Winter had arrived in Los Angeles. The city, bundled up against the cold winds that screamed out of the passes to the north and wrapped in a double layer of fear and fascination, waited to hear about the next victim. Someone was killing Santa Claus. I drove around the four blocks bordered by Yucca, Argyle, Ivar and Selma until a spot opened up across the street from the Pantages. With a maneuver executed more by desperation than skill, I piloted my decrepit old 36 Chevy Master Deluxe Coupe into a spot that was easily two feet too small and hopped out. Heading west, I glanced up at the marquee of the Hitching Post Theatre and snorted. The star of the horse opera was a washed up B actor who hadn’t made a decent film since 1928. Some people said that he’d lick the snot off a dead hooker’s nose if it would advance his career. If the movie was any kind of indicator, whores with runny schnozes were harder to find since they invented Kleenex. The southwest corner of Hollywood and Vine, the murder scene, was thick with cops. Standing on the outer edge of the tight circle, back to the street and bathed in the soft glow of a sheet metal Christmas tree, was my old pal Detective Patsy Cueva. She was the only dame in the Squad room but any man with half a brain, which Patsy was convinced included every male over the age of twelve, kept his feelings of self-worth to himself. Directly in front of her slumped the victim; a scrawny 90 pound Sterno addict wrapped in 30 pounds of padding and a yellowed beard stained by five years of unfiltered Camels. Someone had slit his throat from ear to ear and left him draining in his donation kettle. “Welcome to the death of Christmas,” she muttered as she winced against the blinding flash of the forensic photographers. Then she nodded in my direction. “Don’t let him near the body,” she muttered. “Good to see you too, Patsy,” I replied, lying through my teeth. Continued
Posted on: Thu, 04 Dec 2014 03:31:51 +0000
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