Free Hillside Stranglers by Darcy O'Brien Page A

some offices at Universal Studios, having conned his way past the guarded gates, and hung around as though he had an appointment, waiting for a receptionist to leave her desk. When she did, he grabbed some stationery and left. He knew it would be of use in carrying out his new idea. He would pose as a movie scout. Every other girl he met in Los Angeles aspired to stardom. Why not encourage their hopes and pick up some cash? He was especially short of money now that a prostitution scheme he and Angelo had shared was defunct.
    The wind from the east, thirty and forty miles an hour, was whipping the Italian flag Saturday night, November 5, when Bianchi arrived at Angelo’s house. He had been telephoning all week, anxious to make thorough preparations, but Angelo had been closemouthed, as usual, saying he would take care of everything, all Kenny had to do was follow orders. Angelo had suggested, however, that it would be a good idea for Kenny to obtain a police badge, too, and had tipped him off to a swap meet where you could get anything you wanted—badges, guns, uniforms. Bianchi found Angelo watching television in the den and proudly showed him the new badge. It was the star of the California Highway Patrol.

    “Great,” Angelo said, “you dumb shit. You think we’re giving traffic tickets?” Angelo’s badge was an LAPD shield. “Well, it don’t probably matter. Cunts don’t know the difference. You get away all right? You get permission to go out like a good boy?”
    “Come on,” Bianchi said. “She understands. I come and go as I please.”
    “Sure.”
    But Kelli and Kenny had fought over his going out on a Saturday night. He had said he needed to be alone. She had accused him of neglecting her because she was pregnant. By the time he had left, he had told her that no man wanted to spend time with a pregnant bitch who was sick all the time, and he reminded her that he had said all along that she should get an abortion. Driving over to Glendale, he was already planning how to mollify her the next day. He would write her a poem and bring her flowers. The poem would be about sadness and loneliness and their child growing within her. She would go for it.
    “I’m ready when you are,” Bianchi said.
    Angelo looked up at him and stared. Angelo was wearing a T-shirt. Through the hair on his strong, long arms his tattoos showed: on the left forearm, a capital B in Old English lettering, a black panther on the left upper arm; on the right upper arm the head of a panther, on the right forearm a rose with a banner proclaiming “Mother.” He continued staring at Bianchi.
    “What are you staring at me, Angelo? Makes me nervous. Hey, Tony, why are you staring at me like that?”
    Angelo let a smile form: “You know, mi numi . . . you know.”
    Bianchi followed Angelo into the kitchen. On the counter he had laid everything out: tape, foam, rag, cord. So prudent, he had already cut everything into the right lengths. He had even stuck the foam onto a long piece of tape, so that all they would have to do was apply it to her eyes and wrap her head. Whoever she would be.
    “No sense running back and forth from the shop,” Angelo said. “I’ll get a shirt and my jacket.”

    Outside at the car, the wind blowing, the night smogless and starry, Angelo had another idea and stepped into his shop. He produced a flashlight, bright metal with a red plastic rim around the glass. “This’ll be a good touch,” he said.
    Bianchi drove this time. At the corner of San Fernando and Los Feliz, just a couple of blocks from Forest Lawn, Angelo pointed to a Mexican fast-food restaurant and said, “Pull over there. I got to eat something.” Bianchi waited in the car until Buono came out, bearing a big beef burrito. As they pulled out of the restaurant, Buono mumbled through a mouthful of tortilla, “Hey, look over there. Beep your horn.”
    Across the street at a gas station, Angelo had spotted one of his ex-wives, Candy, and their