. But why? There’s no fame or celebrity or ego involved in this…he doesn’t get the joy of watching his crimes played out on the evening news…Maybe it’s an anti-ego? Maybe his real joy is in eluding the police—the very joy he partakes in all of this—if it is even a thing—is in not being discovered? Admittedly, that seems to make him more deadly. If he even exists, that is.