Original subtitles

She came along the alley and up the back stairs the way she always used to.

Doc hadn't seen her in over a year.

Nobody had.

Back then, it was always sandals, bottom half of a flower-print bikini, and a

faded Country Joe and the Fish T-shirt.

Tonight, she was all in Flatland gear, hair a lot shorter than he remembered,

looking just like she swore she would never look.

Are you Shasta?

Thinks he's hallucinating.

No, just a new package, I guess.

I need your help, Doc.

You know, I have an office now.

That's like a day job and everything.

I looked in the phone book.

I almost went over there.

Then I thought better for everyone if this looks like a secret rendezvous.

Is somebody keeping a close eye?

Just spent an hour on surface streets trying to make it look good.

You want a beer?

How about a beer? You want a beer?

Yeah.

There's this guy.

Gentleman of the straight world persuasion?

He's married.

Some money situation?

And the wife, she knows about you?

She's seeing somebody too.

But it's not just the usual.

I think they're working on some creepy little scheme.

To make off with hubby's fortune?

I don't think I've ever heard of that happening once or twice.

And you want me to do what exactly?

They want me in on it.

They think I'm the one who can reach him when he's vulnerable, as much as he ever

gets.

Bare ass and asleep.

Now you'd understand.

Are you still trying to figure out if it's right or wrong, Shasta?

Worse than that.

How much loyalty I owe him.

Groovy.

All right, emotions aside, just look at the rent. How much of your rent's he

been picking up?

All of it.

Pretty hefty?

For Hancock Park.

You're giving him IOUs for everything, of course.

Fucker. If I'd known you were still this bitter.

Me? I'm trying to be professional is all.

All right.

How much did the wifey and boyfriend offer to cut you in for?

It isn't what you're thinking, Doc.

Don't worry. Thinking comes later.

What else?

I'm not sure.

Sounds like they want to commit him to a loony bin.

Back when they were together, she could go weeks without anything more

complicated than a pout.

Now she was laying some heavy combination of face ingredients on Doc

that he couldn't read at all.

Come to think of it, there'd never been this much sorrow in her voice.

Heard you're seeing someone downtown?

Penny?

Some kind of junior DA?

Yeah, you think somebody down there could solve this before it happens?

Not too many places I could go with this doc.

Well, I'll talk to Penny.

See what we can see.

You're a happy couple. They have names.

It's Mickey Wolfman.

Always in the paper? The real estate big shot?

Yeah.

Can't tell anyone about this, Doc.

Huh?

Deaf and dumb, part of my job.

How'd I reach you?

You don't.

I moved out of my old place, staying where I can anymore.

Don't ask.

There room here.

Walk me down to my car.

Someone might be watching.

Never did let me down, Doc.

Don't worry, I'll... No, I mean really. Ever.

Sure I did.

No. You were always true.

Now you don't have to go.

Watch your toes.

Her daddy got a big airplane.

Her mommy hold all the family cash.

How beautiful Rose stay at the corner. She is living out

of tune.

Doc ran through all the things he hadn't asked Shasta.

Like how much she'd come to depend on Wolfman's guaranteed level of ease and

power, and least askable of all, how passionately did she really feel about

old Mickey?

Doc knew the likely

reply. I love him.

What else?

With the unspoken footnote that the word these days was being way too overused.

So when Doc

and Dinas came in that night, it wasn't just the usual hungry doper thing.

It was something else.

And with Neptune moving at last out of the Scorpio death trip and rising into

the Sagittarian light of the higher mind, it was bound to be something love

related. And I thought I knew what it was.

She stuck her head in for a minute.

You feeling broken up?

Kind of weird seeing her again.

I figured next time I saw her I'd be on the team, not in person.

You better do something about this.

Say again?

I can't tell you enough. Change your hair, change your life.

Well, what do you recommend?

It's up to you.

Follow your intuition.

Hello? Hey, Henry.

Hello? Yes, honey, make it quick.

I got a live one tonight, and I totally fucked up my face.

Oh, okay.

Mickey Wolfman, what can you tell me?

Powerhouse in L.A. real estate.

From the desert to the sea.

Technically Jewish, but wants to be a Nazi.

What's he to you?

Possible case.

They say I wanted to hang out and rap with this Wolfman.

Say it's a really bad idea. He goes around with a dozen bikers, mostly Aryan

Brotherhood alumni.

Whoa. I follow social studies, but Jews and Aryan Brotherhood. Isn't there

something about hatred?

No. Mickey's eccentric.

More and more lately.

I'd say stoned out of his fucking mind since he discovered drugs.

No offense to you, Doc.

So where would I, uh...

Find him, like accidentally?

Try the Channel View Estates, his latest insult to the environment.

The one that Bigfoot Bjornsson does the commercials for?

That's the one. Uh-huh.

Maybe your old cop buddy's the one who should be taking care of your case.

Yeah, well, I did think about going to Bigfoot with this, but just as I reached

for the phone, history and all, I thought... Well, maybe you're better off

with the Nazis.

All right, all right. I got major liquid liner issues. I gotta get off now,

Larry. All right.

Morning, Sam.

Hey, man.

I want you paying rent.

Rent's a hassle. I want to see you in your own pad.

Honey, Bigfoot.

The Channel View Estates. Artesia's newest and grooviest residential housing

development. No buzzkill credit checks.

No rip-off minimum down payments. That's not your bag.

But check this out.

Fully equipped kitchen with automatic self-cleaning oven and breakfast nook.

Out of sight.

Attached one car and available two-car garage.

And best of all, a view of the Dominguez flood control channel that can only be

described in two words.

Right on.

What's up, Doc?

Michael Wolfman, one of Los Angeles' most prominent real estate developers,

announced at a Wednesday press conference that he's proceeding with the

construction of several new urban housing developments, the most immediate

to be called Channel View Estates. Hey, Doc.

Howdy. Pop came around last night looking for you again.

Bigfoot? Yeah, that's the one.

Oh.

I wonder why he didn't kick in my door like usual.

Might have been thinking about it, but said something like...

Tomorrow's another day should be today, right?

My wolfman known for his outlandish advertising and aggressive style

has been Actively involved in the southern capitol. Yes, and I give it

best 23

You have someone waiting in your office.

Doctor. Doctor.

Hey, man.

Sorry to keep you waiting.

Dr. Spartello.

That's right. What is it, my brother?

Peace. I'm Tariq Khalil.

Cool. Sit down.

How can I help you today?

There's this white boy I was in the joint with, Aryan Brotherhood.

We did some business and now we're both out and he still owes me.

I can't tell you the details, but it's a whole lot of money.

What about his name?

Glenn Charlock.

And you know where he's staying now?

I know where he works.

He's a bodyguard for this building named Wolfman.

I forgot what I'm asking, Mr. Cleo. How'd you hear about me?

Sledge. Sledge Poteet.

Wow.

Flash in the past, far out.

Yeah.

He said you helped him out of a situation back in 67.

First time I got shot at.

If you don't mind an obvious question, you know where this Glennie Sherlock

works. Why not just go over there and look him up directly?

Well, because Wolfman likes to surround himself with the Aryan Brotherhood.

Day and night.

And see, outside of Glenn, I ain't never liked a company of Nazis.

Mm-hmm.

So, uh, sent some white guy to get his head hammered?

More or less.

Now, when you were inside, were you in a gang?

The Black Guerrilla Family.

And you say you did business with who now? The Aryan Brotherhood?

Listen.

We found we shared some of the similar opinions about the U.S. government.

That's all.

I can dig.

Huh?

There's something else?

Matter of fact, there is.

My old street gang, the Artisa Crips.

See, when I came home from Chino, I went looking for them and found it ain't just

them gone, but the whole damn turf itself.

Where are they gone?

Man, I'm talking not there.

Grind up into little pieces, seagulls picking all over it.

Man, I thought I was tripping.

Got my car, drove around, came back, still gone.

Nothing, nobody.

Just a ghost town.

With a big sign that said, coming to this site soon.

With a big-ass, ugly picture of some houses.

And guess who the builder is?

Let me guess.

Wolfman again.

Hey, can you, uh, show me up here on the map?

Long, sad history of L.A. land use.

Mexican families bounced out of Chavez Ravine to build Dodger Stadium.

American Indians swept out of Bunker Hill for the Music Center. And now

Tariq's neighborhood, bulldozed aside, Channel View Estates.

Hello? Hi, I'm Jade.

Welcome to Chick Planet Massage. Please take note of today's pussy eater

special, which is good all day till closing time.

How much is it?

$14.95.

Well, not that $14.95 ain't a totally groovy price, but I'm actually trying to

locate this guy who works for Mr. Wolfman.

Well, does he eat pussy?

A fella named Glenn Sherlock.

Oh, sure, Glenn. He comes in here. He eats pussy. Well, Glenn and I were in

Chino around the same time. You seen him today?

Are you a cop?

No.

The reason I ask is if you were a cop, you'd be entitled to a free preview of

our Pussy Eater special.

Well, how about a licensed P.I.?

Not you, bum-brain.

Hippie scum.

Welcome to a world of inconvenience.

Well, morning, Sam.

Like a bad luck planet in today's horoscope, here's the old hippie-hating

mad dog himself in the flesh, Lieutenant Detective Christian F. Bigfoot

Bjornsson, SAG member John Wayne Walk, flat top of Flintstone proportions, and

that little evil shit twinkle in his eye that says civil rights violations.

What's up, Doc?

How about your ex-girlfriend?

Shasta... Faye... Hepworth.

Shasta Faye Hepworth.

She is a known intimate of Glenn's employer, Mickey Wolfman.

But do you think that Glenn and Shasta were...

F-U-C-K-I-N-G-E?

Fucking-ing?

Is that why you killed him?

I just... How does it make you feel?

And here you are, still carrying the torch, and there she is in the company

of all those Nazi lowlifes. What are you doing that, Bigfoot? You're giving me a

hard-on.

Tough little wat monkey, as my friend Fatso Judson always says.

So while suspect, that's you, is having alleged midday naps so necessary to the

hippie lifestyle, some sort of incident occurs in the vicinity of Channel View

Estates. Firearms are discharged. When the dust settles, we find one Glenn

Sherlock deceased. But more compellingly for LAPD is the man Sherlock was

supposed to be guarding.

Michael Z. Wolfman has vanished, giving local law enforcement less than 24

hours before the feds call it a kidnapping and come in to fuck.

everything up, so perhaps, Portello, you can help forestall this by providing the

names of the other members of your cult.

Cult? No one would ever be stupid enough to attempt this alone, which suggests

some kind of Mansonoid conspiracy.

Wouldn't you agree?

No.

Look, I've been referred to more than one time by the L.A. Times as a

Renaissance detective, okay?

Which means I am many things.

One thing I am not.

is stupid, so purely out of noblesse oblige, I extend this assumption to

cover you as well.

What the fuck?

Hey, Sanj.

What's up, Doc?

You know you have no case here.

So if you're gonna charge him, you bet him.

Otherwise, you have to let him go.

Mm, Sanj, remember who this is you're talking to? That's Bigfoot Bjornsson,

Renaissance cop.

I know he is.

So... what's the beef here, exactly?

It just doesn't have much to do with your...

A specialty which I understand is marine law.

We got plenty of crime on the high seas, Lieutenant.

Okay, well, so far we have murder and kidnapping.

We can work in pirates if it would make you more comfortable.

Either way, it's high profile.

Yeah, but given your history of harassment with my client, this will

never make it to trial.

No, I think we could probably take this all the way to trial, but with our luck,

you know, the jury pool will be 99%. Hippie.

Unless you change the venue to maybe, like, Orange County. Not as many hippies

down there, you know? Saunch, who are you working for?

Clients pay me for work, Doc. Clients pay me for work, Doc.

So?

I've decided I'm gonna kick Mr. Sportello.

You're gonna kick him?

That's assault.

I think it's police slang, Saunch. It means coming loose.

I'll release the suspect at the impound garage.

Promise?

I promise.

Apparently, a party of civilians had some training exercise in anti-guerrilla

warfare. They may have assumed that this construction site, not yet open for

occupancy, was deserted enough to provide a realistic setting for what we

must assume was only a harmless patriotic scenario.

Tragically, however, live ammunition has now found its way into the game.

And tonight, one ex-prison inmate lies slain, while prominent construction

mogul Michael Wolfman has seriously vanished. Hello?

Hey, it's me.

Listen, we, uh... We sent a Police Academy hotshot over to the last known

address of Shasta Faye Upworth.

She's out there, man.

Out there?

Yeah.

What does that mean? Well, she's disappeared, just like her boyfriend

Mickey, and I thought maybe you'd think there was a connection. Maybe they took

off together.

Yeah, she's gone, man. Baby.

She's gone? She disappeared?

What?

She went all groovy on us.

You know, Bigfoot, man, can we just try to be fucking professional? I mean, just

pretend to be professional. She has to pay up, Worth. She's gone.

Fuck you.

Doc could never figure out what Shasta might have seen in him, besides being

just about the only doper she knew who didn't use heroin, freeing up a lot of

time for both of them.

And it wasn't any clearer about what had driven them apart, either.

They each gradually located a different karmic thermal, watching the other glide

away into different fates.

Does it ever end?

Of course it does.

It did.

Hello?

Mr. Sportello?

Mm-hmm?

I got your number from the, uh, head shop down in, uh, Gordita Beach.

I'm calling about my husband. He was a close friend of a friend of yours,

Shasta Faye Hepworth.

Uh-huh, and, um, your name is?

Hope Harlingen.

Mm-hmm.

And your husband is?

Sorry to hear that. Do you want a cookie?

I'm all right, thank you. So you never heard of him or his music?

Inside the surf sax category, he was this towering figure because he actually

improvised once in a while instead of just repeating the second and third

chorus note for note.

Koei and I should have met cute, but we actually met squalid.

Down at Oscar's in San Ysidro.

Oh, boy.

I had just run into this bathroom stall without checking first, and I already

had my finger down my throat to vomit up this big balloon of dope I had just

scored. And there Coy sat, gringo digestion, about to take this giant

shit.

And we both let go at the same time, and there's just vomit and shit all over the

place, with my head in his lap.

And to complicate things, he had this heart on.

One thing leads to another, and we pretty much started shooting up together

on a regular basis.

Then along comes the lamethyst.

I don't know if you have the stomach for it, but this is what we had her looking

like. Everybody helpfully pointed out how the heroin was actually coming

through my breast milk, but...

Who could afford formula, you know?

It's a long way from where we are now.

Yeah, I know. It seems like you're doing real good.

I'm a drug counselor.

Sorry? A drug counselor.

Trying to talk kids into sensible drug use.

What do you think of my chompers?

Hmm. You like him?

No, no, no. Yes.

Yeah. No, I hadn't noticed.

Heroin sucks the calcium out of your body like a vampire.

If you use it for any length of time, your teeth just go all to hell.

And that's the good part.

So listen, this thing that happened to your husband, how can I help you?

Mr. Sportello, I don't think Coy is really dead.

Did you ID his body?

No.

Whoever it was that called just said that one of his band members did that.

What do you mean whoever called? What, the police?

I mean, it's supposed to be next of kin.

And then this deposit shows up close to his disappearance.

Interesting song.

Why would this big deposit just suddenly appear in my account?

I went to the bank. I talked to the bank manager for an hour. He kept saying over

and over, you just lost your deposit slip. You just lost your deposit slip.

You just lost your deposit slip. And I don't lose deposit slips this big.

Do you have a spare picture of Koya I could borrow?

That I do have.

These were perilous times, astrologically speaking, for dopers.

Especially those of high school age who'd been born, most of them, under a

90-degree aspect.

unluckiest angle possible.

Between Neptune, the doper's planet, and Uranus, the planet of rude surprises.

Doc had known it to happen that those left behind would refuse to believe that

people they loved or even took the same classes with were really dead.

They came up with all kinds of alternate stories so it wouldn't have to be true.

How did Cora and Shasta know each other?

She picked us up hitchhiking once.

I think Cora and her stayed in touch somehow, I don't really know for sure.

Alright, well, I'll call you when I know something.

Shasta had mentioned a possible laughing academy angle to Mickey Wolfman's

matrimonial drama, and Doc thought it might be interesting to see how society

page superstar Mrs. Sloan-Wolfman would react when somebody brought up the

topic. If Mickey was currently being held against his will in some private

nuthouse, then Doc's immediate chore would be to try and find out which one.

Do you like the lighting?

Mm-hmm.

Jimmy Wong Howe did it for us years ago.

Luce, the midday refresco's now, if you wouldn't mind.

Shall we sit?

Now, your husband was planning to endow a new wing for our facility.

He actually tendered us a sum in advance.

Somehow, it didn't seem right to keep the money while so little was known of

his whereabouts.

So we'd like to refund you the sum, and if, as we all pray, when Mr. Wolfman has

heard from again, why, then perhaps the process can resume again.

We did recently endow another facility in Ojai.

The Krishkiladon Institute.

Krishkiladon.

It's an ancient Indian word that means serenity.

Ah, of course.

Are you somehow a subsidiary?

Perhaps one of our sister sanatoria.

Mr. Riggs Wardling.

My spiritual coach.

How do you do?

Pleasurable.

Well, if you can tell us where to send the refund and what form you'd like it

in. Small bills with non-consecutive serial numbers. Riggs, enough.

He's always making these terrible jokes. I'm so sorry.

Perhaps if one of your company officers simply endorsed Michael's check back to

one of his accounts.

Of course. Let us know the account number and it's as good as in the mail.

Let me find your deposit form.

Wonderful.

So this is Riggs, the spiritual advisor.

And there's Sloan.

Maybe not so much English rose as English daffodil.

And this is LAPD, busy as ever, protecting and serving, getting in some

last-minute free catering before the feds show up.

And there's Luz, the sexy Chicana housekeeper, or, pretending to be,

some kidnapping.

Doc would bet an ounce of seedless Hawaiian and throw in a pack of zigzags

that Sloane and ol' Riggs here were fucking regularly, and that this was the

BF Shasta had mentioned.

Did Shasta have a room of her own here, or did they all just cozy up together?

I'm ticklish today, babe. Oh, I like that.

You keep looking.

I'm in there somewhere.

Yeah? Oh, Vicky.

Oh, Roxy.

Girls.

Cute,

huh? My tits aren't really that big, but I thought that counts.

Now, did all you ladies pose for these?

A guy over in North Hollywood does custom work.

And what about that girl that's gone missing?

Shasta? Yeah, she's in there someplace.

You know, Mickey used to take me in the shower to fuck.

And I never got to do anything on that groovy bed in there.

Another time, perhaps?

Something had been puzzling Doc now for a while.

Namely, what exactly the fuck was with Bigfoot here?

As much as he'd like to stay and chat, he had a lunch date to keep with part

-time squeeze deputy DA Penny Kimball.

It was only because someone else had cancelled that she was able to pencil

him in.

And Doc didn't want to fuck up her act, considering they were meeting in public.

Hi.

This Wolfman Charlotte case?

Apparently one of your girlfriends is a principal.

I just heard that she skipped.

Let me put it to you like this.

How close were you to Shasta Faye Hepworth?

I've been asking myself that very question.

That was all over years ago.

Months, I don't know. If you hadn't come along, babe, who knows how bad it might

have got. True, you were a fucking mess when I met you. How about now?

Old times aside, have you had any contact with her in the last, say, week

or so?

Funny you should ask.

She called me up a couple days ago before Mickey Wolfman disappeared.

Told me a story about how his wife and her boyfriend were plotting to hustle

Mickey into the booby hatch and grab all his money.

So I sure hope that you guys or the cops or whoever are looking into that.

With your years of experience as a PI, would you call that a reliable lead?

I'm no worse.

Oh, I can dig. You all just can ignore that?

Some hippie chick with boyfriend trouble, brains all mushed up with dope

sex and rock and roll?

I've never seen you so emotional, Doc. The lights are out, usually.

I've never seen you during the day, Penny. You didn't tell Lieutenant

Bjornson any of this when he pulled you into the crime scene.

Okay. That's because I promised Shasta I'd come talk to you first, right? See

if anybody at the DA shop could help out with this. Now, I tried to call you day

and night. No reply. You tried to call me day and night? Yeah, look, I forgot.

I don't know.

All I know is the next thing, Shasta's missing, Wolfman's gone, and Glenn

Charlock's dead.

Bjornson seems to think you're as good a suspect as any.

Seems to?

Wait a minute.

You've been talking to Bigfoot about me?

Doc, please.

Besides, maybe you did it.

Has that crossed your mind? Maybe you just forgot?

What? Did do what? Kill Glenn Sherlock.

Kill him?

Yeah. What?

How would I forget something like that?

Grass? And who knows what else? I'm only a light smoker.

How many joints have you had today?

I'll have to check the logbook. Can't remember?

I don't see how my smoking has any link to the Wolfman-Sharlock Shasta case.

No? And how come Miss Hepworth dismantled your relationship?

She had other fish to fry.

Did she say you're still in love with her?

No.

Take off your glasses.

No.

I'm not... Wait.

What is this? I have a week ahead for me, so unless things heat up

dramatically, I hope you understand.

I'll be back to work.

It's too late to turn back.

I'm Agent Flatley, this is Agent Borderline, FBI.

I just have to use the bathroom. It's been brought to our attention that not

too long ago you had a visit from a black prison militant calling himself

Tariq Khalil.

We naturally became curious.

Let's talk upstairs, Larry.

Did I miss an episode?

I love you guys every Sunday night, 8 p.m.

We like investigating and spending energy on black nationalist hate groups.

It's the chronology, really. Khalil visits your place of business. The next

day, a known prison acquaintance of his, Glenn Sherlock, is slain. Michael

Wolfman disappears, and you get arrested on suspicion and somewhat mysteriously

let go again.

Yeah. Well, have you talked to Bigfoot Goranson about all this? Because he's

real intelligent about this kind of shit.

Mr. Bjornsson's antipathy at the federal level is well known.

Some guys are like that.

So what is it you want with me?

Ordinarily, we're the ones asking the questions here.

Sure thing, fellas, but aren't we all in the same business?

There's no need to be insulting.

Why don't you just go ahead and tell us what Mr. Khalil had to say when he

visited you the other day?

Because he's privileged and I'm a client is why.

If it has a bearing on the Wolfman case, then we may have to disagree.

Look, I really wish I could help you guys out, but I can't figure if you're

so focused on the Black Panthers, then what's with your interest in Mickey

Wolfman?

Is that somebody playing Monopoly with federal housing money?

Are you figuring Mickey's kidnapping is a Black Panther operation?

They put the snatch on Mickey trying to prove a political point or maybe a nice

shot at some ransom money.

Maybe you've at least thought of putting that forward as a cover story for

whatever did happen.

Do you realize how thoroughly we can fuck your life up?

All right.

Could be frank a minute.

Watch that now, please.

Hi. You be Dino.

You be the other guy. And tell Penny Davis Jr. what a lovely day we had.

Thank you. As a Carwintel pro informant, you could be making up to $300 a month,

Larry. Just consider that.

U.S. dollars?

And we'll throw in a Book of Mormon.

Free.

I just dropped off a package for you at the front desk.

Thank you.

Well,

it's

dark and lonely work, but somebody's got to do it, right?

Heard they cut you loose. Need to see you about something. I'm working

weeknights at Club Asiatique in San Pedro.

Love and peace, Jade.

P.S.

Beware the Golden Fang.

I can't stay out here long. This is Golden Fang territory.

And a girl don't necessarily want to get into difficulties with those folks.

What is it? A band?

You wish.

I just wanted to say how sorry I was.

I felt shitty about what I did.

Which is what again?

I'm not a snitch.

The cops said they'd drop charges if we just put you in the scene, which they

already knew you were. So where's the harm? I'm like so sorry, Larry. Call me

Doc. It's cool, Jade.

That copper?

Bigfoot? He's a worksheet of plastic.

So what, did Bigfoot put me on the Buenas Notes Express or did he

subcontract it?

I missed all that man. Last thing I remember was eating Bambi's pussy and

Puck Beaverton's tattoo.

Like it was pulsating.

What's a Puck Beaverton?

He's a bald-headed asshole with a swastika tattoo you don't want to meet.

Me and Bambi were so freaked with the badass brigades stomping in there, we

didn't stick around.

Listen, there's somebody who wants to talk to you. He thinks you can help each

other out.

He's a new face. I'm not sure of his name, but I know he's in some trouble.

I wanted to come by your office, ma'am, but I thought there might be unfriendly

eyeballs.

Hi.

Well, is this safe enough for you out here?

It's like this. I pretend we came out to smoke.

I'm supposed to be dead.

Well, there's also a rumor that you're not.

I don't come with such great news. Being dead is part of my job image, like what

I do.

You working for these people here at the club?

I don't know. Maybe.

That's where I pick up my paycheck.

Where are you staying?

House in Topanga Canyon.

Band I used to play for the boards.

None of them know it's me.

How can they not know it's you?

Even when I was alive, they didn't know it was me.

The sax player.

Session guy.

Plus, over the years, there's been a big turnover in personnel.

Like the boards I played with, most of them gone off and formed other bands.

Only one or two of the old crew left, and luckily, they're suffering from

heavy dopers memory.

The story is you came to grief behind some bad smack.

You, uh, still under that?

No.

No.

I'm clean these days.

I spent my time rehabilitating up in... You know, it's okay. It's okay. I can't

hear too good now. I can't talk about what I don't hear. Yeah.

Look, the thing I wanted to see you about, I was wondering if you could

check on a couple people.

A lady and a little girl.

See if they're okay without bringing me into it.

It's down in Torrance. Just see if they're still living there.

See what's in the driveway, law enforcement in the picture, any details

you find interesting.

All right, I'm on it.

I can't pay you right now.

When you can, unless you're one of those folks who believes information is money,

in which case, I could ask you something.

Bearing in mind that either I don't know... Hurts my ass if I tell you.

What is it?

You ever heard of the Golden Fang?

Sure. It's a boat.

A boat?

Big schooner, somebody said.

It brings stuff in and out of the country, but no one wants to talk about

it.

Because?

That was it.

How do you know?

I saw it sail in when I got here tonight.

I don't know what I just saw.

Me neither.

Fact. I don't even want to know.

Okay.

Doc figured it might have been easier to let Coy know that Hope and Little

Amethyst were doing just fine, but he had a rule against getting involved in

matrimonials, which had just gone up in smoke, like the Asian indica in the

joint they'd been smoking.

creating an extra layer of fog on top of the one Doc was already standing inside

of. Meet the schooner, Golden Fang, out of Charlotte Amelie.

Where is that?

U.S. Virgin Island.

Bermuda Triangle?

Close enough.

Sizeable vessel.

He has a tendency to show up here in the middle of the night.

No running lights, no radio traffic.

See, the problem with this vessel is trying to find out anything.

People back off, change the subject, and get real creepy.

The owners are listed as a consortium in the Bahamas.

The real name isn't really the Golden Fang.

She was originally a fishing boat named Preserved.

Then after World War II, she was bought by Burke Stodger.

Burke Stodger. Burke Stodger, the actor? 45 caliber kiss-off Burke Stodger? Movie

star.

He gets blacklisted because of his politics and branded a communist.

So he takes the boat, splits the country, which is where your Bermuda

Triangle comes in.

Hi, I'm Clarenda. How can I help you?

Well, I'm going to have the house anchovy loaf to start and Del Rey

filet. Can I get that deep fried in beer batter?

It's your stomach.

What can I get for you, little buddy?

I'll take the jellyfish teriyaki croquettes and the eel trapezoid,

please. Okay.

And to drink, gentlemen.

You're going to want to get good and fucked up before this meal. That's for

sure. I have some recommendations. Maybe the tequila zombie.

I'd like it, too.

All right.

Thank you.

So, so Burke's blacklisted, takes the boat, splits the country.

Somewhere between San Pedro and Papiti, the boat disappears.

Until one day, a couple years later, the boat and the owner suddenly reappear.

You dig? Mm-hmm.

The preserved is in the opposite ocean off of Cuba.

I'm Burke Stodger on the front page of the Daily Variety in an article

reporting his return to pictures in a major motion picture called Comic

Confidential. Oh, Sue.

Burr's working again. And his politics have miraculously changed.

And they removed any traces of soul she once had.

It's a horror story.

Are you emotionally involved with the boat?

She's not just a boat, Doc.

She's much more than that.

I know why I'm so interested.

That story I heard the other night, something about a smuggling angle.

And the story you heard, did it happen to include Mickey Wolfman?

Not so far.

Why?

Well, according to Scuttlebutt, shortly before he disappeared, Mickey Wolfman

was seen taking the Golden Fang out for a three-hour tour. Or should I say, a

three-hour tour. And was he accompanied by his lovely companion?

My fucking ex-old chastity. I know. I know who she is.

But, Doc, I thought you were done with all that sad bullshit. Listen, did

everybody make it back, okay?

Nobody was pushed off a board or anything like that? Actually, the word

I'm hearing is that Mickey Wolfman might not be as missing as we think.

Like gone, but not gone.

Man, you're gonna love this.

The rumor is that the Department of Justice is trying to... Hey, yeah?

The word I'm hearing is that the Department of Justice is trying to

broker a Vegas deal for him.

Doesn't compute. Say it again. Vegas Wolfen.

FBI stuff.

They need somebody else on the strip who's not Italian.

You dig?

Like Howard Hughes when he bought the desert in.

Howard Hughes was Italian?

They want white people.

They want white Anglo owners on this trip.

Who better than Mickey Wolfman?

Hello?

Hello?

All right, Doc. So, she just departed San Pedro and boarded the Golden Pang.

Who?

Chess is on the golden thing? My friend in the DOJ just called me.

Where's it going?

Out of tea someplace.

Huh? Out of tea someplace.

Yeah, where?

Did I see you down in a young girl's town with your mother in

so much pain?

I was almost there at the top of the stairs

with her screaming in the rain.

Did she wake you up to tell you that

it was all?

Who is this?

It's me.

Where did you get this number?

It's Doc.

Oh.

I thought you'd never want to speak to me again.

I didn't mind talking to the FBI.

Am I in trouble?

I don't know, are you?

It's an awful nice night out here at the beach.

But you're a dirty, filthy hippie.

What would a nice, clean girl like me do with you?

Well, you could bring your soap and clean my feet.

That's the best thing I've heard all day.

That's no hippie. That's Chucky.

Yeah, is that a friend of yours?

Everybody knows Chucky.

He's not at the Hall of Justice. He's down at the Glass House.

That's a snitch.

An informant, please.

He only works with the Red Squad.

Whoa, so what's he, uh, why is he screaming and yelling like that at Nixon

again?

Now that he's been on TV, yes.

Instant and wide credibility.

Police can infiltrate them into any group they want to.

Bastards.

Do you love me?

Hmm.

A snitch. A spy.

A weasel.

And dang, if it ain't a resurrected tenor sax player working undercover.

But for who?

These patriotic pals of President Nixon called Vigil, California?

Some other unseen hand?

Now, who am I then?

You're the photographer.

And the name of the magazine is? Stone Turntable.

Mm-hmm.

Poise Bay and the Boards were currently renting a place in Topanga Canyon from a

bass player turned record company executive, which trend watchers took as

further evidence of the end of Hollywood, if not the world, as they had

known it.

Doc and Dinas hadn't dropped acid for years in this town without picking up

some kind of extra sensory chops.

And truth was, since crossing the dorsal of this place, they couldn't help

noticing what you would call... An atmosphere.

Ooh.

What are you doing here?

I drove up with Bambi. She heard Spotted Dick was staying here, so I had to come

along and try and keep her out of trouble.

She's possessed. She's got Spotted Dick blacklight posters on the walls, Spotted

Dick sheets and pillowcases on the bed, Spotted Dick T-shirts, souvenir roach

clothes.

It's 24 hours a day. She's got 20. She's got Spotted Dick albums on stereo, man.

He's here.

Yeah. Where? He's in the kitchen.

The kitchen.

Hey, before you leave, can I get a ride with you?

This place is freaking me out.

Okay.

Good evening. Larry Sportello, Stone Turntable Magazine.

Smidley spotted dick keyboards.

Was it possible that at every gathering, concert, peace rally, love

-in, be-in, and freak-in, here, up north, back east, wherever, some dark

crews had been busy all along, reclaiming the music, the resistance to

power, the sexual desire from epic to everyday, all they could sweep up for

the ancient forces of greed.

Gee,

he thought, I don't know.

Hi.

Lookie there.

Remember me? Larry Sportello, Stone Turn Table magazine?

You asked me to look into that vehicle.

What? That vehicle.

Yeah, what was the make and model that you looked at again? You were asking

about that older type VW with the hearts and bluebirds? Any replacement parts?

None I could see.

You didn't see any replacement? What about street legal?

Was it any hassles with registration?

Didn't seem to be.

You saw a home for a minute.

She's okay.

Looks like she's been staying clean, too.

How'd she do it?

I don't know. She's back teaching is all she said.

Public health. Where? Something like that. Where?

Where? I don't know.

She didn't say.

It didn't matter.

No way I could ever go back to them.

All right, man. You can't go back to them.

Oh, because what?

Did you know that when we signed up? All I knew was we couldn't do each other any

good staying together.

The baby looked like shit getting worse every day. We were just getting fucked

up and sitting there and saying, well, we got to do something. You're dragging

us down.

I'm not asking you to give away any secrets here, but I think I saw you on

the tube at a rally for Nixon.

And your question is, which side am I on?

These people here have money. It's not like those Bible freaks that go up and

down the beach screaming at you. They really want to help.

I thought it was something good to do for my country.

Stupid as that sounds, but what I really found out was they just want to use us

and keep the membership in line.

My country, right or wrong, with Vietnam going on, it's just fucking crazy.

Suppose your mom was on smack.

My mom?

Yeah, what would you do?

Wouldn't you try to help her? Yeah, I think... Are you saying that the U.S. is

somebody's mom?

And she's, um, strung out?

I'm trying to... What?

I'm sending people off to die in jungles for no reason.

There's something wrong and suicidal about that that she can't stop.

And VHLM California or whoever it is you're working for wouldn't buy that?

I don't belong here, man.

Do you get the feeling you're out of business?

Yeah, back where I was would be nice.

I did just run a fast check and happened to find some angle that maybe you

haven't thought of. I said nothing personal.

I can do you trying to chase me off this, but whatever it is that you're

constantly I'm out here on the outside of it. And I can move in ways that you

may not be able to. Shh, how'd the baby look?

Sweetie pie.

She looked good.

No sign of that little kid blues.

Little kid blues? No, that happens. They get that.

No, no, I can see. You saw it a little bit. I blew this solo, man.

It's like being stuck with a war of horror.

Where did it come from?

Come on, give me a glimpse of you, man. Who set you up with these people?

You know, when I first started snitching, I realized how often people

ask questions they already know the answers to. They just want to hear it

from another voice, like one outside their head.

You better find Shasta Faye.

Shasta Faye.

Thanks for the laugh, boys.

Uh, Jade, Jade, said in your note, beware of the golden thing. Why am I

supposed to beware of a boat?

They're an Indo-Chinese heroin cartel.

A vertical package. They grow it, bring it in, step on it, run stateside

networks of local street dealers and take a separate percentage off of each

operation.

So you're dealing smack.

No, but they use Chick Planet as a front to launder money.

See you around.

Reluctant. maybe even a little desperate.

Doc figured he had to go visit Bigfoot now.

On principle, he tried to spend as little time around the glass house as

possible. All this strange alternate cop history and cop politics, cop

dynasties, cop heroes and evildoers, saintly cops and psycho cops, cops

too stupid to live and cops too smart for their own good.

insulated by secret loyalties and codes of silence from the world they'd all

been given to control.

Bigfoot's native element, the air he breathed, the big time he'd been so

crazy to get away from the beach and be promoted into.

Then why so grumpy, Bigfoot?

Doc remembered dimly a story from long past.

A rumor about a partner of Bigfoot's who'd been shot and killed a while back

in the line of duty.

And ever since then, the story went, Bigfoot had worked alone.

I hope this won't be another one of those unabridged, paranoid, hippie

monologues we seem obliged to sit through.

What if someone dies but is resurrected?

Not at first glance a matter for homicide.

So who around here handles resurrections?

Bunker squad, usually.

What does that mean, the LAPD believes that every return from the dead is some

kind of calm? You're dead, you're dead.

Are we talking philosophy?

Right there's Coy Harlingen.

The stiff in question.

That was taken last night.

Remind me why I give a shit again.

I work for the department as a snitch.

Not to mention some patriotic badasses known as Vigilant California.

Who knows? They may or may not have been in on the raid at Channel View Estates.

You remember that place, Bigfoot?

All right.

All right, I'll look into it personally.

Sometimes it's just about doing the right thing.

Who are you?

Clancy Sherlock.

Oh, G-Glenn...S-S-Sister... Sister.

Sister. I'm so sorry about your brother.

Glenn was a shit.

Bound to have his series canceled sometime.

That don't keep me from wanting to know who his killer is.

Goodness. Did you talk to the police?

They talked to me.

Some smartass named Bigfoot.

He seemed less concerned with Glenn's murder than Mickey Wolfman's

disappearance.

But he's a fan of yours, all right.

Said you might be able to help.

Did he, though?

Did you hear the Wolfman's working on a way to give away all his money?

Well, I didn't want to do that.

He was on a guilt trip, man.

Doing tons of acid and peyote and... just got to a point.

He felt bad about making people pay for all those cheap, ugly houses of his.

You gonna keep holding on to that tank or are you gonna marry it?

He wanted to build this big place out in the desert where people could come and

live for free called the arrepentimento.

Arrepentimento. And what's that mean again?

Spanish for sorry about that.

Do you think that, um, you know, maybe your brother was just, um, you know,

doing his job and trying to prevent, um, you know, whoever was from putting the

snatch on Mickey?

That's way too fucking sentimental.

Sounds like somebody objected to Mickey's big giveaway.

Hmm.

The, uh, wife and business partners, um, you know.

Puck Beaverton.

He had the duty that day to guard Mickey.

Changed shifts with Glenn at the last minute.

Puck Beaverton.

Interesting fella I hear.

He's a major league asshole.

Sounds like you dated.

Him and his roommate.

Two at a time?

That's my preference.

Well, uh... You know where I might be able to find this, uh, Puck fella?

Dropped out of sight after Glenn's murder.

Set sail.

Like on a boat? I don't know, maybe.

If you find him, will you let me know?

Well, perhaps we should continue this conversation someplace else.

Oh, and Miss Charloff, I just need your contact information, can you?

No,

Clancy, did Glenn ever mention one of Mickey's ladies who goes by the name of

Shasta?

Girl's gone missing?

That's her.

Yeah. She was in love with him.

Deeply in love.

Oh, Shasta and Doc lived together for a short while.

Oh.

Bummer.

Well, as someone who's been down this particular exit ramp, you can only

cruise the boulevards of regret so far.

Then you gotta get back up onto the freeway again.

Good luck.

See ya.

Bye now.

I wish you could see these waves.

It's one more of these places a voice from somewhere else tells you you have

to be.

Remember that day with the Ouija board?

I miss those days.

And I miss you.

Nothing was supposed to happen this way, Doc.

I'm so sorry.

You don't remember the Ouija board, do you, Doc?

It had been one of those prolonged times of no dope.

You think you know so we can score?

Ask.

Just do it by yourself like that.

Nobody had any. Everybody was... desperate and suffering lapses of

judgment.

Howdy, dopers. We've got whatever you need. And remember, the sooner you get

over here, the more there'll be left for you.

So come on down to 4723 Sunset Boulevard. Okay,

I'm sorry, who was it that I was talking to? She hung up. She's screaming at you.

Stay away. I'm a police trap.

Oh, there's a problem with Ouija boards.

When the winter rains come pouring down on that

new home of mine, will you think of me?

That board sure did its work.

They didn't score any dope that day, but somehow suddenly it didn't matter.

It was weird that in the limited space of a postcard, Shasta should have chosen

to remember that one day in the rain.

It had stuck with Doc, too, even though it was late in their time together when

she was already halfway out the door.

I'm going to go look around. You want to wait in the car? I'm going to cover my

back. I was going to try to go find a pizza. Is that okay?

Now, you would call this a stick shift, not automatic and so forth?

It's easy as pie, dog.

Good afternoon.

This is the address that gave me a Club Asiatique in San Pedro. Just here to...

Pick up a package for the management.

Hello, this is Sandra from front desk.

We have a pick up for management.

Follow me.

Dr. Glatnoid will see you in a moment.

So you have some idea, I imagine?

I don't know what this is. What is it? It's oriental or something.

Is it Chinese?

I figured you being Chinese.

What? What are you talking about?

The golden thing.

It's a syndicate.

Most of us happen to be dentists syndicate of dentists set up long ago

for tax purposes all legit Where

did you tell Zandra you were from again?

Why you're another one of those hippie dope beans aren't you

Yes, my goodness me.

Here for a little perking up, are we?

From Darmstadt.

Lab quality.

Well, I tried to do any dope. I can't pay for it. It's what it is.

No, no, no, on the house. In fact, maybe I'm gonna even join you for one little

moment.

Oh.

Just to be sociable.

Doctor,

I think there's a problem with the couch in your office.

And bring that bottle.

What do you think of my chompers?

Heroin sucks the calcium out of your body, like a vampire.

If you use it for any length of time, your teeth go all to hell.

That's just the good part.

Doc!

Doc!

Dr. Reedy!

I'm back.

You're not Dr. Rudy.

You're not Dr. Rudy.

That's that Japonica, ain't it?

Japonica Fenway?

Imagine meeting you here.

Doc rooted through the city dump that was his memory, recalling that Japonica

here had been a pretty open and shut runaway daughter case.

Hardly worth daily scale, let alone the extravagant bonus her father, Crocker

Fenway, had insisted on paying when Doc finally brought Japonica back home.

So what have you been up to?

Escaping, mostly.

And I escape real good.

Escaping what?

Chris Gylodon. This, like, booby hatch my parents keep sending me to.

Booby hatch?

Up in Ojai?

You know it?

Shakes a tambourine.

Dr.

Rudy.

Okay, all right.

Javonica, you promised me.

Did you not promise me?

What are you doing here? I escaped again for you.

Oh, for God.

Woo! Woo-hoo!

Look at the greedy little hippie snoring away, are you?

Your parents know you're here?

No. The Fenways, they were heavy-duty South Bay money and led lives of

unusually high density and often incoherence.

Her father, Crocker, also known as the Dark Prince of Palos Verdes, was a lead

lawyer at the office of Voorhees Kruger, who had given Doc his first paying gig

as a PI.

Man, like, I'm sorry.

See, that's my steering wheel. I don't know how to drive.

Oh, man, I thought you said you... Hi.

Smile maintenance chick.

How lovely.

Miss Fenway may appear a little psychotic today.

Groovy.

What?

It's groovy being insane, man.

Where you at?

It's not groovy to be insane.

Japonica here has been institutionalized for it.

Okay, come on, uh, Dinas, we gotta figure out a way back to the beach.

Hey, if you need a ride, I'm heading that way.

Huh? Uh, cop-friendly, everything cool with your ride, Japonica?

Brake lights, license plates, so forth?

Yeah, A-okay.

Mind if I tag along with you guys?

Contingencies of the road and so forth? Yeah, yeah, that's a good idea. Maybe we

should just do a bit more of that for the road.

Yes, yeah, you owe me.

Excuse me. Come on.

What's in that bag you're stuffing under Doc's seat?

Pay no attention to that bag.

I want to make everybody paranoid.

Though he may have rescued Japonica from a life of dark and unspecified hippie

horror. Apparently, restoration to the bosom of her family had been enough to

really drive her around the bend.

Oh, fuck!

Fucking asshole!

Fuck, fuck, fuck! I can't! Okay, we are so fucked! I got so many...

Are you the great beast?

No, no, that's a policeman.

You know you're driving without your headlights, ma'am? But I can see in the

dark. Perhaps you shouldn't be driving, then.

I'm going to need to see all your IDs, please. And what is this all about, sir?

Any gathering of three or more civilians is now considered a possible cult.

What? It's Charlie Manson again?

Criteria includes reference to the Book of Revelation, males with shoulder

-length hair or longer, and endangerment through inattentive driving, all of

which you've all been exhibiting. Oh, I don't think so.

Man, listen, this is a Mercedes.

It's only painted one color.

Y'all hang tight. That should count for something.

That should get points.

I actually have a heart attack.

Actually, my heart is racing like a little... What?

Yes, sir.

I'm gonna hand these in, Mr.

Sportello, and as long as there aren't any wants or warrants I don't know

about, I won't hear any more about this. Well, thank you, officer. You have a

good night.

Thank you, sir. Drive safely.

It's unlimited.

Oh yeah, I'm in an evil mood myself tonight.

Dr. Rudy Blatnoid, DDS.

He's perpetrated his last root canal, I'm afraid.

Obligless, man. What's that? He's dead?

I found him next to a trampoline in Bel Air. He had a fatal neck injury.

So far, no witnesses, no motives, no suspects.

Apart from you.

Not me.

Why me?

You were observed in Blatnoid's company.

Both of you riding in a vehicle full of drug-crazed hippies. Yeah. Well, you

know, the owner of that vehicle is a very well-respected, um, you know,

lawyer down in Palos Verdes. And his daughter was driving. She offered me a

ride. And, uh, you know, cops didn't even give her a ticket. You know, that

night was her friend, not mine.

Go to bed.

I'm working. Why don't we go to bed?

I think it's time we had one of our chats.

Uh...

Sorry, this Coy Harlaton matter.

On the face of it, there's one more OD.

One less junkie. Case cleared.

And on the not-face of it?

Why, what do we have here?

Why don't you pick a card?

Any card.

These are field interrogation reports.

See if you find anything that looks familiar.

Puck Beaverton.

Excellent choice. One of Mickey Wolfman's bodyguards.

Interesting fellow here.

Sheriff's people happened to run into him at the Venice home of the very

dealer that sold Coy Harlegan the smack that killed him, or didn't kill him.

So what was Puck doing at Coy's dealer's place?

The interesting thing about this overdose is that Leonard James

Loosemeat, a.k.a. El Drano, was known for this 3% product.

Yet the report says what killed him was pure China white number four.

You mean like from the wholesaler, like whoever's bringing it in?

I seem to recall it some years ago, just before I went into Folsom, Beaverton

used to work for this loan shark, Adrian Prussia.

Fucking zoinks, I know Adrian Prussia.

Yeah, I know him from my skip-chasing days. He's a bad man.

He's a baseball bat.

Sick.

And Coy's dealer, El Drano, also happened to be Prussia's steady

customer.

Or maybe Puck was there on Adrian's behalf.

What do you think?

I think you and Adrian have a history you're not sharing with me.

Pancakes aren't quite as good as my mother's, but what I really go for here

is the respect.

Respect.

You didn't get enough of that from your mom.

You probably imagine that I have a lot of status up in robbery homicide.

I mean, who can blame you for thinking that?

The reality, however, no Cielo Drive for Bigfoot.

No TV movie rights or book deals for Bigfoot.

I mean, even the extra work is drying up.

God help us all.

A dentist on trampolines.

Dr. Blatnoid had puncture wounds on his throat consistent with bites from

canines of a mid-sized wild animal. That's what the coroner told me.

Swallow that.

Listen, that's mighty weird, Bigfoot.

Okay, because Blatnoid was a partner in a tax dodge that calls itself the Golden

Fang Enterprises.

Now, you didn't happen to get the SID to test those neck punctures for gold or

nothing? I shouldn't think there'd be much trace. Gold is all but chemically

inactive, as you might have learned in chemistry class if you hadn't been

ditching all the time to score dope, Sportello.

Every contact leaves traces.

It would sure be ironic, man, is all I'm saying, if it turned out that Black Note

was bit to death by a golden fang, or better yet, like, even better, like, two

golden fangs. I don't see why any of this would be material.

Because it's a fucking golden fang. It's the Descendant's tax shelter, so what?

No, man, it's not a tax shelter. It's something, Bigfoot, man, much more, more

vast.

This wouldn't be just more of your paranoid hippie bullshit, would it?

Look, I had a lab check for traces of copper.

Not the kind that goes stumbling all over the crime scene, contaminating

evidence. Not like copper the metal. You see, gold teeth are never made with pure

gold. Dentists like to alloy it with copper.

Now, if you hadn't dissed friends this class to go steal hubcaps to plan on

some innocent hippie, you might have known that.

Oh, you feel like a cop almost, don't you?

Good day.

So where to?

A place up in Ojai called Gruskylodon.

Gruskylodon. Animal tooth.

Ancient Indian word sort of language. It means serenity.

I minored in the classics.

It's not Indian, it's ancient Greek.

It means animal tooth made out of gold.

You're doing good, Doc.

Thanks, Liz.

Owing to Governor Reagan's shutdown of most of the state mental facilities, the

private sector had been given carte blanche to pick up the slack, soon, in

fact, becoming a standard California child-rearing resource for kids like

that old Japonica Fenway.

Mr. Sportello.

Dr. Aubrey Freepley.

Oh, how do you do? So good to see you, sir.

Welcome.

Welcome.

Would you, sorry, would you like to use the facilities?

You already used the bathroom? Get the bathroom before you take a tour of the

facilities. This is my colleague, Dr. Lily Hammer.

How do you do?

Please join us.

This is our administrative lounge.

Our Chenin Blanc comes from the Institute's own vineyard.

Hands steady as a rock.

today, I see. Kimberly?

So happy you noticed, Dr.

Threepenny. More soup, Dr. Edward? Yes, if you know what's good for you. Have

you been with us before, Mr. Sportello? I know I've seen your face.

First time I've been down here.

Probably don't get much south of South City.

And abnormally?

What? Well, I only meant that with any number of qualified facilities in the

Bay Area, why bother coming all the way down here to us?

My clients believe that Ojai is a planetary chakra.

Ah, Chris Kylodon's Motion Picture Palace.

Now showing the Burke Stodger Marathon.

All Burke, all day, 24 hours of Stodger.

People's Museum.

And I warn you once more. This place is alive. This is particularly popular with

the patients.

This was not invented by a Russian.

The man's name was Bell, Alexander Graham Bell.

And he was an American. Get that, comrade.

Everything on this table is as phony as the town. The rotten system you call

communism.

It was occurring to Doc now something Jade said once about vertical

integration.

That if the Golden Fang can get its customers strung out, why not turn

around and sell them a program to help kick, get them coming and going, twice

as much revenue?

As long as American life was something to be escaped from, the cartel could

always be sure of a bottomless pool of new customers.

Any questions?

Is that a swastika on that man's face?

No, it isn't.

That's an ancient Hindu symbol, meaning all is well.

It brings good fortune, luck, and well-being.

What do you mean?

You don't mean that it looked like a swastika to me.

Well, he isn't a regular employee of the Institute.

Perhaps you should pay no attention to that man.

Capsulated in the charming phrase, which means, of course, you must be very

tired. Which brings us to the Institute's own Zen garden, imported

from Kyoto.

But each textured pebble, each...

grain of white sand was transported and reassembled here exactly in place by a

team of some of our more obsessive patients.

Mickey.

Mickey.

Mickey!

Hello, little hippie.

How are you?

What are you doing here?

They're helping me.

They're helping me wake up from my bad hippie dream.

What did you dream about?

I dreamed...

I gave away all my money.

Yeah.

Who brought you here?

My friends.

Who are your friends?

The FBI?

I spent my whole life...

Spent my whole life making people pay for shelter and all along I didn't

realize I Didn't realize it was supposed to be for

free For free

Mickey, where the fuck is Shasta?

Go away, little hippie.

Go away.

One out of twelve, handle code three.

Oh, Bigfoot, you're adorable.

Hi, Shasta.

Hi, Doc.

Either I'm on the time machine or you're back.

I've been away.

Where you been?

Up north.

Family stuff.

Anything been happening down here?

Your friend in the, uh, construction business?

Uh, that's all over.

He's back with Sloane and the kids, and so what?

Mm-hmm.

You know, you got a load of people out looking for you, Shasta.

Well, here I am.

C'est la vie.

C'est la vie. Okay, so fucking surah surah.

Something like that.

I like your necklace.

Oh, it can't be good.

That word is your girl's back in town.

Oh, yeah, that's news to me.

Where you been?

The place I'd recommend.

Like you give a shit?

Any of them include Prussia, or Beaverton, or any of the motherfuckers

that I've given you.

All right, forget that. Listen, listen.

Any results on those gang of marks?

You know, coroner's people got very upset with me for suggesting more lab

work. You know that?

Well, I just thought it'd be a helpful tip to a fellow professional.

Oh? Oh, really? How's that, Sportello?

You know, when your own, um, hearing comes up.

What are you suggesting?

One county supervisor with a bug up his ass is all it takes to bring you down,

Bigfoot.

This is Mrs. Chastity Bjornsson, and if that is one more sociopathic special

employee of my husband, I will thank you to stop harassing him on his day off.

It's Sportello.

Oh, Sportello. Doc Sportello. The Doc Sportello. So, we meet at last.

Mr. Moral fucking Turpitude himself.

Have you any idea of the therapist bills around here for which you are directly

responsible? The department picks up just a little. Oh, the department?

Yeah, after a deductible that would choke a fucking horse.

Well, you know, he called me.

Christian please and would you stop acting like a beaten dog I asked you for

one fucking day a week

What kind of girl do you need, doc?

Maybe a thing for one of those Manson chicks?

Well, the thing is that, uh, depends on what, uh, you're sure you

want to be doing that.

Submissive, brainwashed, horny little teeners who do exactly what you want

before you even know what that is?

You don't have to say a word out loud.

They get it all by ESP.

You're kind of a chick, Doc.

You're the one that's been stealing my magazines.

What would Charlie do?

Well... Probably not this.

Listen, I'm sorry about Mickey.

Oh, Mickey.

Mickey could have taught all you swinging beach bones a thing or two.

He was just so powerful.

Sometimes he could almost make you feel invisible.

Brutal. What would you call a considerate lover?

But we adored it about him.

Me.

It's so nice to be made to feel invisible that way sometimes.

Guys just love to hear shit like this.

He'd bring me to lunch in Beverly Hills.

One big hand wrapped around my bare arms, steering me blind down those

bright streets into some space where it was dark and cool.

You couldn't smell any food, only alcohol.

Any tables full of them.

And I'll be drinking.

In a room that could have been any size.

They all knew Mickey.

They wanted some of them.

To be Mickey.

You might as well have been bringing me in on a leash.

You kept me in those micro mini-dresses, never allowing me to wear anything

underneath.

offering me up to whoever wanted to stare, cry.

Sometimes he'd fix me up with some of his friends and I'd have to do whatever

they wanted.

What are you telling us?

Oh, I'm sorry, Doc.

You want me to stop?

My girlfriend didn't run off to be the bought and sold or some scumbag

developer.

I'd just be so angry I don't know what I'd do.

No.

I'm even lying about that I know what I'd do.

I had to feed this little bitch over my lap like this.

Doesn't mean we're back together.

Of course not.

You didn't get this necklace up north from me?

I went on a boat ride.

Like a three hour tour?

They told me I was precious cargo that couldn't be insured because of inherent

vice.

What's that?

Inherent vice in a marine insurance policy is anything that you can't avoid.

Eggs break, chocolate melts, glass shatters.

And Doc wondered what that meant when it applied to ex-old ladies.

What's on your mind?

besides the usual.

I'm like, you know, working my soul into a brain freeze here,

Liege.

Well, put it another way, what's gonna nag at you in the middle of the night?

Little kid blues.

Saxophone players.

You know, whatever they meant to do, Coy, you know, mistakes aside,

nobody deserves to go through life without seeing their daughter.

I don't sit well with me.

Then go get him.

Okay. Thank you.

Whoa! What are you doing here? Yeah.

I just wanted to see if you were free for dinner. I didn't mean to freak you

out.

Are you alright?

Am I?

Are you?

Should I call security?

Never. I don't think we need to.

This is the one I was telling you about.

I know your pals had Mickey Wolfman. What?

The FBI?

I mean, we suspected, but we couldn't prove it. Well, I saw him in their

custody. You saw him? Yeah.

Would you be willing to let me depone you?

Sure would.

You would?

What is it?

You, me, a tape machine, maybe another DDA to witness it?

All right, listen, I need something from you, though. What?

I need to look up somebody's jacket.

That's it?

That's no big deal. We do that all the time.

What? You break into officially sealed records all the time?

Grow up. What's the name on the file?

Adrien Prussia.

As if looking for something he didn't want to find, it became clear as vodka

you keep in the icebox.

that whatever the connection between the LAPD and Adrian Prussia, he might as

well have been working for them as a contract killer, doing deeds for them

that they couldn't do for themselves.

Time after time, he was pulled in, questioned, arraigned, indicted, no

matter. Somehow the cases never quite got to trial, each being bargained down

in the interests of justice, not to mention Adrian, who invariably walked.

And one of those deeds appeared to be labeled the justifiable homicide of one

of the LAPD's very own, Vincent Indelicato, otherwise known as

Bigfoot's partner.

Bigfoot's partner?

Fucking Bigfoot's partner?

Bigfoot's air of possessed melancholy now began to make sense.

This was morning, all right.

And it was deep.

Is this your new partner, Bigfoot?

Want a banana, Adrian?

Bend over and I'll stick it in for you. Fuck you and fuck your banana.

Oh, man, oh, man.

Never be surprised at the levels of disrespect within the LAPD.

But this was downright nasty, not to mention unprofessional.

This bond between partners was nearly the only thing Doc had ever found to

admire about the LAPD.

You know, there's places you don't want to go, Doc.

Go back to the beach.

You smell like a patchouli fart.

So here's Doc.

Midnight. Pitch dark.

Can't remember whether they drained the pool or not, but hey, what the fuck's it

matter?

He bounced once, twice, and then off the end of the board in a blind cannonball

down into old karma with Adrian Prussia.

who had not only shot at him once, but threatened him with a Carl Yastrzemski

special baseball bat.

All this, leaving Doc to wonder, where's the partner to watch my back?

Far out, man.

Right.

Psychedelic.

Done.

So...

You're here about?

Good question.

Wait a minute. This is bullshit.

I remember you.

You're that kid from Fritz's shop out in Santa Monica, right?

So what you up to these days? Skip tracing?

Or did you go into the priesthood?

P.I.

They gave you a license?

So who sent you here?

What are you working for today?

I don't know. I'm on a spec.

I'm on my own time.

Wrong answer.

How much of your own time do you think you got left, kid?

I was just about to ask.

Howdy, Puck.

Do I know you?

I think I do.

Oh, you must remind me of someone I ran into someplace by mistake.

I have a busy day ahead.

And I know nothing of any of this.

What are you doing here?

Oh, just, uh...

Talking to Adrian.

Mm.

It's these, uh... various cases I'm working on.

And, uh... Mm.

Glenn Charlock.

And, uh... Vincent Indelicato.

And, uh... Where'd... You,

uh... In that... Necklace.

Looks funny on you.

Big man, small necklace.

Mmm. I should invite you through a door.

PCP opens that door, shoves you through it, slams the door behind you,

and locks it.

Special treat for you today, doper.

Just got in a shipment of Pure No. 4.

Ain't a white guy's finger late on it.

Between a golden triangle and your own throbbing vein.

Just let me step out, Aaron.

I'll go get you some.

I can't get him any closer.

Okay!

Did you take care of him okay, Doc?

You fucking lunatic!

What is this?

I'm in enough shit personally with the captain.

And I've seen you on the range. Nice work.

What are you... Is that what I think it is? Huh?

There's one or two of them. There's more enough left for evidence.

Man, Bigfoot, I saw the movie.

As I recall, that character comes to a bad end.

Put the gun away, Doc.

What? The gun. Put it away.

This is the golden thing you're about to rip off, man. The fully fucking weird

outfit that kills people. That's according to your own delusional system.

Get in the car.

Get in the car!

Sparking legally in front of Adrian's.

Doper's ESP, Doc.

Doper's ESP.

Oh, no.

Bigfoot, you motherfucker.

Okay, Doc, you have what looks to be a 20-kilo inconvenience in your trunk, and

Bigfoot no doubt putting out word to that effect.

And once again, you're the bait.

It's sure been a long time.

And your name was?

Mrs. Crocker-Fenway.

Japonica's dad?

Um, what happened this time?

You have something that belongs to some people I represent and they'd like it

back.

Oh, so you're a principal in all this?

It's only because...

I'm ever so grateful, sir.

So, uh, what do we do?

I suppose someone wants their, uh, back?

Why don't we meet this evening at 6 o'clock at my club in Portola in Elysian

Park?

Mm-hmm. Dinner at Jessica's?

A jacket and tie, if possible.

I'll see you then.

Mr. Sportello.

Mr. Fenway.

To a peaceful resolution.

How's the family?

Japonica's doing fine, if that's what you mean.

You know, I saw old Japonica the other day at my doctor's office.

You ever run across a dentist named Rudy Blatnoid?

The son of a bitch who, until recently, was corrupting my daughter?

Yes, I do seem to recall the name. He perished in a...

trampoline accident, didn't he?

LAPD aren't so sure it was an accident.

And you'd like to know if I did it?

What possible motive would I have?

Just because the man preyed on an emotionally vulnerable child?

Forced her to engage in sexual practices that might appall even a sophisticate

like yourself?

Does that mean I'd have any reason to see his miserable pedophile career come

to an end?

What a vindictive person you must imagine me.

I did suspect he was fucking his receptionist, but Dennis doesn't.

Some oath they all take in Dennis school.

Anyhow, it's a long way from strange and weird sex, isn't it?

What about when he forced my little girl to listen to original cast albums of

Broadway musicals while he had his way with her?

Or the tastelessness of the decor of

resort hotel rooms he took her to during antodontist

conventions.

The wallpaper, the lamps.

Uh, Dubonica's of legal age now, isn't she?

In a father's eye, they were always too young.

To the matter at hand, those I represent are prepared to offer you a generous

compensation package for the safe return of their property.

Suppose it didn't have to be in the form of money.

Well, money would be a lot easier.

There's a saxophone player named Coy Harlingen.

He's been working undercover for different anti-subversive outfits,

including the LAPD.

And he's come to feel lately that he made the wrong career choice.

Awesome. His family, his freedom.

Like you, he only has one daughter.

Please.

Okay. Well, he wants out.

I think I can square with the heat.

There's this other bunch, Vigilant California.

And, well, whoever's running them, of course.

My guess is they prefer he not disclose any confidential information.

The last thing you'd ever do?

Your personal guarantee.

I'll go after myself if he tries anything.

Then we have a deal.

That's all you wanted? No money now, you sure?

Well, no matter how much money you would have to take from me so I wouldn't lose

your respect.

It's been late for that, Mr.

Sportello. People like you lose all claim to respect the first time they pay

anybody rent.

I may not be as well connected and for sure not as much into revenge as you

folks are, but if you jive with me, my man, I say you.

So, when are we going to do this handoff?

Golden Fang Operators, 12 o'clock. Fast approaching.

Look sharp.

What's all this?

It's a credit card. Don't hippies have them?

Yeah, I must admit, why is your mother handing me this?

It's not for you.

Oh.

You're supposed to tell them, well done, welcome back to the main herd, safe

journeys.

That's journeys plural.

Well done, welcome back to the herd, safe journeys. Okay, I guess I can

remember that.

So you guys been working for the Golden Fang long?

Yeah,

nothing, huh?

Everything's cool. I'm officially off everybody's payroll.

Burks, Dodger, just call me personally. You're a dangerous hombre.

You all right?

I'm nervous.

You know what the Indians say?

You saved my life, and now you're responsible for it. No, no, no, man.

No, that's not true.

Some hippie made that up, man.

You saved your own life, man. Now you get to live it.

Yet there is no voiding time, the sea of time,

the sea of memory and forgetfulness, the years of promise

gone and unrecoverable.

Of the land almost allowed to claim its better destiny, only to have that claim

jumped by evildoers known all too well and taken instead and held hostage to

the future we must live in now forever.

So who got her?

Department of Justice.

So, like, uh, justice was served?

That's exactly right, Doc.

That's exactly right. May we trust this blessed ship.

is bound for some better shore, risen and redeemed, where the American

fate mercifully failed to transpire.

Don't get up.

Bigfoot and...

He smashed down my door.

Come on.

After a long and busy day of civil rights violations, I found myself in the

neighborhood and compelled to drop in just to check and see the current state

of affairs of my old stomping grounds, seeing as your effort to keep lines of

communication had been limited, to say the least.

Well, I've been busy.

Trying to figure out which side of the zigzag paper is the sticky side?

Give it to me.

Listen, I'm sorry about last night.

You?

Why should you be sorry?

Are you okay, brother?

I'm not your brother.

How about you could use a keeper?

Remember that day Ouija boards set us off into that big storm?

This feels the same way tonight.

Just us.

Together.

Almost like being underwater.

A world.

Everything.

Gone someplace else.

Just figured it was sort of Liege setting this up.

No. Her Ouija board and... She knows things, Doc.

Maybe about us that we don't know.

This don't mean we're back together.

Of course not.

Any day now, I will hear you say

goodbye, my love.

And you'll be oh.

Any day now, I'll be all alone.

Oh, any day now,

when you're at the side, meet someone new.

Oh, my sad surprise is a blue shadow.

Beautiful bird you will have

I shouldn't want to keep you if you don't want to stay

until you've gone forever.

I'll be holding on for till

I'm holding you this way,

begging you to stay any day now.

You'll call it off.

And then my tears will flow.

Then the blue shadows will fall all over town.

Any day now, love will let me down.

Cause you won't be around.