Hillside Stranglers (4 page)

“Turn that shit off,” Angelo said.

There did not seem to be much action.

“Sunday,” Bianchi said. “Dead.”

“They ain’t in church,” Buono said. “We’ll find something. Probably won’t get her on a main street. Better on a side street.”

He turned left on Highland. Nothing.

Angelo discoursed on strategy. He reminded Bianchi that most of the girls had pimps who watched out for unmarked police cars. He suggested that they not use the police ruse right away. They would spot a girl. One of them would get out and wait somewhere while the other picked up the girl, acting like a regular john. Buono was driving, he would get the girl. Then he would pick up Bianchi, and Bianchi would show the badge and tell her she was under arrest: get her into the back seat and handcuff her so she wouldn’t make trouble. Angelo handed Bianchi the wallet and handcuffs.

“I’ll hang a right,” Angelo said, turning west on Sunset. “The Strip is always full of ass. Any day of the week.”

The Strip began just past Fairfax Avenue at Schwab’s Pharmacy, where Lana Turner was supposed to have been discovered in her sweater, and the old Garden of Allah hotel, once home to Eastern literary refugees like Scott Fitzgerald, its
Moorish bungalows now replaced by a travertine monolith called Great Western Savings. Beyond this point, Sunset Boulevard curved in and out among giant billboards announcing a new album or a Las Vegas act, motels with adult movies, the Body Shop, offering “Burlesque, Amateur Contests Mondays and Wednesdays,” and various bars and restaurants, until the boulevard straightened out and entered the heavily policed hush of Beverly Hills. About halfway along the Strip, Buono and Bianchi noticed a small girl standing alone on the sidewalk.

She stood in a driveway next to Carney’s Express Limited, a diner converted from an old Union Pacific railroad car. Buono drove well past her, pulled over, and stopped. “I’ll go around the block and get her,” Buono said. “You wait over there across the street.”

Bianchi got out, crossed Sunset, and sat down on a bus bench to wait. He was at the corner of Sunset and Sweetzer, just down from the Golden Crest Hotel, its marquee proclaiming: “Retirement Living at Its Finest. Most Luxurious Residence in L.A.” He could see the girl across the street still standing in the driveway of the railroad diner, obviously hooking.

A minute later he caught sight of the Cadillac coming up Sunset again. Angelo drove slowly past the girl and turned left, heading around the block once more. He was making it look, Bianchi figured, as though he had just spotted her. He would have made eye contact with her, continuing on as if he had not yet decided. Then he would return.

This time Buono pulled into Carney’s driveway. The girl came up to his window, and they talked. Then the girl went around to the passenger side and got in next to Angelo. They sat chatting for a bit until the traffic thinned. Angelo backed out onto Sunset, made a U-turn, passed the bench where Bianchi waited, and turned right on Sweetzer, rolling slowly down the side street. Bianchi, sensing that Angelo did not want to work the scam where there was so much traffic, followed on foot.

Sweetzer ran down a steep hill, the lights of the city glimmering to the south. At the next corner Angelo turned right and pulled over.

In seconds Bianchi was there. He opened the front door on the girl’s side, leaned in, and said, “You’re under arrest,” showing the badge.

“Oh, no, not again,” the girl said.

“Could you please step out of the car?” She did.

“Just get in the back, please,” Bianchi said, taking her arm. He opened the rear door. “Okay, now you’re going to have to go for a ride.” He guided her into the seat and climbed in after her. Angelo reached over and closed the right front door, Bianchi closed the rear door, and Angelo pushed a button that locked all the doors: a safety device for children. “All right,” Bianchi said, “I’ve got to put handcuffs on you. Would you lean forward, please?” He handcuffed her, palms outward. She had to sit on her fingers.

As Angelo drove off, he said: “There was a guy standing in that parking lot. You got a pimp?”

“No,” the girl said.

“There was a guy,” Angelo said. “Might be a problem.” He headed back up to Sunset and glanced into the parking lot of the railroad diner. Nobody there. He headed east, not rushing, obeying the traffic laws.

“Are we going to the Hollywood Division?” the girl asked.

“No,” Angelo said, looking at her through the rearview mirror. “We’re going to a special unit.”

The girl was silent as they drove back through Hollywood, turning east on Franklin to Western, north on Western to Los Feliz, east on their way to Glendale. Finally she asked why she was being arrested.

“I haven’t done nothing wrong.”

“You’re being arrested for soliciting,” Bianchi said. “Have you ever been arrested before?”

“No. Picked up for questioning is all. I never done nothing.”

Bianchi studied her. She was tiny. She was wearing a light blouse and slacks and a dirty suede jacket. Her small leather purse sat in her lap. The handcuffs made her lean forward, her
straight brown hair obscuring her face. She looked fourteen, sixteen at the outside. She wouldn’t give much trouble.

She said nothing more until Angelo pulled all the way into his driveway, under the metal awning that joined the house and the shop. The Orange Grove Apartments overlooked the shop and the house from the rear, but peering down from a second- or third-floor apartment, Angelo knew, no one could see anything except the roofs and the metal awning. There was no way for anyone to get curious. And on the east side of the house and shop was a car wash, on the west side a glass-repair shop, both closed at night. Angelo liked privacy.

“Wait here,” Angelo said. He got out and walked over to the laundry-room door at the side of the house, unlocking it. Sparky was waiting on the steps but knew not to enter the house.

“What is this place?” the girl said to Bianchi.

“This is a satellite police station.”

Bianchi looked around at Angelo, who was holding the screen door and motioning for him to come ahead. “Slide over,” he said to the girl. He grabbed her purse, took her elbow, helped her out of the car, and walked her into the house. Angelo secured the deadbolt again, as Bianchi guided the girl into the living room and sat her down in the brown vinyl easy chair. He put her purse on the dining-room table. Angelo switched on some lights and approached the girl.

“Now you just sit there and don’t move. We’ll be right back.”

In the kitchen with Bianchi, Angelo said: “How do you want to do this? Everything’s perfect so far. We want to do this right. No screw-ups.” He reached under the sink and brought out a roll of masking tape about three inches wide. “We should blindfold her. That way, if she tries to run, she won’t know where to go. Wait a minute. I got an idea. Go back in there and watch her. I got stuff in my shop.”

Bianchi stood over the girl. She stared at the fish tank, avoiding his eyes.

“How old are you?”

“Fifteen.”

“That’s pretty young to be whoring, isn’t it?”

“I’m not. I didn’t do nothing wrong. What is this? This isn’t a police station. Aquarium in a police station?”

“Shut up,” Bianchi said. “Do what you’re told.” He wondered what Angelo would bring in from the shop. Angelo would know what to do next. “Sit there and shut up. You move, you’ll be sorry.”

When Angelo returned, he called Bianchi into the kitchen again. From his shop Angelo had retrieved an orange work rag and a brick-sized piece of white, foamy polyester material he used in stuffing car seats. He cut the foamy stuff in half with a pair of scissors and explained that they would put the material over each eye, secure it with tape, stuff the rag into her mouth, and secure that with the tape. It would be a good idea to make sure the masking tape went all the way around her head. “Do you want to do it or do you want me to do it?”

“You better do it,” Bianchi said.

“Okay. The best thing to do is, I’ll walk in front of her and you get behind her and put your hands on her shoulders just in case she starts to kick up a fuss, you know, you’ll be ready.”

They returned to the living room, Angelo holding the materials behind his back. They walked slowly up to her, and Bianchi moved behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders.

“What’s going on?” the girl said. She tried to rise. Bianchi pressed down. She started to scream.

“Shut up!” Buono said. “Don’t you say nothing!”

“Keep quiet,” Bianchi said. She was easy to hold down.

Angelo produced the orange rag, rolled it into a ball, stuffed it into her mouth, unreeled a length of tape, sealed it over her mouth, and wrapped the tape around her head three times, snipping it off with the scissors and rubbing it flat on the side of her face. Then he brought out the two pieces of foamy stuff and approached her eyes.

She lowered her head, trying to avoid him. Bianchi shoved her down as she squirmed and tried to rise again.

“Grab ahold of her forehead!” Angelo said. “Pull her head up!” Bianchi pulled back on her forehead with one hand and
yanked back on her hair with the other. Buono pressed the foam onto her eyes and wrapped it with tape, around her head three times. The girl slumped.

Angelo took the tape back into the kitchen, replaced it under the sink, and put the scissors away in a drawer. He called to Bianchi.

“You just stay right there,” Bianchi said to the girl.

“How do you want to do this?” Angelo said. “How do you want to get her clothes off?”

“I don’t know. I really have no idea. The handcuffs.”

“Well, the best thing is, if I take the handcuffs off of her. You stand behind her, just in case she decides to fight or take off or whatever.”

They returned to the girl.

“Okay, now stand up,” Bianchi said. She tried to obey but lost her balance and fell back into the chair. They each took an elbow and helped her up and away from the chair.

On a wall opposite her, a plaque, the kind sold in souvenir stores, spelled out in Gay Nineties red lettering: “Please Remove Your Clothes.”

“All right,” Angelo said. “Now we’re gonna take the handcuffs off of you, and we don’t want you to start nothing. You do, you’re gonna get hurt.” He found the handcuffs key on his keyring and removed them. He pulled off her jacket, walked with it over to the dining area, and dropped it to the floor. A gold-smoked mirrored wall behind the dining-room table reflected the scene. Angelo stared into the mirrored wall and liked what he saw. Everything was working. It was going to be great. In the smoky mirror he watched Bianchi remove her blouse. “Bring that over here,” Angelo said. “Keep everything together.”

Angelo unhooked her bra as Bianchi placed her blouse on her jacket. “Not much tits,” Angelo said. He rolled up the bra and tossed it to Bianchi. Then he put the handcuffs back on her. “Hey. Tits look better now.”

Bianchi stood behind her again, holding her upper arms to steady her while Angelo unzipped her pants.

“Okay now,” Angelo said. “We’ve got you. We’re balancing
you. Just back up and sit down and have a seat.” They eased her back into the chair. Angelo removed her shoes and socks, told her to stand up again, and slid off her pants, telling her to lift one leg at a time. The girl complied. He let her stand there for a moment, nude except for her underpants. Then he pulled off her underpants, smiled up at Bianchi, and gave the okay sign. He put her pants and underpants with the rest of her clothes, returned, and grabbed an arm.

“Just come with me,” he said. “Don’t worry, honey. I won’t let you run into nothing. I got you so you won’t fall. Don’t worry about nothing.” He led her into the spare bedroom.

The spare bedroom, on the east side of the house between Angelo’s bedroom and the bathroom, had nothing in it except a single bed. No other furniture, nothing on the walls. The spare bedroom had a simple function. He sat the girl on the bed and told her to lie down on her back, helping her get her legs up. She lay there nude, gagged, blindfolded, handcuffed. “You wait there. Don’t move.”

Angelo passed through the beading that hung down in place of a door between the spare bedroom and his bedroom. He turned on a light in his room and checked to see if it shone enough into the spare bedroom. Satisfied, he returned to Bianchi.

“How do we decide who goes first?” Angelo said.

“I don’t care,” Bianchi said.

“Okay, we’ll flip a coin.” Angelo dug into his pocket and pulled out a quarter. “Call it.”

“Tails.”

Angelo flipped. “It’s heads,” he said. “You got sloppy seconds. You get all her shit together while I’m in there. Put it all on the table. I’ll take care of it when I get done. Take her purse and empty it and leave the stuff on the table. See if there’s any money in there. Go through her pockets.”

“She’s fifteen. She told me.”

“Good age.” Angelo grinned. “Real good age.” He disappeared into the spare bedroom.

Bianchi followed Angelo’s instructions. In her purse he found two dollars and some change in a wallet with nothing
else in it except a snapshot of two little boys, one about eight, the other maybe four. He went through her jacket pockets but found nothing. He heard noises: Angelo’s voice, indistinct but harsh, commanding, and female squeals. He must have taken the gag off. What was Angelo doing to her? Bianchi felt he knew. The squeals turned him on. He wanted to see what Angelo was doing, imagined Angelo’s heavy dick up there now. Bianchi waited until it was quiet. I don’t want to miss this, he thought. Angelo wouldn’t mind.

Bianchi entered the spare bedroom through Angelo’s room, parting the hanging beads. Angelo had left his socks on. He was lying atop the girl, who was on her back now, unmoving, knees up. The tape across her mouth had been partly ripped off, and the orange rag lay on the bed next to the wall. Bianchi figured Angelo had gotten one or both of the things he liked best.

“She good? I put everything on the table, just like you said.”

“Go and get my camera. I got to have a picture of this.”

Bianchi fetched Buono’s Polaroid camera from his bedroom closet. It had film in it and a flash attached.