Destination (25 page)

MEGAN MORE WAS A MAN!!!!! He was born a big-dick bohunk in Billings, Montana. Mikhail Metrovich was his name. He looped to L.A., age eighteen. His shvantz topped the tape at sixteen sizzling inches. Mikhail male-prostied. He called himself Mighty Man, Mikey Man, Magnum Man. He serviced surly studio studs and tamed them with his tapeworm-long appendage. They took his tapeworm in to their tonsils. They bounced as bottoms to his top. He mulched men at MGM, he popped poofs at Paramount, he cornholed cats at Columbia. Fruits freed themselves and climbed from the closet to cloister with him. He outed outrageous numbers. His clients cliqued up and shared notes. Paranoia ran pandemic. These Hollywood hellions hated themselves. Mikhail turned studio studs into quivering queers and simpering sissies. Their self-hatred sizzled. They vowed revenge.

The studio studettes got some gelt and hired an A-rab assassin. The cat was a cold camel-fucker. He had terrorist ties. He was movie-mad and one mean Muslim. He said, “You give me role as action hero, and I cut off his dick. Better to maim than to kill.”

The unctuous studio un-studs underwrote his plan. Khalid Khareem cornered Mikhail and cut off his dick. The studio stupes commissioned a script. Catch this: Khalid Khareem as Israeli agent Israel Bonds. Soon to star in
Jerusalem Jihad
and
Tel Aviv
Terror.

THEN—SEPTEMBER 11!!!!!

A dragnet dragged in Khalid Khareem. The Feds found him and filleted him and fucked him fundamental. He got the big bone to hop heavenward and hail Allah. He sat in his cell. He mauled his wrists with a mattress spring. He hurtled to heaven or hell.

Mikhail viciously vowed revenge. He set sail on the sex-violence nexus. He decided to disguise himself as a woman. He stormed to Stockholm. He hooked down hormone shots. Surgeons altered his Adam's apple and shaved his big bones bare. He caught cutting-edge technology. Doctors plowed him the best plumbing. He became a woman—intractably indistinguishable.

SHE shot back to Hollywood. She sought soft-core porn gigs and got them. She met Danny Getchell. She met Gary G. They dug the amazing Amazon. She urged them to dig dirt on the studio stupettes. They sucked up to the soaring sorceress and agreed. She continued as their consort. She hid her boldly big-dicked and positively pestilent past. She became a lascivious lipstick lezzie. She laid siege to lezbo nitespots. She munched muff in Malibu and boffed bush in Bel-Air. She took on TV roles. She met Donna Donahue on
Murder Most Gently.
She shot her crazy crush Donna's way. Donna said, “Back off, Butch—it's not my scene.” Megan More moped off miffed and bid Donna bye-bye, bereft.

BUT:

The rejection rankled and reawakened her. She refined and reinvented her revenge. The studio gonifs gelded her. She made them whimper womanlike. They begged for her beef torpedo. They suffered postcoital remorse and regret en masse. They made her a for-real woman. She'd woman-whip them and coldly castrate them and wrap up her revenge.

The manuscript ended. The climactic cliffhanger: no more demon details on revenge.

I tingled. I looked at Donna. Her hurricane-hurled hazel eyes hit me.

She said, “Brave new fucking world.”

I said, “Yes. It's that time again.”

WE NABBED THE known-haunt list. We knew Megan More lit out on the lam. We mapped out our meshugina mission. We crazy crisscrossed L.A.

We ducked by dyke dens. We hit Linda's Little Log Cabin, Biff's Boiler Room, Mary's Munchbox, and Florence's Flame. Fuck— no murderous man-woman Megan More, ratched up on revenge.

We hit Helen's Hideout, Claire's Clam Club, Brenda's Brig, and Sapphic Sal's. No six-foot succubus, no mogul-mauled monster within.

We hit June's Jungle Room. Wacs and Waves and Marine Corps mamas moved in on fawnlike femmes. We hit Shondrika's Shangri-La. Mau-Mau music metastasized. Soul sisters slow-danced and slipped tongues. No white wench Megan More here.

We popped to Pacific Palisades. We nailed a non sequitur. Megan made time at Guru Guraji's Ashanti Ashram.

Wow—a whitewashed old adobe. Two floors flared around a calm courtyard. Fountains and floating flamingos. Parrots perched in palm trees. A trumped-up tropical scene.

A paved parking lot. Non sequitur number 2:
Mucho
movie vans. What's this—Sam's Sound, Lee's Lighting, Ken's Camera.

I parked by a purple Pontiac. The plates read “PRN STR.” Donna said, “I'm getting this feeling.”

We beat feet to the building. We perused the perimeter. We wrapped our reconnaissance to the back. We watched window light leap. We heard salacious sex noise. It was nihilistic and nasty and amplified apocalyptically.

We barged in a back door. We heaved down a hallway. We slid side doors ajar and perv-peeped the cracks. We saw lurid lighting and big boom mikes and cameras catching close-ups. We saw full-bore fucking and filthy fellating and groovy group gropes. We saw ashramites in turquoise turbans. They laid lights and moved mikes and hauled Handycams.

We dipped doors. We saw double-digit dicks and bravura breasts augmented out to
here.
We saw daisy chains and dalmatian dogs doing women. We lunged to the last left-hand door. Donna dipped it deep. There's Megan More lez-locked and loving it lewd.

It's a four-on-one fever. It's torrid tongue-kissing and beavers bushwhacked. It's major muff miscegenation. There's Nettie Negress, Lola Latina, Charlotte the Chinkess. It's a mountainous Megan More cluster fuck.

I barged in. The scene got me sex-sizzling and hopping homo-phobic. I was apoplectically ambivalent and turgidly turned on.

I lashed down light poles. I brought down boom mikes. I tripped tripods and crashed cameras
—kerrack!
Turquoise turban-heads tore out, tearful. The climactic cluster fuck climbed off the mattress. The multicultural mound made for the hallway. Only Megan More held back.

The room was rhino-wrecked. Capsized cameras, mangled mikes, laid-out lighting. There's a pulverizing postsex silence. There's Megan, there's Donna, there's me.

Donna shut the door. I heard a post-roust rampage outside. The porno parasites poured down the hallway. Vans vamoosed outside.

Megan moved off the mattress. Megan got into a mauve muumuu. Megan said, “Hi, Donna dear.”

Donna deadpanned her. I said, “LAPD.”

The horrible he-she harrumphed. “Your Rodney King number did not go unnoticed. I've been dealing with you fascists for years.”

I said, “Like Captain Lauter?” Donna said, “Why did you run?”

Megan mewed at me. “Making erotic films is not illegal. The ashram people can sue LAPD.”

I rhino-raked her. “They won't. They'll blow their ‘alternate lifestyle' clout if they do.”

Megan moped to the mattress. She fluttered, flounced, and flung herself down. She sulked sissified. She boded borderline bored.

“Tell me why I should talk to you. Give me one good reason.”

Donna dinged her. “I've got a good shot at a series next season. I'll make sure you get work.”

Megan milked the moment. “Oooh, dearest, that's wonderful. Can I do love scenes with you?”

Donna flipped her-him the finger. Get bent and butt out, Butch!

I said, “We read Jack Jen-kin's manuscript. Jack's dead, by the way. Your old Narco pals chilled him.”

Megan mewed. Megan muttered. Megan made the sign of the cross.

Donna said, “Lay it all out. I'll be needing a female sidekick.”

The “female” flattered and floored the hip he-she. Megan lolled back and laid her legs out.
Goooooood
gams—some certified surgeon's art.

“O.K., so I ran. I saw these Narco cops I fucked at Danny Getchell's funeral. Believe me, this girl knows when it's time to cut her losses.”

He-she boned Bill Berchem and Bob Mosher. She gender-bent them bad. It french-fried and freaked them out.

I said, “Keep going.”

Megan tossed her tresses. Her blondness bloomed—some cool colorist's art.

“So I fucked those guys
and
Linus Lauter. They used to tap all my Web sites, and somehow they got ahold of Jack Jen-kin's thesis. Weeeeel, you can just guess how it made them feel. They dallied with a former man, they couldn't live with it, so I guess they had to pressure Jack to get his copies back. Something happened, and Jack wound up dead.”

I said, “How did Jack get his background shit on you? You know, the stuff he put in his thesis.”

Megan simpered. Silk tones—some thorough throat surgeon's art.

“He was friends with one of the doctors in Stockholm. The doctor spilled everything he knew on me. All the stuff I told my shrink pre-op, everything.”

Donna drilled the he-she.
Ouch—
those hazel eyes
hurt.

“You hit on me. I shut you down, and I've got a hunch this ties in to your ‘revenge.' ”

“It does, dearie. I made up my mind to screw those silly studio savages by beating them down at the box office. I was going to fuck every name actress in the business. You know, performers are deeply decentered, and they'll all fuck men, women, and beasts. You see, I'm really
straight.
I
looooove
women, which is why I hit on you. That sixteen-inch shlong of mine was a terrible burden. It was why I turned lez. I wanted to love women woman to woman.” I whooped. Woman to woman—whoa! Donna did a double-take and slid slack-jawed.

The succubus went sulky. She pouted, poofter-style.

“So I decided to fuck all these actresses, and Gary Getchell was going to film it, and I was going to threaten to show the films publicly, and blackmail the studio boys. ‘Here's your biggest stars jungled up with a soft-core porno queen. How do you think that will affect your box office in Topeka and Des Moines?' ”

Donna said, “Let me guess. You've got a film of you fucking Linus Lauter. It's your wedge against those cops.”

Megan patted a purple purse. “I've got the cassette right here. You're no dummy, Donna dear.”

I brought out my beavertail. I sap-slapped my legs. The business end flopped phallic-like. Donna doe-eyed dug on it.

I said, “Where does Gary G. keep his dirt files?”

Megan said, “I don't know.”

Donna said, “You must hate me.”

Megan coughed into a hankie. Purloined pubic hairs spun in her spit.

“No, darling. I
looooove
you.”

“Are you this ‘avenging angel' that Gary Getchell told Rick about?”

“No, no, no. I
loooooove
you. But Gary was talking up this ‘bounty' on you. He said he knew a psycho who had ‘this big Donna Donahue plan.' Really, that's all he said, and I'd
never
hurt you.”

Annihilating angels. Film fucks and lip-locked lezzies. Bounty-bait Donna. Details dug at me.

Looks lanced the room. Megan to Donna to—

The door cracked and crashed. The door hooked off its hinges. Bill Berchem and Bob Mosher barged in.

Looks
lashed
the room. Eyeballs socked in their sockets. Bad Bill and Big Bob to Donna, Megan, me.

Megan pulled her purse. The suddenness startled and stunned. Three guns hopped off holsters: Berchem, Mosher, me.

Donna ducked. Shades of '83—Donna dove and dug out my ankle piece.

Berchem blasted Megan. Bam—a cartridge caught her carotid. Short-range shootout/the room 12 by 12/four guns out and arcing, fuck me—

Mosher fired. Mosher missed me. I fired back, I rang a ricochet—one bip off his bulletproof vest. Megan blew blood on her muumuu. Berchem capped her hairline-high. Her bleached blond wig sailed off by the seams.

I fired at Berchem—four feet between us—the punk panicked and pantywaist-screamed.

My gun jammed. A jacked round jumped from the breach. Donna rolled right. Donna got behind Berchem. Donna braced her arm on an arc light and arced a shot upwards. Berchem's brains zinged.

Mosher fired down. Donna ducked. I jumped in and body-blocked him. I smacked him, gouged his gun hand, and smothered his aim. He hooked his head back. His mouth went wide. He showed his teeth and bored in to bite me.

Donna got between us. Donna tapped his teeth with a 2-inch barrel and popped him point-blank.

His teeth shattered and shrapnelized. Bloody bridgework bristled Donna. Dental detritus dinged me.

Check the charnel house. Three dead. Megan's
morte
in her muumuu. The Narco cops are wrapped to the River Styx
—finito
at Donna's feet.

I grabbed a wall phone. I mauled my memory. I lined up Linus Lauter's home number. I dialed it delirious. I heard a pickup click.

I heard “Hello.” It was Linus L. I greased my greeting.

It's all over. Your boys bought it. They killed the Korean. You fag-fucked a he-she. It's caught on cassette—vivid VCR shit— don't wait for the DVD.

I knew he'd do it.
He race-mixed radical. He gender-bent for bootie. He couldn't ignore the ignominy.

I heard the hammer hitch.

I heard the cylinder slip.

I heard the muzzle roar that meant Meet Your Maker.

I dropped the phone. Donna grabbed me. We held each other a whole half-minute. Her heart never missed a beat.

6.

We hid by her hearth. We fooled with the fireplace. We cranked a big blaze and upped the AC.

Then to now. Twenty-one years. Four fucked hours at Parker Center. Joe Tierney's tantrum. Two cops shot dead. Linus Lauter's suicide—horrific hara-kiri.

The sex-violence nexus. Official obfuscation. The Berchem– Mosher–Megan More “suicide pact.” Witnesses bought and bullied at Ashanti Ashram. Leotis Lauter's precise press release:

The LAPD did my dad in. Ditto Bill Berchem and Bob Mosher. They racked up their relatives—don't rag the suicide scenario, don't risk your pension pack.

The media—quelled by quid pro quo. Try to trust Tierney— he'll pay you back.

The sex-violence nexus. Say
sí
to sex, violence vividly
yes.

The nexus nabbed us new. The charnel house challenged us. It was our final fait accompli.

We laid logs in the fireplace. Reggie Ridgeback reclined nearby. His amber eyes orbited our way.

Cashmere cushions and comforter. A tantalizing temperature. Lit logs and a glorious glow.

My brave bride again. Another cross-fire christening. Our moment to memorize and test time with.

We climbed from our clothes. Embers eddied and shot shadows across us. My memory guided me. I called up every curve and surface and kissed her there.

Then to now naked. Curves and constellations. The memory map of her spark points, now spin with her sighs.

We traded curve caresses and kisses. Flame shadows shifted and showed us where to kiss this and that. It felt timeless merged with urgent, imperative and aimless, make me arch and sigh, breathe my breaths and do that.

The hearth heat made us glisten. We tasted sweet swirls of sweat. Our kisses went
right there.
Her taste was her taste all fresh and twenty years back. I wanted to stay there and breathe it and live it. She made me stop. She kissed
me
there and made me move inside.

It was timeless merged with urgent, all imperative-momentous, this nexus NOW harnessed hot. The hearth heat held us. The flames died and darkened. I kissed sweat from her hazel eyes as new memory mapped.

DAWN. The fire fizzled out and fanned to enduring embers. Reggie wrapped between us.

Donna slept on. Her head rested on Reggie's ridge. I watched her veins vibrate. I counted the cadence of her heartbeat. I saw her breasts bracing brown fur.

I watched. I wondered how much time she'd give me. Hearth heat and homicide held us. Hold for more horror. Hope for more heat to hold us—or pray for prosaic times to teach us to live sans intrigue.

Donna slept. I watched my witch woman and wondered. My righteous right brain broiled. I got crisp and creative. I recultivated connections.

Megan More—no “avenging angel.” Megan More's ripe-panty racket. Donna's panty pursuer. Library love-hate e-mails, all anonymous. Megan More: Gary Getchell's panty pal. Megan, vile-verbatim: “Gary was talking up this ‘bounty' on you. He said he knew a psycho who had ‘this big Donna Donahue plan.' ”

Connections cultivated. Cut to:

The Hot-Prowl Hoagy. His niggardly nominal thefts. His hot-prowl hits. Their prime proximity—to Bel-Air and L.A. Country Clubs.

Dave Slatkin said he's ripe for rape. Donna's Holmby Hills house—hard by L.A. CC. Gary Getchell: Bel-Air caddy. The hot-prowl homicide—hard by Bel-Air CC. Dirt on the hot-prowl hump's shoes.

I called Dave. I watched Donna and whispered. The dirt, Dave—did the lab latch on to a make?

Yeah. Dig—the dirt came from Bel-Air Country Club. Hot-Prowl Herb
ex-
caped on foot.

Cold-call it: the hot-prowl harridan's a caddy. It's a tantalizing target obfuscation. He's only out to get Donna D.

He's Donna-diddled and Donna-driven and Donna-determined. He's a Donna doofus and a Donna dunce, just like me. He's me made malignant. He's my Donna doppelgänger.

I woke Donna up. I cued her into my connections. She mentioned her “on-and-off” fan notes. They ladled love-hate. “He loved it when I showed skin, he hated it when I showed skin. He's a skin sicko.”

The
old
notes, the
new
e-mail notes. The pathetic panty requests. One sender or two?

Some note nexus—maybe.

Donna dug out the old notes. Donna explained the dates.

They ran to the run of
Biloxi Beach—
her boffo '80s show. They ran out and restarted per her feature film work. The notes flew and flurried. A gulf-wide gap stretched. Then the panty-putz e-mails began.

Donna offered up the old notes. She pack-rat-possessed them still. I read racy and repetitive text. Hot-prowl references repeated.

“I want to get inside the house of your love.”

“I want to steal inside your secret places.”

“I can get inside anyplace. I've done it. I killed a girl once, long ago.”

Sixteen sick notes. Bland block printing. Scary and skin-obsessed. One note nexus nabbed me bad. The return address— charted as Chino Prison. The addressee pseudonymed as Sal Skinman. Sad sentiments—Donna dunned for love—scary skin ruminations. Say he's censor-scared. Bet your booty he's in for burglary.

Scary skin-talk overall. “I killed a girl once”—good grief.

Donna watched me nail notes. Donna was nexus-nonplussed. Donna danced on my dime now. Homicide and hearth-hunger. Donna could handle herself.

I cruised to my car. I brought back my evidence kit. I compared the evil e-mails to the skin-scary notes. I tapped textual styles. I saw simple similarities. The same sender—maybe, maybe not.

I forged on forensic. I fingerprinted Donna. I tipped her tips on print paper. I noodled out some ninhydrin. I sprayed the sixteen sick notes. I latched up two latent prints.

I culled comparison points. I caught ten per print. I compared points to Donna's. Bingo—no repeated ridges, no similar swirls.

His
prints—the skin man's and probable hot-prowl hyena's. Call it collusive. Call it combined-case combustion. Rick loves Donna. Donna loves Rick. It's our brave new world brought on back.

WE POPPED to Parker Center. We briefed Dave and Tim. We broiled to bring Hot-Prowl Hymie down. We clamored for climactic closure.

Dave took the prints. He promised to feed them to the Fed system fast. We caught a commotion down the corridor.

There's Leotis Lauter. He's one jacked-up jungle bunny. He's jumping all over Joe Tierney. The mad mick's mollifying Mrs. Linus Lauter. She's Aunt Jemima-ish. She's jumping too.

There's Cal Eggers. He's a newly coined captain. He's laying the law to Leotis. You're a dope dealer. You're indictment-indebted. We're dead deep in suicides—get your blasphemous black ass the fuck out of here.

I ducked into an empty office. Donna ducked with me. I called Deputy D.A. Daisy Delgado and cataloged our combined case. I asked for grand jury subpoenas. Let's detain degenerate caddies. Let's call in all caddies from Bel-Air and L.A. CCs.

Daisy agreed. Daisy promised prompt paper—two hours tops. Tim tapped me. I've got that box of Gorman paperwork—you can kill time with that.

Tim brought a big box up. Donna delved in. She saw poignant portraits—Stephanie vivid and vibrant, alight and alive at fifteen. Tears took her over
—sa chère
Stephanie.

I pulled old paper. I found field reports. I went through wienie waggers whipped and reluctantly released. I saw pud pounders and parolees pounced on. I saw rape-os rounded up. I saw child molesters charged with tangential crimes. I saw bisexual brunsers bruised and ripped from rubber-hose techniques. I saw—whoa, whoa, whoa
—wait.

The date: 9/12/65. One innocuous and innocent piece of paper.

Field report. Reinterview. Stephanie's dad states:

It's late 7/65. One week before my daughter's death. I had some yard work done. I hired Hillcrest caddies.

Hillcrest—hard by Hillsboro and Sawyer. Hillcrest—one hop to L.A. and Bel-Air CCs. One follow-up field report. Four caddy names caught. Four rap sheets run. Four Mickey Mouse misdemeanants made.

Alan Aadland, DOB 3/4/46. One reefer roust. One joyride job.

Richard Donatich, DOB 8/19/44. Popped for Peeping Tom. Caught cunnilingizing his sister.

Harvey “Huck” Horan, DOB 12/16/40. Boocoo booze busts.

Sol “Wino” Weinberger, DOB 6/2/37. Obscene phone-call fuck, ladies' room loiterer, boss barbiturate
bandido.

I got goose bumps. My hackles hacked. I showed the shit to
Donna. She got the shakes, too.

The scurvy skin man's note. “I killed a girl once, long ago.” The current hot-prowl hoo-ha. The country-club cacophony. A time machine torqued back to
this.

I ripped through reports. Nothing juked me. No fucking follow-ups. No exonerations expressed.

The cops might have polled the punks and aligned alibis. The cops might have polygraphed or pounded them punklike. It dangled like a dead end. Still, it stung me.

Daisy Delgado called. The subpoenas—serviced and servable now. Nice—but that sting still stung me. I called Hillcrest CC. I got the caddy shack. The caddy master said he went waaaay back. I named my names. He right-on responded.

Aadland—AIDS-dead—he freelanced as a fruit hustler. Donatich—dead from Dilaudid-coke combos. Horan—hit by a bus on Beverly Boulevard. “Wino”—winding up his caddy career at beautiful Bel-Air CC.

Caddies.

Culminations/coincidence/connections—

Dave walked in. “The Feds kicked back on your prints. The guy's a 67-year-old white male. His name's Solomon Weinberger.”

Heaven hurled itself on me. Donna hugged me hard. Hail the hot-prowl man with
Hush-Hush
hosannahs!

Wino for Stephanie—thirty-nine years later.