Fiends

Stiff intruders

‘What are you doing here?’ Charlie demanded of the dead woman.

She didn’t answer. She was leaning back in Charlie’s lawn chair, the very chair he wanted for himself, the chair he sat in every morning to drink his first two mugs of coffee. This was his favorite part of the day: so quiet, the air still cool and fresh from the night, the sun gently warming. But now, this!

‘Hey!’ he shouted.

She didn’t stir. She simply sat there, hands folded on her lap, ankles crossed casually. Charlie sipped his coffee and walked around her. She wore a sleek, blue evening gown. Inappropriate wear, Charlie thought. A sun dress or swimsuit would be just the thing, but a formal, off-the-shoulder gown was unsuitable, even pretentious. Not that she could be held accountable.

Charlie went into the kitchen for a refill of coffee. As he pushed through the door to the backyard and saw her still sitting there, the injustice of it overwhelmed him. He decided to nudge her off the chair and let her fend for herself.

That’s exactly what he did. The woman flopped and sprawled, and Charlie took his seat.

After a few moments, he moaned in despair. He simply couldn’t enjoy his coffee in front of her.

Emptying his cup on the grass, he got to his feet and rushed into the house. He wanted to pound roughly on Lou’s bedroom door. That might rub Lou the wrong way, however, so he rapped lightly.

‘Knock off the racket!’ Lou yelled.

‘May I come in?’

‘Suit yourself.’

Charlie opened the door and stepped into a room stinking of stale cigar smoke. Lou was in bed, covers pulled high so that only his face showed. The chubby face, flat nose and bulging eyes always reminded Charlie of a pug named Snappy he’d once owned. Snappy, who nipped anything in sight, generally had a sweeter disposition than Lou. Especially in the morning.

‘Get up, Lou. I want to show you something.’

‘What?’

‘Get up, get up!’

Lou moaned and sat up. ‘This better be good,’ he said.

‘Oh, it’s not good, but you’d better see it.’

Muttering, Lou climbed from bed. He put on his slippers and robe, and followed Charlie to the backyard.

‘See,’ Charlie said.

‘Who is she?’ asked Lou.

‘How should I know?’

‘You found her.’

‘Just because she was sitting in my chair doesn’t mean I know the lady.’

‘What was she doing in your chair?’

‘Not much.’

‘How come she’s on the grass?’

‘She was in my seat, Lou.’

‘You shoved her off?’

‘Certainly.’

‘That was rude, Charlie.’ Lou knelt down beside her. ‘Nicely dressed, isn’t she?’

‘Certainly better dressed than you left yours,’ Charlie said.

‘I won’t quibble with that.’ He tipped her head back and touched her bruised throat. ‘A nylon stocking,’ he said. ‘Maybe a scarf. Not my style at all.’

‘I haven’t accused you of anything,’ Charlie protested.

‘No, that’s right. Thanks. You’ve gotta be wondering, though.’ Charlie shrugged.

‘You read my book, right?’

‘Certainly.’

In fact, Charlie had not read it. He hadn’t read any book since Silas Marner in high school. But Lou was proud of Choke ’em Till They Croak. The True Story of the Riverside Strangler in his Own Words. He had every right to be proud. The book, written during his last two years in prison, had been a hardbound bestseller. The paperback rights went for $800,000, and Ed Lentz was signed to play Lou in the Universal film.

‘First,’ Lou said, ‘if she wasn’t a blonde, I left her alone. Second, I took the clothes home to dress up my mannequins. Third, I didn’t use no scarf, I used my thumbs. That’s how come they called me Thumbs.’

‘Certainly, I know all that.’

‘Fourth, I didn’t dump ’em in other people’s backyards. That’s rude. I left ’em on the freeway exits.’ He poked her with his foot. ‘Not my style at all.’

‘But the police?’

‘Exactly. We’ve gotta get rid of her.’

‘What’ll we do with her?’ Charlie asked.

Lou pulled a cigar out of his robe pocket. He peeled off the wrapper and tossed it into the grass. He poked the cigar into his mouth and lit it. ‘What we’ll do,’ he said, ‘we’ll deposit her at the bank.’

They stored her in the trunk of Charlie’s Dodge until after dark that night. Then they went for a drive. Charlie, a former wheel man who drove getaway cars during numerous successful robberies and one failure, stole a Ford Mustang from the parking lot of an apartment building in Studio City. Lou followed him in the Dodge. On a dark, curving road in the Hollywood Hills, Lou picked the lock of the Mustang’s trunk. They transferred her into the trunk, and left the Mustang behind the Santa Monica branch office of Home Savings and Loan.

‘That was certainly a chore,’ Charlie complained afterward.

‘I got a kick out of it,’ Lou said.

Two days later, while reading the morning paper, Lou announced, ‘They found our body.’

‘Oh?’

‘ “Dancer found slain,” it says. “The body of twenty-nine-year-old ballet dancer Marianne Tumly was found late Sunday night, the apparent victim of strangulation. Miss Tumly, understudy of Los Angeles ballerina Meg Fontana, disappeared Friday night after the company’s performance of Swan Lake. Her body was discovered in the trunk of a car abandoned in Santa Monica, according to police officials.” ’ Lou began to mumble, apparently finding no more worth sharing.

‘You don’t suppose they’ll connect us, do you?’ Charlie asked.

‘Not a chance.’

For several days, Charlie drank his morning coffee in the backyard, enjoying the fresh air, the sunlight, the silence and peaceful solitude. On Saturday, however, he found the body of a lean brunette occupying his chair.

He stared at her. She stared back.

‘This is ridiculous,’ he said. ‘Well, you’re not going to ruin my day this time!’

But she did.

Though Charlie sat in Lou’s wicker chair, back turned so she was out of sight, he could almost feel her studying the back of his head. Irritated, he went inside to refill his mug. As he poured steaming coffee from the percolator, he got an idea. He went to the linen closet. Before resuming his seat, he covered the woman’s head with a striped pillow case.

That almost worked. Unfortunately, Charlie half expected her to peek out from under the pillow case. Every few seconds, he looked over his shoulder to check. It finally became too much for him. He rushed into the house and barged into Lou’s bedroom. ‘Lou!’ he cried. ‘There’s another one!’

Lou’s scowl turned to a grin. ‘A busy man, our strangler.’

Late that night, they put her in the trunk of a stolen Firebird. They left the Firebird in a parking lot at Los Angeles International Airport.

Though the newspaper ran stories for several days about the disappearance of a dancer - another member of the troupe performing Swan Lake - her body wasn’t found until Thursday night. It made the Friday morning paper.

After reading the article aloud, Lou lit a cigar. ‘We did real good on that one, Charlie. If we’d wrapped her up better to hold in the aroma, she might’ve gone another week. Know what I’d like to do, I’d like to put the next one..

‘What next one?’ Charlie demanded.

‘We’ve had these gals two Saturday mornings in a row. Number three’s gonna pop up tomorrow, you can bet on it.’

‘Lou!’

‘Huh?’

‘Let’s lay for the strangler. If he comes along tonight with another corpse, we’ll nab him!’

‘What then?’

‘We’ll make him take it away.’

Lou watched his smoke float toward the ceiling. Then he said, ‘Good idea. Excellent idea. I’d like to meet the guy.’

Charlie, sitting on a stool near the backyard fence at midnight, heard a car in the alley. It stopped just on the other side of the fence. He heard the engine die, then the quiet bump of a closing door.

So this is how he does it, Charlie thought. Just drives up the alley and brings her in. But the rear gate? It’s always locked. How…?

Behind Charlie, something thudded against the redwood fence. He turned and looked up. A blonde woman grinned at him over the top. He heard a grunt. The woman seemed to leap. She towered over him for a moment, then folded at the waist. Charlie jumped out of the way. He gaped at her. She hung there, swaying slighdy, like the body of a gunslinger draped over a saddle. Another grunt came from behind the fence. Her legs flipped high, slender and pale in the moonlight. Then she dived to the grass. She performed a somersault, and lay still.

Charlie glanced toward the garage. Its side door stood open. In the darkness of its gap was the red glow of Lou’s cigar.

He motioned frantically for Lou to join him.

Quickly, he crouched at the corner of the fence. The wood jolted against his back, and he saw an arm hook over the top rail. After a gasp and a scuffling sound, a leg appeared. Then, in one quick motion, the man swung over and dropped to the grass. He landed silently on his feet, less than a yard from Charlie.

Crouching, he lifted the body. He flung it over his shoulder.

‘Now,’ said Charlie, ‘you may kindly toss her back over the fence and take her away. Clutter someone else’s yard.’

Still holding the body, the strangler turned to Charlie and said, ‘Huh?’

‘I said take her away!’

‘How come?’ he asked. He was younger than Charlie had imagined. His shaved head was shiny in the moonlight. In his tight T-shirt and jeans, his stocky body looked dangerous.

‘Because,’ Charlie answered in a subdued voice, ‘you’ve been putting them in my lawn chair.’

‘I thought you liked it.’

‘Liked it?’

‘Sure.’

Charlie was relieved to see Lou ambling toward them, puffing vigorously on his cigar.

‘You took good care of ’em,’ the younger man continued. ‘You know?’

‘Why’d you bring them here?’ Lou asked.

The man spun around. Charlie dodged the woman’s left heel. ‘Did you know about me?’ Lou asked. ‘Is that it?’

‘Know what?’

‘I’mThumbs O’Brien. The Riverside Strangler.’

‘No fooling?’

‘Did you read my book, kid?’ Lou’s voice was eager.

‘What book?’

‘Never mind.’ Lou sounded disappointed. ‘So how come you’re leaving stiffs in our backyard?’

‘Like I was telling this guy, you took good care of ’em. I mean, the first, I was bringing her up through the alley here. It’s dark, you know. So I just heaved her over the fence.’

‘How did she get in my chair,’ Charlie asked.

‘I got to thinking, you know? How comfortable can it be on the grass? So I hustled her over to the chair.’

‘Decent of you,’ Lou said.

‘You guys took care of her real good.’

‘Thank you,’ Lou said.

‘That’s why I came back. I figured I’ll let you take care of the others, too.’

‘Tell me this,’ Lou said. ‘Why’d you do it?’

‘I just told you, you took real good…’

‘He means,’ Charlie explained, ‘why did you kill them?’

‘Oh.’ He grinned. ‘She told me to.’

‘Who did?’

‘Isadora.’

‘Who?’ asked Lou.

‘Isadora Duncan. You know, Isadora! She wants ’em for her dance troupe.’

Lou tapped a column of ash from the tip of his cigar. ‘They won’t do her much good dead.’

Charlie groaned at Lou’s display of ignorance. ‘She’s dead,’ he explained. ‘Isadora is. Her scarf caught in the wheel of her car. A long time ago. In the twenties, I believe.’

‘No kidding?’ Lou nodded at the young strangler. ‘So you’re fixing her up with a bunch of dancers. I get it.’

‘May I ask,’ Charlie inquired, ‘how large a group she requires?’

‘Oh, big. Real big.’

‘How big?’

‘Fifty-two.’

Charlie imagined fifty-two more bodies in the backyard on his lawn chair. ‘I won’t have it!’ he blurted. ‘Lou!’

' 'Fraid that’s too much, kid.’

‘Too much?’

‘Yeah. Sorry.’

Charlie watched the woman fall. He watched the brief struggle. It was no contest, really. The kid didn’t have a scarf handy, but Lou had his thumbs.

On a sunny, cool morning toward the end of the week, Charlie carried his coffee mug outside and stopped in surprise.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

Lou, in sunglasses and a Dodger ballcap, was sitting on his own lawn chair. A cigar tilted upward from his mouth. Propped against his upraised right knee, he held a spiral notebook. ‘How’s this sound?’ he asked. ‘Save Your Last Dance for Me: the True Story of the Swan Lake Strangler in his Own Words'

‘It sounds like a lie,’ Charlie said.

‘You gotta take liberties,’ said Lou, ‘when you’re a ghost-writer.’