Pulp Read online

  I began breathing heavily. I unzipped. Then the earthquake hit. I dropped the photo and ducked under the desk. It was a good one.

  Around a 6. Felt like it lasted a couple of minutes. Then it stopped.

  I crawled out from under the desk, still unzipped. I found the photo again, put it back in my wallet, zipped up. Sex was a trap, a snare.

  It was for animals. I had too much sense for that kind of crap. I put the phone back on the hook, opened the door, stepped out, locked it and walked down to the elevator. I had work to do. I was the best dick in L.A. and Hollywood. I hit the button and waited for the fucking elevator to come on up.

  10

  Skip the rest of the day and night here, no action, it’s not worth talking about.

  11

  The next morning, 8 a.m., I was parked in my VW Bug across from Jack Bass’s house. I had a hangover and I was reading the L.A. Times.

  Anyhow, I’d done a bit of research. Bass’s wife, her first name was Cindy. Cindy Bass, formerly Cindy Maybell. Her press clippings revealed that she was a small time beauty contest winner, Miss Chili Cook-Off of 1990. Model, bit-part actress, liked to ski, student of the piano, liked baseball and water polo. Favorite color: red. Favorite fruit: banana. Liked to cat nap. Liked children. Liked jazz. Read Kant. Sure. Some day hoped to enter the bar, etc., etc. Met Jack Bass over a roulette wheel in Las Vegas. They were married two nights later.

  About 8:30 a.m. Jack Bass backed out of his drive in his Mercedes and headed for his executive position at the Aztec Petroleum Corp.

  Now it was me and Cindy. I was going to bust her wide open. She was at my mercy. I took out the photo for a recheck. I started sweating. I pulled down the sun visor. The whore, she was dumping on Jack Bass.

  I slipped the photo back into my wallet. I was beginning to feel eerie. What was wrong with me? Was this dame getting to me? She had intestines like everybody else. She had nostril hairs. She had wax in her ears. What was the big play? Why was the windshield rolling in front of me like a big wave? Must be the hangover. Vodka with beer chaser. You had to pay. Nice thing about being a drunk, though, you were never constipated. Sometimes I thought about my liver but my liver never spoke up, it never said,

  “Stop it, you’re killing me and I’m going to kill you!” If we had talking livers we wouldn’t need A.A.

  I sat in the car waiting for Cindy to come out.

  It was a sultry summer morning.

  I must have fallen asleep, sitting there. I don’t know what awakened me. But there was her Mercedes backing out of the drive. She swung it around, headed south and I followed her. Red Mercedes. I followed her to the freeway, the San Diego, she took the fast lane and hit it.

  Well, she was doing 75 anyhow. She must have been hot. She wanted it. I felt something twitch between my legs. A sheath of sweat began to layer my forehead. She got it up to 80. She was in heat, the bitch was in heat! Cindy, Cindy! I stayed right with her 4 car lengths behind. I’d nail her ass, I’d nail her ass like it had never been nailed before! This was it! Chase and consummation! I was Nick Belane, super dick!

  Then I saw the flashing red lights in my rear view mirror.

  Shit!

  I gradually edged over to the slow lane, saw a shoulder, parked the Bug, got out. The cops stopped 5 car lengths back. One got out on each side. I went toward them, reaching for my wallet. The tall cop flipped his gun out of the holster, pointed it at me.

  “Hold it, buddy!”

  I stopped. “What the hell you going to do, drill me? Go ahead, go ahead, drill me!”

  The shorter one came around behind me, got me in an arm lock, walked me to the hood of the police car and slammed me down over it.

  “You shit!” he said. “You know what we do with pricks like you?”

  “Yeah, I got a damned good idea.”

  “This prick is a wise guy!” said the short cop.

  “Take it easy, Louie,” said the tall cop, “somebody might have a camcorder. This is not the place.”

  “Bill, I hate wise guys!”

  “We’ll bust him, Louis. We’ll bust his ass good later.”

  I was still jammed over the hood. Cars were slowing on the freeway. The gawkers were gawking.

  “Come on, fellows,” I said, “we’re causing a traffic jam.”

  “You think we give a fuck?” asked Bill

  “You threatened us, you ran toward us reaching into your waist-band!” screamed Louie.

  “I was reaching for my wallet. I wanted to show you my i.d. I’m a registered detective, city of Los Angeles. I was tailing a suspect.”

  Louie let go the death grip he had on my arm.

  “Stand up.”

  “O.k.”

  “Now, slowly reach for your wallet and take out your driver’s license.”

  “O.k.”

  I handed him a little slip of paper, folded up.

  “What the hell is this?” he asked.

  The cop handed it back to me.

  “Unfold it, then hand it back.”

  I did that, said, “It’s a kind of temporary license. They took my old one when I failed my driver’s license test, the written one. This lets me drive until I take my next test in a week.”

  “You mean, you flunked your test?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey, Bill, this guy flunked his driver’s test!”

  “What? Really?”

  “I had things on my mind…”

  “Looks like you had nothing on your mind,” Louie smirked.

  “It’s for laughs,” said Bill.

  “And you mean you’re a licensed detective?” asked Louie.

  “Yep.”

  “Hard to believe.”

  “I was hot after a suspect when you flashed your lights. I was just about to nail her ass.”

  I handed Louie the photo.

  “Holy shit!” he said. He kept staring at the photo. It was a full length shot. She was in a mini-skirt and a low cut blouse, very low cut.

  “Hey, Bill, look at this!”

  “I was hot on her tail, Bill, I was just about to nail her ass.”

  Bill kept staring at the photo.

  “Uhhh uhhh uhhh,” he went.

  “I need the photo back, officer. Personal evidence.”

  “Oh yeah, sure,” he said, reluctantly handing it back.

  “Well, we ought to bust you,” said Louie.

  “But we won’t,” said Bill, “we’ll write you up for doing 75 even though you were doing 80. But we get to keep the photo.”

  “What?”

  “You heard.”

  “But that’s extortion!” I said.

  Bill moved his hand toward his gun.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said, it’s a deal.”

  I handed the photo back to Bill. He began writing out the speeding ticket. I stood there waiting. Then he handed me the ticket.

  “Sign it.”

  I did.

  He ripped it off and handed it to me.

  “You’ve got ten days to pay or if you plead not guilty to appear in court as indicated.”

  “Thank you, officer.”

  “And drive with care,” said Louie.

  “You too, buddy.”

  “What?”

  “I said, sure.”

  They strolled back toward their car. I strolled toward mine. I got in, started the engine. They were just sitting back there. I pulled into traffic, then kept it at 60.

  Cindy, I thought, you’re really going to pay now! I’m going to nail your ass like it has never been nailed!

  Then I got to the Harbor Freeway turnoff, took 110 south and just drove along, hardly knowing where I was going.

  12

  I rode the Harbor Freeway to the end. I was in San Pedro. I drove down Gaffey, took a left on 7th, went a few blocks, took a right on Pacific, just drove along, saw a bar, The Thirst Hog, parked, went on in. It was dark in there. The tv was off. The bartender was an old guy, looked to be 80, all whi
te, white hair, white skin, white lips.

  Two other old guys sat there, chalk white. Looked like the blood had stopped running in all of them. They reminded me of flies in a spider web, sucked dry. No drinks were showing. Everybody was motionless. A white stillness.

  I stood in the doorway looking at them.

  Finally the bartender made a sound: “Etch…?”

  “Has anybody here seen Cindy, Celine or the Red Sparrow?” I asked.

  They just looked at me. One of the patrons’ mouths drew together into a little wet hole. He was trying to speak. He couldn’t do it. The other patron reached down and scratched his balls. Or where his balls used to be. The bartender remained motionless. He looked like a cardboard cutout. An old one. Suddenly I felt young.

  I moved forward and took a bar stool.

  “Any chance of getting a drink here?” I asked.

  “Etch…” said the bartender.

  “Vodka 7, forget the lime.”

  Now just kick four-and-one-half minutes in the ass and forget it.

  That’s how long it took the bartender to get it to me.

  “Thank you,” I said, “now please make me another while you are in motion.”

  I took a hit of the drink. It wasn’t bad. He’d had lots of practice.

  The two old guys just sat there looking at me.

  “Nice day, isn’t it fellows?” I asked.

  They didn’t answer. I got the feeling that they weren’t breathing.

  Weren’t you supposed to bury the dead?

  “Listen, fellows, when was the last time either one of you pulled down a pair of women’s panties?”

  One of the old guys started going, “Heh, heh, heh, heh!”

  “Oh, last night, huh?”

  “Heh, heh, heh, heh!”

  “Was it good?”

  “heh, heh, heh, heh!”

  I was getting depressed. My life wasn’t going anywhere. I needed something, the flashing of lights, glamour, some damn thing. And here I was, talking to the dead.

  I finished my first drink. The second was ready.

  Two guys walked through the doorway wearing stocking masks.

  I downed my second drink.

  “ALL RIGHT! NO SHIT FROM ANYBODY! WALLETS, RINGS AND WATCHES ON THE BAR! NOW!” screamed one guy.

  The other guy leaped over the bar and ran to the cash register. He pounded at it.

  “HEY! HOW DO YOU OPEN THIS FUCKING THING?”

  He looked around, saw the bartender. “HEY, GRAMPS! COME HERE AND OPEN THIS THING!” He pointed his gun at him. All of a sudden the bartender knew how to move. He was at the register in a wink and had it open.

  The other guy was putting the stuff we had laid on the bar into a sack.

  “GET THE CIGAR BOX! UNDER THE BAR!” he yelled at his buddy.

  The guy behind the bar was stuffing the cash from the register into a sack. He found the cigar box. It was loaded. He stuffed it in the sack and leaped over the bar.

  Then they both stood there for a moment.

  “I feel kind of crazy!” said the guy who had leaped over the bar.

  “Forget it, we’re leaving!” said the other guy.

  “I FEEL CRAZY!” yelled the first guy. He pointed his gun at the bartender. He fired three shots. All into the gut. The old man jerked three times, then fell.

  “YOU FUCKING FOOL! WHAT DID YOU DO THAT FOR?” his cohort yelled.

  “DON’T CALL ME A FOOL! I’LL KILL YOU TOO!” he screamed, then turned and pointed his gun at his partner. He was too late. The shot went through his nose and came out the back of his head. He fell over taking a bar stool down with him. The other guy ran out the door. I counted to five, then ran out after him. The two old guys were still alive when I left. I think.

  I was in my car fast. I dug out from the curb, went a block, took a right and went down a back street. Then I slowed down and drove along. I heard a siren then. I lit a cigarette from the dash, turned the radio on. I got some rap music.

  I couldn’t understand what the guy was rapping about.

  I didn’t know whether to go back to my place or the office.

  I ended up in a supermarket pushing along a cart. I got 5 grapefruit, a roasted chicken and some potato salad. A fifth of vodka and some toilet paper.

  13

  I found myself back at my apartment. I dove into the chicken and the potato salad. I rolled a grapefruit across the rug. I felt frustrated.

  Everything was defeating me.

  Then the phone rang. I spit out a half-cooked chicken wing and answered.

  “Yeah?”

  “Mr. Belane?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’ve won a free trip to Hawaii,” somebody said.

  I hung up. I walked into the kitchen and poured a vodka with mineral water plus a touch of tabasco sauce. I sat down with it, had half a hit, then there was a knock on the door. I got a bad read on the knock, but I went ahead anyhow and said, “Come on in.”

  Much to my regret. It was my neighbor from 302, the mailman.

  His arms always hung kind of funny. His mind too. His eyes never quite looked at you but somewhere over your head. Like you were back there instead of where you were. There were a few other things wrong with him too.

  “Hey, Belane, got a drink for me?”

  “In the kitchen, mix your own.”

  “Sure”

  He walked into the kitchen, whistling Dixie.

  Then he came sauntering out, a drink in each hand. He sat down across from me.

  “Didn’t want to run short,” he said, nodding at his drinks.

  “You know,” I informed him, “they sell that stuff in a lot of places.

  You ought to stock up.”

  “Forget that…look, Belane, I’m here to talk turkey.”

  He drained the drink in his right hand, smashed the glass against the wall. He’d learned that from me.

  “Look, Belane, I’m here to start us both on the road to easy glory.”

  “Sure,” I said, “let’s hear it.”

  “Loco Mike. Ran the other day. Speed like a leper’s tongue on a virgin tit—ran the first quarter in 21.0. Came blazing into the stretch with a 5 length lead, 20 thousand dollar claimers, only got beat by a length and a half. Now he’s dropping down against 15 thousand claimers. Rabbit like that, at 6 furlongs. All they’ll see is his asshole.

  The Racing Form has him listed at 15 to 1! A steal! I’m cutting you in on the action, good buddy!”

  “Why cut me in? Why don’t you take all the action?”

  He drained his other drink. Then looked around. Raised his glass.

  “Hold it!” I said. “You smash that glass and you’re going to have two assholes.”

  “Huh?”

  “Think about it.”

  The mailman quietly set his glass down.

  “Got any more to drink?”

  “You know it. Pour me one too.”

  He walked into the kitchen. I felt myself gradually losing my patience.

  Then he came out, handed a drink to me.

  “Hold it,” I said, “I’ll take your drink.”

  “How come?”

  “It’s stronger.”

  He handed me the other drink, then sat down.

  “Now like I said, mailbag, why cut me in?”

  “Well, ha,” he said.

  “Yes, go on…”

  “I’m a little short of green. Got nothing to put down. But after we score I can pay you from the profits.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “Look, Belane, I just need a little scratch.”

  “How much?”

  “20 bucks.”

  “That’s a hell of a lot of money.”

  “10 bucks.”

  “10 fucking bucks?”

  “O.k., 5 bucks.”

  “What?”

  “2 bucks.”

  “Drag your sack out of here!”

  He drained his drink and stood up. I finished mine.


  He just stood there.

  He said, “How come all these grapefruits are on the floor?”

  “Because I like them like that.”

  I got up and moved toward him.

  “Time to go, fellow.”

  “Time to go, huh? I’ll go when I’m damn good and ready!”

  The drinks had made him bold. That happens.

  I slammed my fist into his gut. I had on my brass knuckles. Damn near went right through him.

  He dropped.

  I walked over and scooped up some broken glass from the floor.

  Then I came back, opened his mouth and dropped the glass in there.

  Then I rubbed his cheeks around and slapped him up a bit. His lips turned redder.

  Then I went about my business of drinking. I suppose about 45 minutes passed and the mailman began to move. He rolled over, spit out a shard of glass and began crawling toward the door. He looked pitiful. He crawled right up to the door. I opened it and he crawled out and down toward his apartment. I’d have to watch him in the future.

  I closed the door.

  I sat down and found half a dead cigar in the ashtray. I lit it up, took a drag, gagged. Tried it again. Not too bad.

  I felt introspective.

  I decided not to do any more that day.

  Life wore a man out, wore a man thin.

  Tomorrow would be a better day.

  14

  The next day I was back at Red’s bookstore. I was on the Celine case again. The racetrack was closed and it was a cloudy day. Red was marking up the prices on some rare items.

  “How about Musso’s?” he asked.

  “I can’t, Red. I seem to be eating all the time. Look at me.”

  I pulled back my coat. My gut was pushing out through my shirt.

  A button had popped off.

  “You better get that fat sucked out. You’ll have a heart attack.

  They suck the fat out through a tube. You can put it in a jar and look at it, it’ll remind you to lay off the jelly donuts.”

  “I’ll think about it. You want some grapefruit?”

  “Grapefruit? That’s not fattening.”