Hillside Stranglers (13 page)

Yet he pined for Susan Moore, or so he told her in letters and telephone calls back to Rochester. He had never formally withdrawn his proposal of marriage to her, and he renewed it several times over in passionate entreaties for her to visit him. He had done what she had asked of him, established himself with a steady job. He had proved his independence by pulling up roots and putting down new ones. And only now, he told her, in this strange place so far from home, had he come fully to appreciate her. The girls out here in California were not for him. This entire society was corrupt, not what he was used to nor what he longed for. The girls, he said, were loose. They thought no more of making love than of eating a hamburger. Even their clothes he found disgusting, cheap, sluttish. They had no sense of personal modesty and were as ready to surrender their virtue as a dog or a cat. He needed her. He wanted her to come to him and marry him. His prospects were good, better than they had ever been in Rochester, but he needed her, Susan, for his own forever.

Susan agreed to visit him but said that she would reserve judgment on marriage. Kenny sent her a one-way ticket and met her at the Los Angeles airport in his Cadillac. Susan was impressed.

But trouble between them started as soon as she entered his Garfield apartment and noticed the fake degrees on the wall. He tried to explain them away as “novelties,” but when he admitted that he was thinking of starting a sideline as a psychologist and was preparing a brochure offering his counseling services at cut rates, she told him that, much to her disappointment, he had not changed at all and was just as impractical as ever. When she asked him whom he was dating, and he replied no one, she did not believe him; and when she told him frankly about her romantic life in Rochester, he lapsed
into the same old jealousies and resentments, telling her that she was no better than the California sluts. When she reminded him that they had always fought over his absurd possessiveness, that he had become angry when she so much as danced with someone else at a party, his anger increased.

They argued through the night, and by morning, Susan announced that she was leaving. Kenny burst into tears. She wasn’t giving him a chance. She did not understand the depth of his love for her. He was lost without her and might kill himself if she left him. They were perfect for each other and no man could love her as he could. She telephoned for a reservation on the next plane out.

On the way to the airport, Kenny pretended to get lost, saying he was bewildered by the freeway system. But Susan persisted and found another flight leaving a couple of hours later. She managed to talk him into writing a check for the ticket. He sulked as they sat in the departure lounge, and as the time of her flight approached, he began to cry, then sob, forcing his head into her lap like a son forsaken, ignoring her protests that people were watching. She made her flight this time. She had spent less than twenty-four hours with him, but something had told her to get out.

Chapfallen, Kenny took solace in other women. Sheryl was distressed to discover that he was also involved with Angie Holt but helped him distribute his psychologist flyers in the neighborhood and for several months saw him three or four nights a week. Angie, finding him refreshingly polite at first, a real gentleman, soon tired of his possessiveness, and when she brought in another young man to share her apartment with her, she told Kenny not to bother her any longer. He expressed shock that she could treat him so cavalierly. They had, after all, been intimate. He grew incensed at her rejection and hounded her, knocking on her door at all hours, following her around the building, confronting her in the laundry room and berating her as she tried to wash her dirty linen. She told him to grow up and lay off.

Stung, he broke into her apartment, found her diaphragm,
punched a hole in it, threw it on the floor, and urinated on it. For good measure he stole her boyfriend’s television set and sold it immediately to avoid being caught with it. As a final gesture symbolic of his pique, he slipped over her doorknob a semen-filled condom.

But for Kenneth Bianchi in California all was not defeat. He kept his job at Cal Land into the new year, 1977; there was nothing there for him to steal. At a New Year’s Eve party he met Kelli Boyd, a plump, hazel-eyed blonde from the state of Washington who was also working at Cal Land. After weeks of movies and dinners out, a Dodger game, TV at Angelo’s, an evening shooting pool with Angelo and one of his girls, and the occasional night spent with Kenny at his apartment, she agreed to move in with him on Garfield. By May she was pregnant.

Kenny wondered about fatherhood. It might be just what he needed to settle down, and it might be cause for escape. As was so often his habit, he proposed marriage, and, given Kelli’s condition, he had every reason to expect that she would accept him, but she declined the offer, saying she needed time to think it over. She was sure she wanted to have the baby, but she was unsure about Kenny. He was thoughtful, kind, gentle, attentive;
he wrote her cute little poems and brought her flowers; but sometimes he would not come home until very late. He said that he needed his freedom and that he liked to take long drives and walks by himself. She understood, but that was not what she wanted in a husband. He was also inordinately jealous of her friends, even of her brother Gerald and his two best buddies, all three of them men without women. He was neither punctual nor regular in his attendance at work, because, he told Kelli, he was suffering from cancer. To prove his illness, he sometimes would have her drive him to the hospital and tell her to wait in the parking lot while he pretended to go in for chemotherapy. Kelli reasoned that it would not make sense to have a husband who might drop dead before the honeymoon was over.

Kenny managed flings with some of the other girls who worked at Cal Land, never letting on to Kelli. He took special delight in coaxing one girl into Angelo’s water bed when he was out: Angelo had strictly forbidden either his sons or Kenny to desecrate the water bed; Kenny was to use the spare bedroom for his trysts. Through another of the girls, Mary Forsberg, Kenny had access to plenty of marijuana, smoking some of it and selling the rest at a profit.

And there were additional small pleasures in his work. In the files at Cal Land he found intriguing tax assessment information which he enjoyed sharing with Kelli, bringing home the addresses and assessments of Sonny and Cher, Groucho Marx, Telly Savalas, Jerry Lewis, George Peppard, Lee Marvin, Dean Martin, James Caan, and other celebrities. Sometimes material about unknown people amused him. The name Frank Horney, for instance, tickled his funnybone. He laughed to think how irritated all these people would be if they knew what Kenny Bianchi had found out about them. Why, if he wanted, he could drive right up to their doors and say hello, maybe pretend he was the tax assessor. If he were not an honest man, he told Kelli, he could use the information to pull off burglaries. You would think that after what Charles Manson and his gang had accomplished in Bel-Air, this kind of stuff would be kept private. People could not be too careful.

When his supervisor found marijuana in Bianchi’s desk drawer at work, Kenny was asked to resign. He protested that someone must have planted the pot, but he found another, similar job at Stewart West Coast Title in downtown Los Angeles. He and Kelli then decided to move to an apartment at 1950 Tamarind Avenue in Hollywood, so that they could live halfway between his work and hers in the Valley.

His schemes for getting extra money now included the psychologist’s office he rented from Dr. Weingarten, where he often sat at night waiting for the phone to ring. It seldom did. One evening a man called in saying he was about to commit suicide, and Bianchi thoughtfully referred him to a hot line that specialized in such cases. He administered Rorschach ink-blot tests on Kelli, guided by a textbook on the subject, and he advised one of Kelli’s friends about her weight problem.

Bianchi was anxious to find other ways of picking up extra money. When Angelo suggested that they find some girls to work for them as prostitutes, Kenny thought it a great idea. Kenny could use his gift of gab, Angelo said, to recruit the girls. Angelo would find the customers. They could clean up. Ninety percent of the whores in Los Angeles were controlled by black pimps. Why shouldn’t a couple of good white American boys like them rake off a little of the action? Kenny should keep his eye out for possible recruits.

It did not take Kenny long to find the right girl. At a party at Mary Forsberg’s which Kelli did not attend, he met Sabra Hannan, a sixteen-year-old from Phoenix, who had come out to Los Angeles looking for modeling work. She told Kenny that she had done one picture session for Evinrude outboard motors but that nothing had turned up since.

“You’re a beautiful girl,” Bianchi said. In this he was sincere. Sabra Hannan was blond with large, round eyes and a full lower lip that gave a little pout to her smile. And from what Kenny could tell she would look even better with her clothes off. “You ought to be making plenty of money modeling. You just haven’t met the right people. I’ve got a lot of contacts in
that business. Matter of fact, I can guarantee you five hundred dollars a week, easy.”

Sabra said that she would think it over. She was going away to visit friends in Lubbock, Texas, and then on to Phoenix for a couple of weeks. If he would give her his number, she would call him from there if she decided to accept his offer.

When Sabra Hannan did call Bianchi from Phoenix in June, she said that she had run out of money. She remembered what he had said about five hundred a week. If he would pay her fare back to Los Angeles, she could reimburse him out of her first check.

“No problem,” Bianchi said. “I’ll have my secretary arrange for a plane ticket. Just pick it up at the airport. By the way, you need a place to stay?”

“As a matter of fact I do, for a few days.”

“I’ll take care of everything. I’ll meet you at the airport. Gosh, you know, I have a feeling about these things. I have a feeling you’re really going places, Sabra.”

Kenny told Angelo the good news. Sabra Hannan was coming back to L.A., and she was broke. Wait till Angelo saw her. She was prime. She was first-class. About five-four, blond, and he would bet natural, great face, kind of pert and real slender but terrific tits. He hadn’t actually seen her tits but he could tell. They stood right up and winked at you. But, Kenny wondered, how were they going to talk her into whoring? She thought she was getting some modeling deal. She didn’t look whorish at all. Real clean-cut. He hadn’t even said anything to her about posing nude.

“Just watch,” Angelo said. “We’re paying her plane fare, that’s the first thing. She’s already in hock to us, see? We already own her. Leave it to me. We’ll be getting gold out of her ass in no time.”

Kenny was to bring Sabra straight to Angelo’s. When he picked Sabra up in the Cadillac, she remarked on what a nice car it was.

“Sometimes you need to impress people in this business,” Bianchi said. “You know, you drive a cheap car and they think
you’re a nobody. You must be thirsty after your flight. Have some of this.” He handed her a paper cup of what appeared to be orange juice.

By the time they arrived at Angelo’s, Sabra was asleep. Bianchi had spiked the juice with a sedative. He left her in the car and went in to see Angelo, who told him he had decided Sabra should be left for the night at one of the motels down the street. That would soften her up, gain her confidence for the time being.

Bianchi got her a room under his own name at the Sands Motel, signing the register “Kenneth A. Bianchi, Ph.D.” He managed to wake her and helped her to the room. Inside, he showed her three diamonds and told her that if she worked for him and his partner, his cousin Angelo Buono, for six months, she would get one of the diamonds as a bonus.

“I can’t believe my luck,” Sabra said. “Yesterday I was broke.”

“We believe in taking good care of our employees,” Bianchi said. “It’s better for morale. Here, try one of these on.” He handed her two frilly nightgowns.

Sabra changed in the bathroom and climbed into bed. She said she would see him in the morning. She didn’t know why she was so tired.

But Bianchi climbed onto the bed with her and started pulling down the covers and unbuckling his pants. Sabra rolled away from him.

“No,” she said. “I don’t really know you. Not now.”

“Come on. You’re acting like a virgin. You can’t fool me.” He wished he had given her a stronger dose of the sedative. He had been thinking about making it with her for two days. He had thought about her with Kelli, and it had been better than usual.

“No. Please. Let me sleep.”

Bianchi decided not to press the point. He would behave like a gentleman for now; there would be plenty of opportunities later.

The next morning Bianchi took Sabra to meet Angelo at the
Trim Shop. Angelo sat behind his desk in the little office he had constructed inside the garage. Behind him the wall was covered with photographs of the classic cars he had worked on. He looked Sabra over, without rising from his chair, and smiled. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the fat roll of bills he always carried, and peeled off a hundred-dollar note and handed it to her.

“This’ll get you some clothes. You working for us now?”

“Thank you. I guess I am.”

“Okay. What that means is, your word is your bond to us for one year. Get it?”

“Sure.”

“Your word is your bond,” Angelo said. “Remember that. Don’t forget it.”

“Okay.”

Angelo told her that she would move into his spare bedroom for the time being, until she got on her feet. Kenny would be telling her more about what kinds of modeling jobs she would be doing. In the meantime, she was not to go anywhere without telling them. If a job came through, they would need to know where she was. Sabra said she understood. She wouldn’t want to miss any opportunities.

Over the next few days they softened Sabra up. At first Kenny told her that the modeling business was slow that month. It was July and a lot of people were on vacation. Then he told her that he had found her a job, but that it would involve some nude poses. Sabra said she had never done that kind of modeling before, but when Kenny told her it was high-class stuff, art work, nothing pornographic, she agreed. He told her they would need some shots of her in the nude right away, to show the customer what he was getting. Otherwise it would be like buying a pig in a poke. Sabra took off her clothes and posed on the water bed while Angelo snapped some Polaroids.

“You don’t mind this,” Angelo said. “Give us a smile.”

But Kenny was sorry to tell her two days later that the job had fallen through. He asked her if she had ever considered prostitution. She said that she had not and that she had no intention of becoming a prostitute.

“Think about it,” Angelo said. “Meantime don’t go no-wheres without telling me. You got that?”

But Sabra did not yet take Angelo’s warnings seriously. She still figured a modeling job would turn up. They had promised her five hundred a week, hadn’t they? One afternoon she decided to go over to the Eagle Rock Plaza to buy some clothes. She still had not spent any of the hundred dollars. They had been taking her out for meals at Henry’s. She left Angelo’s house without telling him and started walking east on Colorado Street. After a couple of blocks a car pulled over and a young man gave her a ride to the Plaza. She spent most of the hundred and walked back to Angelo’s.

He was waiting for her, as was Kenny, who had taken yet another day off from work.

“You left without telling me,” Angelo said.

“I just went to get some clothes. Look. Do you like this skirt?”

“You walked down Colorado,” Angelo said. “Then you got a ride with some guy. You know him?”

“No. I could see he was nice.”

“When you was at the Plaza, you talked to a guy. You know him?”

“No.”

“Lying cunt whore. Kenny, get the towel. Take off your clothes, bitch. Do like I said!”

The look in Angelo’s eyes and the knowledge that he had been following her or had had her followed terrified Sabra. She undressed. Kenny appeared with a bathtowel that had been soaked in water. Angelo told Sabra to get her ass into the spare bedroom. He had already explained to Kenny the virtues of a wet towel: it left no bruise marks.

Bianchi swung the towel hard against her back and buttocks and breasts while Angelo watched, smiling, telling Bianchi to see if he could hit a bull’s-eye on her sex. This was a first for Kenny. He had never beaten a woman before. He found that he enjoyed it a lot.

“Now,” Angelo told her as she lay on the bed whimpering, “you’re gonna suck my dick.”

When he was finished, Bianchi demanded the same. He complimented Sabra afterward, saying that he had never enjoyed it more.

They now told Sabra that she was working for them as a prostitute. She had no choice. She owed them money for the plane fare and for the clothes she had just bought, and she would have to pay it back out of what she earned as a whore. If she behaved, everything would work out fine. But she must remember that she had given her word as bond for one year.

Angelo explained to her some inside procedures of the trade. She would always have a nailfile with her, in case a trick got too weird or violent. She was to stick the nailfile in his eye and get out of there. If the trick was not paying Angelo or Kenny directly, she should always take the money first and then hide it. Sticking it on chewing gum under a sink was a good idea. And she was to cut all the labels out of her clothes. That way, if the trick happened to be an undercover cop, she could not be traced to a neighborhood: this if she was working outcall, which they would arrange in time.

“You try to run away,” Buono told her, “you’re a dead pussy, understand? You can’t escape. I got friends in the Mafia will find you. You know what we do to girls who try to run off? I’ll tell you. We cut off their arms and legs and put them in a box and ship them out to the desert. You want that to happen to you, cunt?”

At first Sabra worked in Angelo’s house. Angelo would show a Trim Shop customer her nude pictures, ask the man if he wanted “some of that,” take his money, and lead him in to Sabra. Not only was he getting money as a pimp, which he split with Bianchi, he noticed that his upholstery business picked up when word got around about the extras you had available when you took your car to Angelo’s. Men from the glass shop and the car wash next door started making use of Sabra, too.