Inherent Vice (4 page)

DOC TOOK THE FREEWAY OUT THE EASTBOUND LANES TEEMED
with VW buses in jittering paisleys, primer-coated street hemis, woodies
of authentic Dearborn pine, TV-star-piloted Porsches, Cadillacs carrying dentists to extramarital trysts, windowless vans with lurid teen dramas in progress inside, pickups with mattresses full of country cousins from the San Joaquin, all wheeling along together down into these great
horizonless fields of housing, under the power transmission lines, everybody
’
s radios lasing on the same couple of AM stations, under a sky like
watered milk, and the white bombardment of a sun smogged into only a
smear of probability, out in whose light you began to wonder if anything you
’
d call psychedelic could ever happen, or if—bummer!—all this time
it had really been going on up north.

Beginning on Artesia, signs directed Doc to Channel View Estates, A Michael Wolfmann Concept. There were the expected local couples who
couldn
’
t wait to have a look at the next OPPOS, as Aunt Reet tended to call most tract houses of her acquaintance. Now and then at the edges of
the windshield, Doc spotted black pedestrians, bewildered as Tariq must have been, maybe also looking for the old neighborhood, for rooms lived in day after day, solid as the axes of space, now taken away into commo
tion and ruin.

The development stretched into the haze and the soft smell of the fog
component of smog, and of desert beneath the pavement—model units nearer the road, finished homes farther in, and just visible beyond them the skeletons of new construction, expanding into the unincorporated wastes. Doc drove past the gate till he got to a patch of empty contractor hardpan with street signs already in but the streets not yet paved. He parked at what would be the corner of Kaufman and Broad and walked back.

Commanding filtered views of an all-but-neglected branch of the Dominguez Flood Control Channel forgotten and cut off by miles of fill, regrading, trash of industrial ventures that had either won or failed, these homes were more or less Spanish Colonial with not-necessarily-load-bearing little balconies and red-tile roofs, meant to suggest higher-priced towns like San Clemente or Santa Barbara, though so far there wasn
’
t a shade tree in sight.

Close to what would be the front gate of Channel View Estates, Doc
found a makeshift miniplaza put there basically for the construction folks, with a liquor store, a take-out sandwich place with a lunch counter, a beer
bar where you could shoot some pool, and a massage parlor called Chick Planet, in front of which he saw a row of carefully looked-after motorcy
cles, parked with military precision. This seemed the most likely place for
him to find a cadre of badasses. Plus, if they were all here at the moment,
then chances were Mickey was, too. On the further assumption that
the owners of these bikes were here for recreation and not waiting inside
drawn up in formation prepared to kick Doc
’
s ass, he breathed deeply,
surrounded himself with a white light, and stepped in the front door.

“
Hi,
I’m
Jade?
”
A bubbly young Asian lady in a turquoise cheong-sam handed him a laminated menu of services.
“
And please take note of
today
’
s Pussy-Eater
’
s Special, which is good all day till closing time?
”

“
Mmm, not that $14.95 ain
’
t a totally groovy price, but I
’
m really trying to locate this guy who works for Mr. Wolfmann?
”

“
Far out. Does he eat pussy?
”

“
Well, Jade, you
’
d know better’
n me, fella named Glen?
”

“
Oh sure, Glen comes in here, they all do. You got a cigarette for me?
”
He tapped her out an unfiltered Kool.
“
Ooh, lockup style. Not much eating pussy in there, huh?
”

“
Glen and I were both in Chino around the same time. Have you seen him today?
”

“
Till about one minute ago, when everybody suddenly split. Is there something weird going on? Are you a cop?
”

“
Let
’s
see.
”
Doc inspected his feet.
“
Nah
...
wrong shoes.
”

“
Reason I ask is, is if you were a cop, you
’
d be entitled to a free preview of our Pussy-Eaters Special?
”

“
How about a licensed PI? Would that—
”

“
Hey, Bambi!
”
Out through the bead curtains, as if on a time-out from a beach volleyball game, strode this blonde in a turquoise and orange Day-Glo bikini.

“
Oboy,
”
Doc said.
“
Where do we—
”

“
Not you, Bong Brain,
”
Bambi muttered. Jade was already reaching for that bikini.

“
Oh,
”
he said.
“
Huh
...
see, is what I thought is, here? where it says
‘
Pussy-Eaters Special
’
? is what that means is, is that—
”

Well. .. neither girl seemed to be paying him much attention anymore, though out of politeness Doc thought he should keep watching
for a while, till finally they disappeared down behind the reception desk,
and he wandered away figuring to have a look around. Out into the hallway, from someplace ahead, seeped indigo light and frequencies even darker, along with string-heavy music from half a generation ago from LPs compiled to accompany bachelor-pad fucking.

Nobody was around. It felt like maybe there had been, till Doc showed up. The place was also turning out to be bigger inside than out. There were black-light suites with fluorescent rock
‘
n
’
roll posters and
mirrored ceilings and vibrating water beds. Strobe lights blinked, incense
cones sent ribbons of musk-scented smok
e ceilingward, and carpeting of
artificial angora shag in a variety of tones including oxblood and teal,
not always limited to floor surfaces, beckoned alluringly.

As he neared the back of the establishment, Doc began to hear a lot of screaming from outside, along with a massed thundering of Harleys.
“
Uh-oh. What
’
s this?
”

He didn
’
t find out. Maybe it was all the exotic sensory input that caused Doc about then to swoon abruptly and lose an unknown amount of his day. Perhaps striking some ordinary object on the way down accounted for the painful lump he found on his head when at length he awoke. Faster, anyhow, than the staff on
Medical Center
can say
“
subdural hematoma,
”
Doc dug how the unhip Muzak was silent, plus no Jade, no Bambi, and he was lying on the cement floor of a space he didn
’
t recognize, though the same could not be said for what he now ID
’
d, far overhead, like a bad-luck planet in today
’
s horoscope, as the evilly twinkling face of Detective Lieutenant Bigfoot Bjornsen, LAPD.

“
congratulations, hippie scum,
”
Bigfoot greeted Doc in his all-too-familiar 30-weight voice,
“
and welcome to a world of inconvenience. Yes, this time it appears you have finally managed to stumble
into something too real and deep to hallucinate your worthless hippie ass
out of.
”
He was holding, and now and then taking bites from, his trademark chocolate-covered frozen banana.

“
Howdy, Bigfoot. Can I have a bite?
”

“
Sure can, but you
’
ll have to wait, we left the rottweiler back at the station.
”

“
No rush. And
...
and where are we at the moment, again?
”

“
At Channel View Estates, on a future homesite where elements of
some wholesome family will quite soon be gathering night after night, to
gaze tubeward, gobble their nutritious snacks, perhaps after the kids are in bed even attempt some procreational foreplay, little appreciating that
once, on this very spot, an infamous perpetrator lay in a drugged stupor,
babbling incoherently at the homicide detective, since risen to eminence,
who apprehended him.
”

They were still within sight of the front gate. Through a maze of stapled-together framing, Doc made out in the afternoon light a blurry vista of streets full of newly poured foundations awaiting houses to go on top of them, trenches for sewer and utility lines, sawhorse barricades with lights blinking even in the daytime, precast storm drains, piles of fill, bulldozers and backhoes.

“
Without wishing to seem impatient,
”
the Lieutenant continued,
“
any time you feel you
’
d like to join us, we would so like to chat.
”
Uniformed toadies crept about, chuckling in appreciation.

“
Bigfoot, I don
’
t know what happened. Last I recall I was in that massage parlor over there? Asian chick named Jade? and her Anglo friend Bambi?
”

“
Wishful figments of a brain pickled in cannabis fumes, no doubt,
”
theorized Detective Bjornsen.

“
But, like, I didn
’
t do it? Whatever it is?
”

“
Sure.
”
Bigfoot stared, snacking amusedly on his frozen banana, as Doc went through the wearisome chore of getting vertical again, followed by details to be worked out such as remaining that way, trying to walk, so forth. Which was about when he caught sight of a medical examiner
’
s crew with a bloodstreaked human body supine on a gurney, settled into itself like an uncooked holiday turkey, face covered with a cheap cop-issue blanket. Things kept falling out of
it’s
pants pockets. Cops had to go scramble in the dirt to retrieve them. Doc found himself freaking out, in terms of his stomach and whatever.

Bigfoot Bjornsen smirked.
“
Yes, I can almost pity your civilian distress—though if you had been more of a man and less of a ball-less
hippie draft dodger, who knows, you might have seen enough over in the
‘
Nam to share even my own sense of professional ennui at the sight of one more, what we call, stiff, to be dealt with.
”

“
Who is it?
”
Doc nodding at the corpse.

“
Was, Sportello. Here on Earth we say was.
’
Me
et Glen Charlock
whom you were asking for by name only hours ago, witnesses will swear
to that. Forgetful dope fiends should be more cautious about whom they choose to act out their wacko fantasies upon. Furthermore, on the face of it, you have chosen to ice a personal bodyguard of the rather well-connected Mickey Wolfmann. Name ring a bell? or in your case shake a tambourine? Ah, but here
’
s our ride.
”

“Hey
—my car
...
”

“
Like
it’s
owner, well on the way to impoundment.
”

“
Pretty cold, Bigfoot, even for you.
”

“
Come come, Sportello, you know we
’
ll be more than happy to give you a lift. Watch your head.
”

“
Watch my
...
How
‘
m I spoze to do that, man?
”

they didn
’
t go
downtown but, for reasons of cop protocol forever obscure to Doc, only as far as the Compton station, where they pulled in to the lot and paused next to a battered
‘
68 El Camino. Bigfoot got out of the black-and-white and went back and opened the trunk.
“
Here, Sportello—come and give me a hand with this.
”

“
What, excuse me, the fuck,
”
Doc inquired,
“
is it?
”

“
Bobwire,
”
replied Bigfoot.
“
An eighty-rod spool of authenticated Glidden four-point galvanized. You want to take that side?
”

Thing weighed about a hundred pounds. The cop who
’
d been driving sat and watched them lift it out of the trunk and stash it in the bed
of the El Camino, which Doc recalled was Bigfoot
’
s ride.

“
Livestock problems out where you live, Bigfoot?
”

“
Oh, you
’
d never use this wire for actual fence, are you crazy, this is seventy years old, mint condition—
”

“
Wait. You
...
collect
...
barbed wire.
”

Well yes, as it turned out, along with spurs, harness, cowboy sombreros, saloon paintings, sheriffs
’
stars, bullet molds, all kinds of Wild West
paraphernalia.
“
That is,
if you
don
’
t object, Sportello.
”

“
Whoa easy there Jolly Rancher, ain
’
t looking for no drawdown
‘
th
no bobwire collector, man
’
s own business what he puts in his pickup
ain’t it.”