Chapter 22

It was four A.M. when Kettering finally climbed into the sofa bed in his bachelor apartment. He was bone weary after a night that had begun with Enzo DuLac at The Pit and ended with Mavis battered and bandaged in a hospital bed.

Tired as he was, it seemed to Kettering that he did not sleep at all. But he did. In snatches and bits his mind let go. And the dreams crept in. Dreams filled with mocking images of DuLac, Mavis, Charity Moline, Gabrielle Wister, ambulances and doctors.

And lurking always, just off his line of vision but dominating the dreams with its presence ... Doomstalker.

Kettering twisted and turned, trying to get comfortable on the uneven mattress. He sweat through the sheets and punched the pillow into a crumpled ball. When he finally sat up to read the clock, he thought it must be around dawn. He was surprised to see it was ten A.M.

He pulled himself out of bed, showered, and made a cup of bitter instant coffee. He called the hospital and asked about Mavis. Her condition was fair. She was doing as well as could be expected. Hospital jargon that could best be translated as she's still alive.

The coffee gave him heartburn. He smoked a Marlboro, chewed a couple of Tums, and prowled the room restlessly. There was much he wanted to accomplish today, but he was unsure about where to start.

What the hell, why not start where he really wanted to. He picked up the phone again and dialed Charity Moline's number. He let the line buzz five, six, seven times before he hung up. Charity must be one of the last two or three people in Greater Los Angeles who did not have a service or an answering machine.

Kettering shaved and dressed and went out. He had made a promise to Mavis last night; it was time he began keeping it. Time to find his son.

His first step was Van Nuys and the district office of the state Alcoholic Beverage Control Department. There, from the license issued for The Pit, he got the home address of Enzo DuLac. The owner, he noted, was listed as Horizons, Inc. Later he would track that down.

Kettering took the Hollywood Freeway to Sunset Boulevard, drove west on Sunset to the Strip. Dulac's address was a funky, expensive neighborhood of steep twisty streets. Kettering's thoughts were angry as he and the Camaro climbed into the high-rent district, past big, costly houses no honest cop would ever live in.

The higher he climbed, the madder he got. Why was some scummy little turd like Enzo DuLac, panderer, pimp, dope dealer, corrupter of minors, allowed to live up here while the hard-working honest people had to grub along down in the Valley to make the mortgage on a chicken coop?

He knew it was a bad idea for a cop to get mad on the job, but this was personal business. This sonofabitch was fucking with his son. By the time he found DuLac's street, Kettering's teeth were clamped together and his fingers gripped the steering wheel as though it were Enzo Dulac's throat.

***

At eleven o'clock in the morning Enzo DuLac, as always, slept soundly and without dreams. Since he slept by day, his windows were covered with heavy blue velvet draperies to keep out the intrusive California sunshine. The draperies were not really necessary, as DuLac had the ability to sleep anywhere under any conditions.

Even when he was a hungry young hustler, often on the run, DuLac could sleep. Any place, any time, uninhibited by any twinge of conscience. So it would not have mattered now if the sun shone full into his rococo bedroom, but he liked the way the blue draperies looked from outside, as though something secret were going on in there. And there were times when the appearance was accurate.

It was not quite noon when he awoke slowly and with much smacking of his lips. He stretched, a small man who looked smaller all alone in the California king-size bed. He rolled onto his stomach and rubbed against the cool satin sheets. Nice. His erection grew. He reached a hand down to help it along.

He punched on the stereo that was built into the custom headboard and nodded his approval of the mellow fusion rock. Not for Enzo DuLac was the heavy-metal shit they played down at the club. The freaked-out, airhead kids might go for that ear-busting garbage, but Enzo DuLac had taste.

There was a movement in the open doorway. Carmelita stood there looking at him with huge brown eyes through the blue-black fringe of her hair. DuLac patted the sheet beside him and she scampered over and climbed in.

She was small even for her age, which was eleven. DuLac liked them small. In the world of adults he constantly had to look up at everybody. Even with lifts he stood only five feet four. Little girls had to look up at him.

Carmelita came over to the bed and touched his bare shoulder tentatively.

"In a minute," he said. "I'll tell you when."

The little girl understood no English, but she caught the tone of his voice and withdrew her small brown hand.

DuLac had got her from Jaime Quintero a month before. Quintero made frequent trips to Tijuana for the raw material to supply the needs of Hollywood's child fuckers, of whom there were more in high places than the moviegoing public imagined.

A year ago Enzo DuLac would not have been able to afford Jaime's price, but fortune smiled on him now, and he no longer had to cruise Hollywood Boulevard after dark to appease his appetites.

Carmelita was enthusiastic and talented for her age, but DuLac was growing bored with her. In a week or so he would return her to Jaime and go for something new. Maybe a couple of years younger. All shapes, sizes, colors, and ages were available for a price.

The popular view that having sex with children might be abnormal never troubled Enzo DuLac. The fact that it was against the law was an annoyance, but a man who exercised reasonable discretion was not going to be bothered. The police were busy busting the smelly degenerates who hung around playgrounds with bags of cheap candy, hoping to lure some juicy youngster. The people who dealt with Jaime were of another class.

As for any moral problems, that matter had been solved for Enzo DuLac at the age of six, when he still lived in St. Louis and wore his original name: Edmund Disch. A boyfriend of his mother, a greasy number named Frankie, had introduced young Eddie to buggery and fellatio over the ineffectual protests of his wimpy mother. In the late 1970s Eddie ran off to San Francisco and changed his name. He hustled a meager living selling his skinny body to tourists, but he never grew to like the feeling of somebody's dick up his ass.

Fortunately, he got out and came to L.A. before the AIDS epidemic hit. He had some vague idea of getting into the movies, but soon discovered how hard that was, and took a job in a porno bookstore. It was while working there that he made connections and moved on to manage massage parlors, nude photography cribs, and a storefront on Santa Monica Boulevard called The Oral Sex Academy. There unwary customers discovered only after paying their money that what they got was conversation with girls in underwear, conducted through a grill in heavy plate glass.

Then came the big break in his life, when he made the connection that set him up as manager and front man for The Pit. The club turned out to be wildly successful, and for the first time Enzo DuLac was important and was making real money. Now that he had it, he intended to enjoy it to the maximum.

His sex life after San Francisco had been one of great caution. When repeated AIDS tests came out negative, he counted himself lucky. He swore off all homosexual contact, and remained wary of adult females. But he still had urges. Little girls provided the ideal outlet. No danger of getting mugged or getting AIDS, and no worry about commitment or demands. Enzo DuLac figured he had achieved just about the best of all possible worlds.

He reached over and rubbed Carmelita's brown little stomach. "Okay, Chicita, make me happy."

Carmelita peeled back the satin sheet and crawled down in the bed. DuLac arranged himself for her.

Crash!

DuLac jerked erect in bed at the explosion of sound from the front of his house. The little girl cringed and watched him with frightened eyes.

"What the fuck?" he muttered. This neighborhood was supposed to be crime free.

DuLac had a gun, but it was in a box up on a high shelf in his closet. Unloaded. He liked to take it out and hold it sometimes, but he had never seriously thought about firing it at anybody. Now he heartily wished he had kept it at hand, ready to blow away whatever sonofabitch was stomping through his house.

The figure of a man filled the doorway. It took several seconds for DuLac to recognize him as the cop who had come sniffing around the club last night.

What the hell was going on? Even the stupidest cop in the department knew enough not to bust into a guy's house. He was going to find himself in big trouble when this was reported.

Kettering marched across the room and snatched open the draperies, flooding the room with harsh sunlight.

"What the fuck are you doing?" DuLac piped, encouraged by the thought that right was on his side.

Kettering scowled at the little Mexican girl. "Get out of here, kid."

Carmelita jumped off the bed and scurried from the room.

DuLac pulled the satin sheet around his body and slid his butt up in the bed until his back was against the cushioned headboard.

"Remember me?" Kettering said.

"Dirty Harry."

"The name is Kettering. Detective Sergeant Brian Kettering."

"You're going to be in deep shit for this," DuLac said.

"I'm really worried about that. You do a lot of baby-fucking?"

"I don't have to listen to that."

"Then listen to this question, and you'd better have an answer. Where's my son?"

"How the fuck should I know?"

"You should know because he's been hanging around that cesspool of yours. The Pit. His name is Trevor Kettering. He's underage." The last part was not exactly true, since Trevor was a legal adult, but Kettering saw no reason to split hairs.

"You think I know every punk who comes in there?"

"I think you know this one, and I think you're going to tell me about him." Kettering had a sudden icy doubt about what he was doing. His rational mind told him that DuLac couldn't possibly know all the kids who frequented The Pit. But his rational mind was eclipsed by the rage that had built on the drive over here. Kettering knew he had passed the point of no return.

"What did you say the name was?" DuLac was growing uneasy over the wild look this cop had. He might just do something crazy, like attack him physically.

Kettering spoke slowly and distinctly. "Trevor ... Kettering."

"Never heard of him. No bull."

Kettering reached for his hip and was gratified to see DuLac flinch as though he were about to be shot. He pulled out his wallet and flapped it open to a photograph of Trevor taken about a year ago, before he had gone for the Bruce Willis haircut. He shoved the picture in front of DuLac's dribbling nose.

"His hair's different now, one of those short spiky jobs, but this is what he looks like."

"Never saw him before," DuLac said, looking warily up at Kettering.

With his free hand Kettering grabbed the smaller man by the throat. He pulled DuLac forward to a kneeling position and squeezed, enjoying the way the man's eyes bulged. "Look again."

DuLac clawed feebly at Kettering's wrist, trying to break the hold. He bobbed his head up and down and croaked something that sounded like, "Okay, okay!"

Kettering released his grip and the little man sagged back on the bed, massaging his throat.

"Jesus, you fucking near strangled me."

"I can do worse than that."

"No, wait a minute. Lemme see that picture again."

Kettering held it up for him.

"Oh, yeah, I think I know that one. He's one of the last bunch that went up to Harmony Village."

"What's that?"

DuLac spoke rapidly, keeping his eyes on Kettering's hands. "It's Zoara Sol's place up in the mountains. Kind of a retreat, like. Kids go up there and, hell, I don't know what they do. Camp out or something. Commune with nature. There's a lot of lost kids and runaways come to The Pit that don't know what to do with their lives. Zoara gives them a place to go, something to do with their lives. The ones she thinks will 'work out.'"

"What do you mean, 'workout'?"

"Look, I told you I don't know what she does up there. I never been there, and I don't want to go. It's none of my business."

"You've got some kind of a deal with this woman?"

"She owns my place, that's the deal I got. I work for her."

"Who is she, anyway?"

"All I know is she calls herself Zoara Sol and she signs the checks. You saw her at my office last night."

With a jolt Kettering remembered the pale-haired woman with the silvery eyes and the visceral effect the short glimpse had on him.

"Where is this Harmony Village?"

"All I know is it's up Bichota Canyon in the Angeles National Forest. Don't ask me how to get there."

"I won't." Kettering turned and started toward the door.

Getting brave, now that he was off the hook, DuLac said, "You know, Kettering, you can lose your badge for busting into a guy's place and rousting him like this."

With the rage boiling up again, Kettering turned and walked back to the bed in measured steps.

"What did you say?"

"I just mean, if I was going to report it ..."

"I would love to have you report it, you little slime. Because then I would be relieved from duty, and as a private citizen I could come up here and break you into little chunks. As a cop I am not allowed to do that, but as a private citizen I don't think I would get anything but congratulations for wiping one more piece of shit off the face of the city. So report me, DuLac. Please."

Enzo DuLac's throat crimped as he fought to swallow. Kettering gave a snort of disgust and marched out the door.