The Trouble With Hairy, page 7
part #2 of West Hollywood Vampires Series
It was in the area of animal rights, however, that Eversleigh truly excelled. Animals, after all, were a relatively neutral political topic. No one could argue with the proposition that cute little white baby seals should not be bludgeoned to death with baseball bats. No one could dispute the cruelty of immersing little Peter Rabbit up to his eyeballs in chemicals to see whether or not he developed cancer. Thus, despite the fact that West Hollywood possessed neither a single animal research laboratory nor a beach at which baby seals could congregate, Eversleigh had proclaimed West Hollywood to be “Cruelty Free Zone for Man’s Furry Friends” and had established an “Animal Activist Task Force” of appointed officials to ensure that little Fido and Fluffy could live out their lives in security and comfort knowing that Daniel Eversleigh was stalwartly on their side.
The first test the Task Force faced was an unmitigated disaster. The owner of a small appliance repair shop found himself unable to leave one evening due to the presence of four vagrants and a large German Shepherd sleeping in the doorway of his establishment. He called the Sheriff’s station for assistance, and within minutes, one of the trusty men in beige had arrived.
The deputy approached the squatters and politely asked them to step out of the doorway. While the street people ignored him, the dog, who was later discovered to possess the inappropriate name of Poopsie, decided to obey and come forward. To the deputy’s dismay, Poopsie’s primary motivation for obeying the request was that she considered him a potential hors d’oeuvre.
The deputy stood five-foot-six and weighed perhaps 150; Poopsie stood more than three feet at the shoulder and weighed approximately the same amount. Later investigators concluded that the contest had been fairly well matched. Poopsie launched herself forward at the deputy’s throat. The deputy drew his gun. Moments later, the deputy cradled his mangled arm while Poopsie lay breathing her last in a puddle of blood on the sidewalk.
Animal activists descended on City hall en masse, demanding that the deputy be skinned and buried alive, preferably above Poopsie’s grave so the floral tributes they intended to plant there might be fertilized by the former defender of public safety’s remains. Clive had quickly arranged to have the young man transferred to a desk job in Marina del Rey, far from the howling mob.
The city’s government shut down for a solid week. Unable to make their way to the entrance of City Hall through the mass of protestors, city staff was instructed to stay home. Even Pamela Burman, when faced with the thrown vegetables and angry shouts of the mob had, after a few choice comments about the probable ancestry of those assembled, wisely given up and began conducting city business by telephone from her condo.
Eversleigh publicly denounced the Sheriff’s Department as Crude Barbarians having no respect for Canine Life — the capitalization of the words being punctuated, not only by the Mayor’s stentorian tones but also by his arranging to have them flashed on a screen during the televised press conference he scheduled on the morning after the Vile Murder. However, as the protests went into their third day, he shamefully telephoned the captain and apologetically suggested that Clive might want to consider doing something about the hoards of people hand-cuffing themselves to the front door of City Hall.
Oddly, it was Eversleigh himself who finally solved the problem. Since the city council met in West Hollywood Park Auditorium down the street from City Hall itself, at least council meetings could continue relatively unobstructed. Daniel called an emergency meeting, carefully choosing an evening when he knew Pamela Burman would be bowling with her league, the Alta Cockers, in the Valley and conveniently “forgetting” to notify her of it.
The animal rights activists poured into the auditorium, eagerly awaiting the wise pronouncements of their beloved mayor who so supported their cause. Daniel rose majestically, his rich, rounded tones booming out with the proclamation that the anniversary of Poopsie’s senseless slaying would henceforth be designated “West Hollywood Poopsie Day.” To the accompaniment of cheers, he declared that money from the city’s General Fund be allocated to the creation of a bronze Poopsie memorial statue to be erected at the site of the dastardly deed. The city council, wishing fervently for Pamela Burman’s presence to oppose the ridiculous motion that could end up costing thousands of badly needed dollars, wisely decided in favor of leaving the auditorium alive and still wearing skins free of both tar and humanely harvested feathers, and passed it unanimously. The crowd went crazy, hoisting Eversleigh onto their shoulders and carrying him, in triumph, down the middle of Santa Monica Boulevard to the memorial site. When Burman returned from her bowling league later that night to receive a message from Clive on her answering machine, she shook her head in amazement that, for once, Eversleigh might have done something right. For the first time in a week, access to City Hall was unobstructed.
Things had settled down after that. But now, faced with increasing pressure from the Mayor to arrest and condemn the animal killers, not necessarily in that order, Clive had no choice but to comply. He’d reassigned a dozen detectives to take reports from the irate and grief-stricken former pet owners and had been amazed at the severity of the mass slaughter when a stack of reports, an inch and a half thick, showed up on his desk that afternoon.
Clive resigned himself to working late and was weeding through the mass of reports trying to find some pattern that would provide a clue to the culprit’s identity. He was just about to give up and call it a night when Eversleigh finally decided that calling Clive again would be infinitely preferable to facing George Hilton’s wrath should he not do so. With satisfaction and relief that, perhaps the Hilton Matter could be foisted off onto law enforcement where it properly belonged, Mayor Eversleigh put on his best “official” voice and dialed Clive’s private office number.
“Anderson.”
“Captain, it’s Daniel.”
Clive groaned silently. “Evening, Daniel. What can I do for you?”
“Well,” the mayor cleared his throat several times. “I just got a call from George Hilton. Seems his pig’s been murdered.”
Clive, who was perhaps the only person in West Hollywood unacquainted with Hilton’s strange pet, was taken aback.
“His pig?”
“You know,” Daniel informed him helpfully, “one of those little Chinese pigs.”
“I see,” replied Clive, who didn’t see at all.
“What I want to know,” Eversleigh began, slowly building up a head of steam, “is what the Sheriff’s Department intends to do about this marauding madman — no — about this pack of satanic devil-worshipers who have beset our fair city and subjected it to their hideous violations?”
“Take a report?” Clive suggested, uncomfortably.
“Take a report! Is that all you have to offer? These are citizens, Clive. Voters! The spine of our democratic society. The people upon whom our founding fathers placed their trust. I can’t tell the fair people of West Hollywood that a report is their only hope. I can’t subject them to the terror of lying at home alone at night, fearing they’ll be murdered in their beds! I tell you, Clive, this great country we live in has a Constitution. A Constitution designed to protect the innocent and…”
“Daniel.” Clive interrupted, knowing full well that Daniel could go on for hours in this vein, undoubtedly bringing up the subjects of motherhood, apple pie and the fluoridation of the city’s water supply, if given half a chance. “I am working on this case even as we speak.”
Eversleigh started to cut him off, but Clive was used to defusing the mayor’s stirring orations.
“I’m personally handling it, Daniel. You can’t do better than that.”
“And?” the mayor inquired.
Clive pulled out his ever-present hanky and used it to wipe away a small trickle of sweat beginning at his hairline. Carefully controlling his temper, he said pleasantly, “And I’ve got reports on twenty-three dogs, eighteen cats, half a dozen rabbits, assorted birds and an iguana to weed through.”
“And that noble friend of mankind, the pig,” Daniel reminded him.
“And the pig,” Clive agreed with a sigh. “It takes time, Daniel. It just takes time. I’ve alerted all my spare deputies to be on the lookout for anything unusual happening in the residential areas between Fairfax and La Brea.”
“Well, it’s obviously not working,” said Eversleigh, petulantly. “Inefficiency is not to be tolerated in municipal government, Captain.” Clive’s eyebrows crept toward his forehead at the irony of Daniel’s statement.
“The taxpayers have a constitutional right to the fair allocation of the hard-earned monies paid into our custody for their protection and…”
Clive sighed again, interrupting the mayor before he could get going again. “If you want,” he suggested tentatively, “I’ll try and get hold of Pamela in Chicago and see if she’ll authorize the expenditures to call in help from Beverly Hills PD, but frankly, Daniel,” he continued, “I don’t think the situation calls for it.”
“Doesn’t call for it? Why, if I…” Daniel’s righteous outrage was evident in his tone. He was just about to launch into another one of his incomprehensible, yet stirring, speeches when the line suddenly went silent.
“Daniel?” Clive inquired. “Are you still there?”
“It’s her, isn’t it?” All of his posturing and dramatics were laid aside and Daniel’s voice was grimly serious. “She put you up to this, didn’t she?” he asked with quiet malice.
“Who?” Clive was totally perplexed by the change in subject.
“Burman.” The name was drawn out slowly, evidencing every iota of hatred Daniel could cram into two syllables. “She ordered you not to investigate these murders, didn’t she? That old battleaxe will do anything to try and keep me from re-election, damn her. She’d even stoop to use poor defenseless animals as political pawns. I’ll bet she went out and hired a group of gangsters to plant those tragic little corpses around town, just to embarrass me. Just wait until Ed Larsen hears about this!”
“Wait a minute, Daniel,” Clive interrupted, alarmed. “Let’s not be too hasty.” The last thing he needed was to become embroiled in another battle between the mayor and the city manager. In the past, such conflicts had served only to worsen his ulcer.
“Pamela has been out of town for the past two weeks. She has nothing to do with this.”
“That’s right,” Eversleigh continued. “Defend her, why don’t you?”
“I’m not defending her, Daniel,” Clive’s patience was forced. “What I am trying to do is to comply with your orders and wrap this thing up as soon as possible. I’m also trying to keep the peace around here; that’s my job. So, if you have any thoughts about going to Larsen with some insane story of Pamela as a crazed animal killing fiend, you can just forget it. Do we want another Poopsie on our hands?”
This gave Daniel food for thought, although it was clear he still had suspicions he’d find Burman’s talons somehow involved in the situation.
“Quite right, Captain,” he said, lapsing into his Errol Flynn persona once again. “Carry on then.”
After goodbyes had been said, Clive Anderson hung up with a sigh of relief and turned back to his stack of paperwork. And so, when the report came in that a body had just sailed into the middle of Fountain Avenue causing traffic accidents and other mayhem, Clive was still at his desk and able to quickly race to the scene.
It was after dawn before Troy Raleigh finally managed to convince Chris to retire for the day. Ignoring all of Chris’ objections that there were still masses of work to be done, Troy had forcibly shoved him into his coffin, kissed him affectionately but firmly on the lips, and promised him unspeakable erotic pleasures upon his arising, before closing the lid tightly.
Troy stood, running one hand through his blond curls, congratulating himself on his skill at getting Chris off to bed. Usually, each morning, Troy suffered a small pang of discomfort when the coffin lid closed over his lover’s still form; somehow, there was a distressing finality to the sound of the latch clicking softly into place. There were usually a dozen times during the daylight hours that Troy would see something or experience something and long for Chris’ company to share it with. Tonight, however, Troy’s feelings when Chris had finally gone off to bed were overwhelmingly those of relief.
The night had started pleasantly enough. Once Chris had made the decision to move, he attacked the process with the same gusto he exhibited for any of his little “projects.” Thus, Troy had spent the previous day gathering cardboard boxes, tissue paper, masking tape and all of the other items from the lists that Chris had spent the entire afternoon endlessly generating and repeatedly revising. By nightfall, everything had been purchased and haphazardly piled on the dining room table in preparation for packing.
As the evening progressed and Chris began pushing himself relentlessly to complete the preparations for their upcoming move as quickly as possible, his mood had worsened. He’d seized upon packing everything up with the same fervor he’d applied to the abandoned portrait of Troy and had foregone additional sleep in favor of his compulsive compilation of lists of things needing to be done and had forgotten to go out hunting. By midnight, Chris was so exhausted that even Troy, biased though he might be, had to admit he looked awful.
When Christopher Driscoll was not well-fed and well-rested, occurrences that he allowed to happen at least a half dozen times each year, he was apt to get more than a little testy. At first, Chris had restrained himself to casual comments about the inordinate amount of useless junk the two of them had collected, most of his remarks being directed toward Troy’s possessions rather than his own. From snippiness, he’d progressed rapidly onward to irritation and finally to outright bitchiness.
The piece de resistance occurred during the labeling of the various boxes they’d been packing. Chris insisted on taping an index card to both one side and top of each box that detailed the contents; it was typical of the meticulous attention he paid to details about which Troy couldn’t care less. It would make unpacking easier, he’d explained to Troy, and Troy had unquestioningly complied. The blow-up had come when Chris, curious as to how Troy had managed to pack and label four boxes for every one of his own, came over to examine his lover’s workmanship.
“Troy?” he’d asked, his voice ominously soft.
“Yes?”
“Didn’t I tell you to label each box with what’s in it?”
“I did,” Troy said innocently.
Chris folded his arms across his chest and thrust out his lower chin, always a sure sign that a storm was brewing.
“Would you mind going over to that box over there and reading the label to me?” Chris asked.
Perplexed, Troy was quick to comply.
“Three white wool sweaters,” he began. “Twenty-one polo shirts, assorted colors. Eight white T-shirts. One blue bathrobe. One orange sports jacket… So that’s where that got to!”
“That will be enough,” Chris interrupted. “Now would you read the last box you labeled?”
“Sure,” Troy went over to the fruits of his most recent efforts, stooping to read the first label. “Living room stuff.”
“And the one before that?”
Troy’s forehead wrinkled in confusion as he crawled over to the second box on his hands and knees. “Closet stuff,” he said, firmly.
“Dammit, Troy!” Chris exploded. “How the hell am I supposed to tell what the hell’s in a box marked ‘closet stuff?’ ”
“You just have to remember what was in the closet,” Troy answered. It made perfect sense to him, and he couldn’t understand why Chris was getting so upset.
Chris saw his lover’s complete bafflement and gave up.
“Oh, forget it! I’ll do the packing. From now on, you take care of your clothes and books and movies and all that crap.”
“It’s not crap!” Troy protested, stung. One look at Chris’ glowering face caused him to shut his mouth and meekly go into the bedroom and begin gathering together his own personal belongings.
Troy hated it when Chris was in one of his moods. The light, affectionate banter that had always colored their relationship turned peevish, almost nasty, on the rare occasions when Chris became upset. But, as Chris’ bad moods were few and far between, Troy put up with them and wisely kept silent, doing his best to please his lover and to do exactly what he wanted until the storm had passed. Unfortunately, once Chris had built up a head of steam, Troy could never easily figure out what would placate him and what would simply piss him off more.
After all, Troy thought, he puts up with me all the time and, God knows, I’m a handful. He chuckled wickedly. Well, more like a mouthful. Now, having finally gotten Chris tucked in, Troy was debating about taking a short nap of his own. Even though his nature allowed him to exist on only a few hours of sleep every day or so, he was beginning to feel a bit peaked himself.
But, Troy realized, if Chris kept up his present maniacal pace, by tomorrow everything they owned would be packed and labeled. Unless Troy got his rear end out onto the street and found them a place to move to — and quickly — they’d be living out of boxes for the foreseeable future. With a sigh, he crept into the bedroom once again, quietly crawling across the top of the coffin to choose an outfit appropriate for apartment hunting.
He surveyed the wreckage of the closet with dismay. Chris had started his packing with Troy’s clothing, hoping, as he’d said sarcastically, to get their biggest job done first. Now, the closet contained only a few pairs of torn jeans, a half dozen sleeveless shirts, a vest or two, a decimated wardrobe of Troy’s ubiquitous T-shirts, and the opera capes and tuxedos that Troy had bought Chris as a joke. Grabbing a black vest with blue and purple flowers that he thought made him look particularly provocative, Troy left the bedroom and went into the living room where he grabbed a few colored pencils and Chris’ sketch pad. Thus equipped, he left the apartment, carefully locking the door behind himself, and moved out onto the street in search of a new home.
