With Shroud Shifter determination, I set out to write my own ledger. First, using the normal L.A. “white pages” and Walt Borchard’s police “reverse” directory, I compiled a list of addresses to go with the phone numbers; then, one weekend when Uncle Walt was out of town on a fishing trip, I staged a break-in of the back garage and stole the remainder of his set of burglar’s tools, his power lawn mower and an allegedly valuable stack of National Geographics. The mower and magazines I dumped in the Silverlake Reservoir; the tools I wrapped in a nylon tarpaulin and stashed in a hollowed-out tree trunk two blocks away.
Next came a series of “recon” missions.
Carol Ginzburg and her “girls” met each Sunday for brunch at the Carolina Pines coffee shop on Sunset and La Brea — it was designated in her ledger as “girltalk.” I eavesdropped at three of their sessions, and studied the “girls” themselves, eliminating “Rita,” “Suzette” and “Starr” as stupid floozies; sizing up “Danielle,” “Lauri” and “Barb” as acceptable for one-third of a triad melding. Lauri was particularly lovely — a tall, stately honey blonde with a Scandinavian accent. I decided that I would hit her “trick pad” dates first, and set out to chart the territory and hone my breaking-and-entering skills.
I did it all very methodically. Lauri had a date in Coldwater Canyon every third Wednesday; I checked out the house, found it impregnable, with home-to-police-station wiring, and crossed it off my list. She had a once-a-month Monday tryst in one of the less plush sections of Beverly Hills; the windows were child’s play and there was plenty of hedge cover adjoining the bedrooms. That was to be “hit” number one, on August 7, 1968.
And so on down the list, with Lauri’s dates first, Barb’s second and Danielle’s third. The three girls all lived in Carol Ginzburg’s pink plantation house, so actual “at-home” tricks would have to be bypassed — I could not risk repeated burglaries in the same building. Also, some of the trick pads were too well exposed and too burglar-proof, and had to be eliminated. But when all was said and done, I had a list of nineteen “probables,” all cased and calendar-marked — tryst burglaries that, if all went well, would last me until January 1970. And I had a built-in fail-safe: the girltalk coffee klatches. If the police had been alerted to the rash of hooker-connected burglaries, I would be among the first to know.
In the daytime, my life continued as usual as I waited for the seventh of August — I worked at the library, ran brain-movies, willed psychic invisibility. But at night, I worked at my hideaway — an abandoned maintenance shed I had discovered deep in the Griffith Park woods. In the glow of a battery-powered arc light I learned the feel of all six keyhole picks in my tool set, the imperceptible little give they activated when inserted and jiggled. I bought dozens of brand-new brushed-steel door locks at hardware stores, and got to know how to nullify the various brand names. I practiced windows with my suction-cup glass tool; I ran the dark hills of the park to build up my wind in case I ever had to flee a trick pad on foot. I came to believe that my first burglary year was an incredible melange of chance, heedless bravado and beginner’s luck. I had been a child voyager then. Now I was a consummate craftsman.
August 7, 1968.
The notation in Carol Ginzburg’s trick book said 9:00 P.M., so I left for Beverly Hills at 7:30 to facilitate the means to a last-minute brainstorm. The night was stifling hot, cloying. I parked in a meter space on Wilshire three blocks from my target and walked over, assuming the easy gait of someone with plenty of time and nothing to fear. At Charleville and Le Doux I saw the home of Mr. Murray Stanton, lit up like a Christmas tree in anticipation of a hot night with Lauri. Passing the driveway on the sidewalk, I could hear the window-mounted air conditioner humming at full power. I walked casually over and cut the cord, nipping it just at the point where it stuck out of the window and into the machine. Squatting down, I admired my work. The cord was frayed on its own, and the break looked natural. I walked into the backyard and squatted behind a line of rosebushes to wait.
At 8:20 I could hear a male voice muttering “Shit”; seconds later I heard windows being opened on both sides of the house. I caught a glimpse of Murray Stanton in silhouette. From a distance he looked as if he could pass for Shroud Shifter.
At 9:00 exactly, the front door chimes sounded. I slipped on my gloves, shut my eyes, ran brain movies and counted to five hundred simultaneously. Then I walked to the window farthest from the bedroom and elbowed myself up and into the dark house.
Squeals of ecstasy directed me to the bedroom door. I could see that it was pressed shut — not locked, and there was a light coming from beneath it. Taking a chance on the lovers having their eyes shut, I toed the door open an inch.
Murray Stanton was lying on top of Lauri, pumping, and the plague of acne cysts on his back made him an insult to Shroud Shifter. Lauri, tall, blond and regal from what I could see of her body was examining a framed photograph which had been resting on a nightstand beside the bed, with her other hand resting on Stanton’s pimpled shoulder, her fingers pushed out as if she was afraid the pustules might be contagious. She was the moaner, and she was a bad actress; the peak of her performance was when she put down the picture to scratch her nose. She was beautiful enough to be Lucretia, but she reminded me of someone else, someone strong and Nordic buried in a deep compartment in my memory vault.
I continued to watch, unaroused. After a while, Lauri stopped squealing and bit at the fingernails of each hand. Stanton’s movements became more frenzied, and he blurted breathlessly, “I’m gonna come! Say ‘It’s so big!’ Say ‘It’s so big it hurts!’ ”
Lauri mouthed the words, trying to hold back giggles. The satirical note in her voice would have been obvious to anyone but a piggish acne case approaching orgasm. I walked back to the living room, Shroud Shifter at my side, whispering, “Steal, steal, steal.”
In the living room, I started to obey. I was reaching for a billfold atop a coffee table when I got an astonishing typed-out brain message: Don’t steal, because the acne pig will blame Lauri, and then you won’t know who she is.
The message was so powerful that by reflex I complied. But on my way to the window I pocketed a tiny framed photograph of a trio of smiling children.
Watch ting.
Stealing.
Watching and stealing.
Those twin pursuits ruled my waking hours over the next year, and nightmares ruled my sleep. I had hoped that man-woman-me would be my trinity, but it wasn’t. It was a triad of: watch perfunctory sex motivated by greed and desperation; steal for emotional survival and the rationale for watching; dream to figure out the mystery of Lauri. That my dreams inevitably became nightmares was the worst part.
Laurel Hahnerdahl was Lauri’s real name, and from impersonating a police officer over the telephone I learned that she was born in Copenhagen, Denmark, in 1943, and that she came to America in 1966. Her occupation was listed as “model,” she had no relatives in the United States, and she possessed no criminal record. That was all the Department of Motor Vehicles and the L.A.P.D. Records Bureau could give me.
We could not possibly have ever met, but she seemed almost symbiotically familiar to me. I prowled her apartment twice and found nothing to jog my memory; I observed four of her dates, without stealing, and still could not decipher the mystery. I dreamt of her constantly, and it was always the same: I was watching her make love to a man who looked like Shroud Shifter, and my vision got blurry, so I moved closer, only to turn into a sightless, armless, legless, voiceless inanimate object. All I could do was hear — and then I heard thunder — crashing thunder hiding thousands of unintelligible voices trying to tell me what Lauri meant. My nightmare would invariably end at that point, and I would wake up erect and drenched in sweat.